From Digging Graves to Digging Wells: Toldot and the Enduring Legacy of Yitzchak

There are images that will remain etched in our national consciousness for generations. One of them is Evyatar David: emaciated and starving, digging his own grave in a tiny cage—an image reminiscent of the graves Holocaust victims were forced to dig before being shot. We need no reminder of the depths of evil to which our enemies will sink, and indeed, they have succeeded in traumatizing us. This time, however, we were granted a redemptive image: Evyatar reunited with his family. And who can forget the footage of him embracing Guy Gilboa Dalal, with whom he had been captured and then cruelly separated? The relief, the joy, the sheer intensity of that embrace—no one who watched it remained dry-eyed.

When Evyatar returned, it was as if Ezekiel’s prophecy of the dry bones (37:1–14) were coming alive before our eyes: “Son of man, can these bones live?” God asked, and then promised, “I will put breath in you, and you shall live… I will open your graves… and you shall know that I am the LORD.”

But what does it mean to return from the valley of death? What does it mean to be a survivor? What does it mean to live in the shadow of graves dug but not filled, of death camps entered yet left alive, of knives raised but not used?

How does one return from that? How does one live after that? And beyond mere survival, how does one flourish?

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Yitzchak, in Elie Wiesel’s haunting words, is “the first survivor.” Having endured the trauma of near death at the hands of the two authoritative presences in his life—his father and God—he exists forever in the shadow of those events. And yet, in inhabiting that shadow, he teaches us the profound lesson of continuity: how to live, to flourish, to build, even in the aftermath of trauma and death.

Yitzchak transforms suffering into active existence. He not only consolidates and carries forward the revolution of his father, but he also teaches us to laugh in the face of unbearable pain (Genesis 26:8). He demonstrates how to build and prosper even in the wake of absolute destruction (Genesis 26:12–14). He models perseverance despite overwhelming despair (Genesis 26:19–22). And he shows us, in the unique way that only survivors can, that God can be heard and encountered even in the vast, dark emptiness of the pit.

A beautiful yet sombre Midrash illuminates this truth further. We are told that Yitzchak did, in a sense, die on the altar:

"When the knife touched his neck, his soul departed (lit. took wing). And when God made His voice heard from among the angels saying, “do not lay you hand on the boy”, his soul returned to his body. And Isaac rose to his feet and Isaac knew that in this way would return to life. And he opened his mouth and declared “blessed are you, God who revives the dead”. Pirkei De Rabbi Eliezer 13

The Midrash imagines a scene in which Yitzchak is literally brought back to life—much like the bones of Ezekiel’s prophecy—and in response, he blesses God for his resurrection. A brush with death grants Yitzchak a perspective on life that most, caught in the humdrum of routine, cannot receive. Having been returned to life, he understands that the potential for resurrection is always present, though not always accessible. Facing mortality invites a response to life that can be either benign or sublime—a choice that must be made.

At first glance, not much seems to happen in the parsha; in fact, not much seems to happen in Yitzchak’s life. He digs wells and names them, quietly avoiding conflict. Having endured the drama of Mount Moriah, he has experienced more trauma than a lifetime could contain. His aim is restoration, continuity, and the preservation of the status quo rather than rebellion. He re-digs his father’s wells and remains within the boundaries of Israel. On the surface, it appears he has chosen a benign response to his near-death experience. But a closer reading reveals a more complex story. And it is his connection with wells that uncovers what that is.

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Why the wells? Practically, of course, wells are a source of water, prosperity, and life. But Yitzchak seems to have a deeper fascination with them. He repeatedly returns to a place called Be’er Lachai Ro’i—first before meeting Rivka (Genesis 24:62) and then after Abraham’s death (Genesis 25:11). The earliest mention of this well is in Genesis 16:14, when Hagar, exiled from Abraham and Sarah’s household, wanders the desert and is seen and spoken to by God. She names the place Be’er Lachai Ro’i, which literally means “the well of the Living One who sees me.”

Hagar’s ability to return to the site of her trauma and suffering—the household of Abraham—is grounded in the fact that she has been truly seen by God.

This enigmatic well holds a force so powerful it seems to heal trauma. What is that force? It is the power of being truly seen by God. When God sees and hears us, when He shows that He is with us, we do not need rational explanations to begin healing our pain. When we feel seen, we can touch our life force even in the darkness. We can find water in the depths of the well.

The well is Yitzchak’s place of recovery. It is the source of his connection to something transcendent that offers restoration. It is his sublime in the face of the benign. Its water revives him from the land of the dead and allows him to offer a blessing on life.

Yet as he re-digs his father’s wells, he discovers that the very source of his resilience and renewal often provokes hostility and antagonism. Each time he moves, it is to avoid a clash—until he finds a place where peace prevails, and he names it Rechovot. This is the first—and only—time Yitzchak takes initiative, forging a path slightly different from his father’s:

וַיַּעְתֵּק מִשָּׁם וַיַּחְפֹּר בְּאֵר אַחֶרֶת וְלֹא רָבוּ עָלֶיהָ… וַיִּקְרָא שְׁמָהּ רְחֹבוֹת

:כִּי עַתָּה הִרְחִיב ה’ לָנוּ וּפָרִינוּ בָּאָרֶץ

They dug another well, and they did not fight over it. He named it Rechovot, saying: For now the LORD has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.” (Genesis 26:22)

At Be’er Lachai Ro’i, Yitzchak is seen (perhaps by Hagar and Yishmael, both of whom had also been rejected— or by God). In Rechovot, Yitzchak is the one who 'sees' God. Trauma narrows and confines us, but when we are seen and heard, when we become acutely aware of life’s fragility and preciousness, we can open ourselves to a dimension of existence beyond the here and now.

As Psalm 118 reminds us:

“Min ha-metzar karati Yah, anani va-merchav Yah”

“From the narrow straits I called to God; He answered me with expansiveness.”

God is not absent in the narrow places—it is we who often cannot hear Him there. Constricted by pain, fear, or grief, our breath shortens, and so does our vision and perspective because suffering narrows the soul’s aperture. Yet when we enter the wide spaces, when we see beyond the immediacy of suffering, the divine can be encountered.

By naming the well Rechovot, Yitzchak—having been seen, having re-dug his father’s wells, having found peace—steps into the wide expanse, able at last to receive blessing and recognize God’s gifts. The well is not merely an object in Yitzchak’s life; it expresses his journey beyond trauma. Living with trauma leaves life marked by suffering, but the ability to move from the narrow straits of pain into expansive awareness, to perceive divinity and blessing, is profoundly redemptive. Yitzchak’s journey—from constriction to spaciousness, from fear to blessing—is the path of quiet, unsung heroes.

Elie Wiesel, expresses it best when he writes:

“What did happened to Isaac after the he left mount Moriah? He became a poet-author of the Mincha service- and he did not break with society. Nor did he rebel against life. Logically he should have aspired to wandering, to the pursuit of oblivion. Instead he settled on his land. Never to leave it again, retaining his name. he married, had children, refusing to let fate turn him into a bitter man. he felt neither hatred nor anger towards his contemporaries who did not share his experience…

As the first survivor. He had to teach us the future survivors pf Jewish history, that it is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter. Isaac of course never freed himself of the traumatised scenes that violated his youth; the holocaust had marked him and continued to haunt him forever. Yet he remained capable of laughter. And in spite of everything, he did laugh.”   (Messengers of God p83)

Today, less than a century after Elie Wiesel’s experiences, we too are surrounded by countless Yitzchaks. Survivors of unimaginable trauma and suffering, they carry the weight of scenes replaying endlessly in their minds and scars on their skin.

Yet we are witnessing these survivors do more than merely endure. We see how, against all odds, they have moved from digging graves to digging wells, from the narrow straits of pain to the Rechovot—the wide spaces. In doing so, they teach us how, even in the midst of the continual traumas of the past two years, we too can find the courage to laugh, to embrace life, and to discover joy even in the darkest places.