I said to a friend the other day that if I stop and ruminate about what the hostages are enduring or the unimaginable barbarity perpetrated on 7/10, I don’t think I would ever be able to function. And at the same time, if I don’t, how can I look at myself in the mirror and honestly say I am part of my people's pain?
In an interview with Ditza Or, the mother of hostage Avinatan Or, she explains: “Every morning until 11 o’clock I allow myself to be aware of the painful feelings I am experiencing… I read certain psalms and send them to my Avinatan the hostage. But after 11 o’clock, I close the gate. I protect my soul and do not allow ‘terrorist’ thoughts to enter.”
This tension between remembering and forgetting is an enduring struggle that shapes not just our collective identity but our individual souls as well.
Many Holocaust survivors, like my grandfather Zeev Racker ז"ל, chose silence and repression of memories over recollection and speaking about their experiences. He left us with unanswered questions and untold stories, but his silence and memory repression were born of the necessity to continue—to function and build.
As a nation, we too embody this duality. We move forward with extraordinary resilience, yet often at the expense of confronting the full weight of our pain. This week's parsha offers profound insights into this tension, teaching us that true healing requires making space for pain, wrestling with our past, and ultimately transforming it into a blessing.
Wrestling with the past
In this week’s parsha, Yaakov struggles with a stranger before facing his past in the guise of his brother Eisav. The encounter can be read on a literal level, but its language, content, and quality invite a deeply metaphorical and psychoanalytical reading. Yaakov is about to face the suppressed elements of his past that he had tried hard to forget:
וַיִּשְׁלַח יַעֲקֹב מַלְאָכִים לְפָנָיו, אֶל-עֵשָׂו אָחִיו, אַרְצָה שֵׂעִיר, שְׂדֵה אֱדוֹם. ה וַיְצַו אֹתָם, לֵאמֹר, כֹּה תֹאמְרוּן, לַאדֹנִי לְעֵשָׂו: כֹּה אָמַר, עַבְדְּךָ יַעֲקֹב, עִם-לָבָן גַּרְתִּי, וָאֵחַר עַד-עָתָּה.
"And Jacob sent messengers before him to Esau, his brother, unto the land of Seir, the field of Edom. And he commanded them, saying: 'Thus shall you say to my lord Esau: Thus says your servant Jacob: I have sojourned with Laban, and stayed until now.'” (Bereshit 32:4-5)
Yaakov recounts to Eisav that he has been living with Lavan and has been ‘אחר’—delayed—until now. Living with Lavan, far from his past, his family, and even his destiny, made it easier to keep the repressed memories of deceit and pain buried deep within. But God beckons him to leave (31:3), commanding him to do the opposite of Avraham. While Avraham is told to leave behind his birthplace and father’s household—to 'forget' in order to become anew—Yaakov is commanded to 'return' and ‘remember’ in order to truly become.
The delay in returning can also be attributed to his sense of ‘אחר’—otherness—within himself. Trauma, the “otherness” of our past, can paralyze and prevent movement. Before encountering Eisav, Yaakov must first encounter the ‘other’ within himself—the suppressed self. This is the self who betrayed his father and brother and fractured his original identity.
At a climactic moment in the narrative, just before confronting Eisav, Yaakov wrestles with an ish (a man/stranger). Asked his name—the same question his father asked years earlier, to which he deceitfully replied “Esav”—Yaakov now seeks to return to his true self. He responds: “Yaakov is my name.” This marks his yearning to reclaim the simplicity and truthfulness of the tent-dwelling shepherd he once was. Yet the ish delivers a profound existential message:
"Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel; for you have striven with God and with men and have prevailed." (Bereshit 32:29)
The message is clear: you cannot return to who you were before. Trauma and past events cannot be erased. Instead, you must integrate the fractured elements of your identity, embracing the complexity and multidimensionality of your experiences.
The 'Gid Hanashe' and the Complexity of Memory
Immediately following this, Yaakov asks the name of the ish:
וַיֹּאמֶר הַגִּידָה-נָּא שְׁמֶךָ"And he said: 'Tell me your name.'” (Bereshit 32:30)
In a brilliant observation, Shmuel Klitsner (Wrestling Jacob p125) points out the phonetic connection between Yaakov’s request and the later reference to the גִיד הַנָּשֶׁה—the sinew of the thigh that was dislocated during the struggle. Rashi links this dislocation to the term נַשֶׁה, meaning "to forget," as in Yosef naming his son Menashe: “For God has made me forget all my hardship and my father’s house” (Bereshit 41:51). The gid hanashe symbolizes the tension between remembering and forgetting.
In forgetting, there is a form of dislocation from the past. However, Yaakov is challenged to להגיד את הנשׁה—to “speak of the forgotten.”[1] Freud insightfully teaches that overcoming trauma requires us to “repeat the repressed material as a contemporary experience instead of remembering it as something in the past” (Beyond the Pleasure Principle, p. 18). Yaakov’s struggle with the ish represents this very process, and before Yaakov takes leave of the stranger, he demands a blessing:
וַיֹּאמֶר: לֹא אֲשַׁלֵּחֲךָ כִּי אִם בֵּרַכְתָּנִי."I will not let you go unless you bless me." (Bereshit 32:27)
Yaakov refuses to release the past until he has extracted a blessing from it. This is not merely about closure but transformation—In the guide of Victor Frankl, finding meaning in our suffering.
Yaakov transitions from clinging to the heel (Yaakov)—holding onto the past and remaining a victim of his circumstances—to becoming Yisrael, one who looks yashar (ahead, forward), embracing agency and responsibility.
And yet, Yaakov limps forward, his injury a lasting reminder of his struggle. The dislocation never fully heals, much like the enduring scars of trauma we witness in our own time. Yet, Yaakov learns to walk with this limp—a limp echoed in many of Israel's war veterans today—embodying resilience and the unwavering continuity of life.
וַיָּבֹא יַעֲקֹב שָׁלֵם עִיר שְׁכֶם..."And Jacob came whole (shalem) to the city of Shechem..." (Bereshit 33:18)
Remarkably, the text describes Yaakov as “shalem”—whole or complete—despite his physical and emotional wounds. This completeness does not signify the erasure of his struggles but their integration into his identity. He becomes both a tent dweller and a man of the field, navigating clarity (chalak) and complexity (sadeh).
Lessons for Today
As a nation, we have always oscillated between remembering and forgetting. My grandfather, for example, repressed his experiences to build a life of blessing for his family. Survivors of unimaginable trauma, often choose silence as a means of survival. Similarly, the families of hostages today must navigate this delicate balance between confronting pain and protecting their ability to function. Let's not forget, we are still very much in the trauma, for many it is too early to speak about integration, or meaning. It feels sacrilegious to even think about moving forward. We are, in so many ways, stuck in the moment of trauma with Yaakov. We are unable and unwilling to look forward whilst we still have 100 of our beloved brothers and sisters in the hands of barbaric terrorists. But God willing, once they are returned – shalem – we will eventually look to our forefather Yaakov to guide us in how to limp forward with resilience, uncovering fragments of blessing within fractured realities, and ultimately find wholeness within our brokenness.
Shabbat Shalom
[1] Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch brings a beautiful commentary on the verse of the גיד הנשה he writes that the prohibition from eating it, teaches us that we must never be 'consumed' by our suffering to the extent that it leads to our total submission. On the contrary we must renounce our suffering in order to continue our existence.
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