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The life-changing magic of washing your hands (on Passover)
(JTA) — At the height of the pandemic, I remember maddeningly washing, scrubbing and antibacterial-spritzing my hands in a bathroom along the New Jersey Turnpike. I then Olympic speed-walked to my car and rubbed my hands down again with a disinfecting wipe.
In those days of social distancing, the basic Jewish ritual of handwashing before meals — tossing water three times over each hand from a communal pitcher — felt to me like an extremely low standard of cleanliness.
You may know the ritual, even if you don’t do it regularly: It’s the second step at the Passover seder, right after the blessing of the wine and just before you dip the parsley in salt water, when guests line up at the sink or someone passes a bowl of water and a towel around the table.
The rest of the year, the Jewish hand-washing ritual is usually associated with substantial meals (at minimum, a meal that includes bread). During the height of the pandemic, I was rarely sitting down for meals — at least not breakfast or lunch — because most of my daylight hours were in Zoom-land and most of what I was consuming was microwaved leftovers. This left me feeling disconnected on multiple levels. Me and millions of other people.
I needed to find ways to reconnect. I started taking more meetings on the phone and I decided that I would try to slow down and eat lunch with a little more mindfulness — even if I was just making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And that is when I reluctantly rediscovered ritual handwashing.
At first, I stood at our kitchen sink and tried to reconnect to the simplicity of the act — just slowing down and breathing as I poured water over my hands from a vessel. I knew that the ancient origins of ritual washing take us back to the practice of one kohen (priest) washing the feet and hands of another kohen before engaging in the work of the sacrifices. I started to think of this act as some form of sacred self-care where my left hand was caring for my right and vice versa. I started to make a habit of washing my hands with a vessel and I started to read more about the ritual.
One element of the washing is called “shifshuf yadayim,” which literally means “rubbing the hands,” and is initially described in the Tosefta (Yadaim 1:2), a 2nd-century CE compilation of Torah law. In an 18th-century text, Pri Megadim, there is a teaching that the rubbing is done so that the water touches every part of skin on the back and front of the hands and in the nooks between the fingers. This led me to become more mindful of the ways that rubbing brings your consciousness to the contours of your hands and to the act of caring for your hands. Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812) taught that when the rubbing is done with intention, it helps you to obtain a “tahara yeteira” — an extra level of purity.
I slowed down even more. I started using the minimal amount of water, turning my hand gently as I poured the water, and focusing on the sensation of the water covering the entire surface of the hands. In doing so I felt more connected to water’s miraculous power to cleanse and to refresh. And as I did this again and again, it became more than just a conscious moment of self-care and connection to water — it was as if I were awakening the deadened nerves in my hands and healing from the psychic wounds of those many months of lockdown and general fear of others. Through this gentle cleaning and attention to my hands I was experiencing a rebirth and a return — two themes that take us to the present moment.
In the Brenner home, we are frantically zipping about preparing to host the extended clan for Passover, a massive Tetris game of rearranging furniture, shlepping folding tables from the basement and cramming just enough chairs for three generations to sit together in a charming old house in New Jersey that sadly lacks “flow.”
Having guests find their way out of this maze and parade through the kitchen to wash is not feasible. Still, I want to share my newfound love for handwashing, so I will be passing out small cups with 3.2 ounces of water (the minimum amount required) so that everyone can fully engage with that often overlooked second ritual of the seder, known as urchatz. I even went so far as to work with an artist, Helene Brenenson, to design a guide to handwashing that includes a series of wellbeing-centered teachings to accompany the four essential steps of the ritual: lifting the vessel, pouring the water, rubbing the hands together and lifting the hands.
As I worked on this guide, I had a minor epiphany: Giving this water ritual, urchatz, a prominent spot at the seder was a brilliant rabbinic move. The Passover story begins with a drought (lack of water) that brought the Israelites to Egypt, ends with the miraculous crossing of a sea (walls of water), and eventually leads us to a land described in Deuteronomy as having “streams of water, of springs and underground water bursting forth from valley and mountain.” Urchatz connects us to the water imagery of the Passover seder and both physically and spiritually prepares our hands to take hold of the parsley (or other vegetable) and taste the “Spring” that symbolizes this time of rebirth.
Now I look back on those months of frantic pandemic handwashing and feel gratitude. My disconnection not only helped me seek out new ways to approach a basic pre-eating ritual, but led me to appreciate something that was always right there in the seder but I had never truly bothered to appreciate. This year the number two ritual in the seder’s order is number one in my heart.
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The post The life-changing magic of washing your hands (on Passover) appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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It’s time to talk about Purim’s unsettling message about conversion
Purim is meant to be loud: a holiday for drinking, dressing up, yelling and retelling a story of miraculous survival.
Which means it’s easy to miss a brief but significant verse near the end of the Book of Esther — one that deserves to be lingered over:
“And many of the people of the land professed to be Jews, for the fear of the Jews had fallen upon them.”
That line doesn’t lend itself to celebration. It does not describe people drawn to Judaism by teaching or conviction. Instead, it chronicles a far more troubling choice: people becoming Jews because they are afraid of Jews.
Whether the Book of Esther records events that literally occurred is beside the point. What matters is that Jews read this line aloud every year, carrying its language forward across generations. For a tradition that often insists Judaism does not seek converts and rejects religious coercion, this verse preserves an unsettling possibility: that joining the Jewish people can be driven by fear as much as conviction.
By the end of the narrative, Jews wield power, and the dread that once haunted them shifts outward.
Yes, some read the verse as referring to political alignment rather than religious change. Others treat Esther as satire, its excesses not meant for emulation. Still others point to the absence of God in the book, and dismiss the line as non-theological.
Even with those readings, the line still does something difficult. It places an unresolved moral question inside a festival we otherwise frame as joyful: How does holding power change the face of Judaism?
When conversion was possible — or required
The common claim that Judaism has always discouraged conversion is historically inaccurate. Jewish attitudes toward converts have shifted with political conditions, not because theology changed, but because power dynamics did.
The truth is that for much of Jewish history, conversion was dangerous. After the destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E. and the failure of later revolts against Rome, much of Jewish life developed under sustained imperial pressure. Welcoming people raised outside the community became, practically, risky.
This is why the familiar line “Judaism doesn’t seek converts” is more of a survival posture than an eternal principle. After all, the Hebrew Bible repeatedly reminds readers that Israel’s calling was never meant to be entirely inward. A “mixed multitude” leaves Egypt. Gerim, resident outsiders, are repeatedly considered in biblical law. Isaiah imagines God’s house as a house of prayer for all peoples.
In the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods, Jewish communities were widely visible across the diaspora. An inscription from Aphrodisias in Asia Minor in modern-day Turkey lists not only Jews but also “proselytes” and “God-fearers” among synagogue donors, suggesting gentiles were sometimes attached to synagogue life. Similar “God-fearer” inscriptions survive from other cities in Roman Asia Minor, where gentiles were known to attend synagogues, admire Jewish ethics, and sometimes decide to join the Jewish people.
Even polemical texts preserve traces of this world. Matthew 23:15 mocks those who “travel across sea and land” to make a proselyte — meaning to convert to Judaism. Whatever one makes of the polemic, the line treats the basic fact as unremarkable: that conversion to Judaism was a regular part of the religious landscape in the first-century Mediterranean.
Other ancient sources, including the first-century historian Josephus, describe moments when Jewish rulers used conversion as a tool of rule. One of the starkest examples comes from the Hasmoneans, the priestly family behind the Maccabean revolt who ruled Judea from roughly 140 to 37 B.C.E. Under John Hyrcanus, who reigned from 134 to 104 B.C.E., the kingdom of Judea expanded through conquest. Hyrcanus governed as many ancient rulers did, through coercion.
Among the territories absorbed was Idumea, homeland of the Edomites. According to Josephus, Hyrcanus offered the Idumeans a choice: adopt Jewish law or leave the land. They chose conversion.
This is not an obscure episode. It sits in the shadow of Hanukkah, one of Judaism’s most widely celebrated holidays.
Centuries later, Jewish sovereignty appeared again in the Himyarite kingdom of southern Arabia, where a ruling elite adopted Judaism in the fourth century CE. Eventually, persecution of non-Jews followed. The kingdom’s final ruler, Dhu Nuwas, who reigned from 522 to 530 C.E., oppressed local Christian populations, provoking retaliation from the neighboring Kingdom of Aksum. After more than a century, the Jewish kingdom fell.
Not a powerless minority faith
The reigns of Hyrcanus and Nuwas complicate the familiar story of Judaism as only a powerless minority faith, always deterring conversion. They suggest that Jewish sovereignty could carry the same temptations that haunt sovereignty everywhere, including the temptation to force compliance on those of different beliefs.
The Book of Esther verse about conversion offers a warning about that dynamic, and an imperative to learn from it. The lesson is not to condemn Judaism. It is to refuse a simplified story in which Judaism’s posture toward conversion has been static and untouched by the realities of power.
Across many faiths, when political power disappears, priorities often shift. Teachings turn inward. When power reappears, however briefly, older questions have a habit of returning. Who belongs? Who chooses? And under what conditions are those choices made?
Purim does not allow us to keep those questions at a safe distance. We are meant to hear this troubling verse amid the laughter and noise of our celebrations, not as an endorsement of coercion, but as a warning.
Esther’s story insists that two things can be true: Jews can be vulnerable, and Jews can hold power. And if we can be afraid, it warns, we can also inspire fear, with consequences not only for the societies in which we live, but also for the kind of Jewish life we make possible.
The post It’s time to talk about Purim’s unsettling message about conversion appeared first on The Forward.
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US Presses Syria to Shift From Chinese Telecom Systems
Syrian President Ahmed al-Sharaa attends the Ministry of Awqaf conference titled “Unity of Islamic Discourse” at the Conference Palace in Damascus, Syria, Feb. 16, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Khalil Ashawi
The United States has warned Syria against relying on Chinese technology in its telecommunications sector, arguing it conflicts with US interests and threatens US national security, according to three sources familiar with the matter.
The message was conveyed during an unreported meeting between a US State Department team and Syrian Communications Minister Abdulsalam Haykal in San Francisco on Tuesday.
Washington has been coordinating closely with Damascus since 2024, when Syria‘s now President Ahmed al-Sharaa ousted longtime leader Bashar al-Assad, who had a strategic partnership with China.
Syria is exploring the possibility of procuring Chinese technology to support its telecommunications towers and the infrastructure of local internet service providers, according to a Syrian businessman involved in the procurement talks.
“The US side asked for clarity on the ministry’s plans regarding Chinese telecom equipment,” said another source briefed on the talks.
But Syrian officials said infrastructure development projects were time-critical and that Damascus was seeking greater vendor diversity, the source added.
SYRIAN OFFICIALS CITE US EXPORT CONTROLS AS TELECOMS BARRIER
Syria is open to partnering with US firms but the matter was urgent and export controls and “over-compliance” remained an issue, according to person familiar with the meeting in San Francisco.
A US diplomat familiar with the discussions told Reuters that the US State Department “clearly urged Syrians to use American technology or technology from allied countries in the telecoms sector.”
It was unclear whether the United States pledged financial or logistical support to Syria to do so.
Responding to Reuters questions, a US State Department spokesperson said: “We urge countries to prioritize national security and privacy over lower-priced equipment and services in all critical infrastructure procurement. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”
The spokesperson added that Chinese intelligence and security services “can legally compel Chinese citizens and companies to share sensitive data or grant unauthorized access to their customers’ systems” and promises by Chinese companies to protect customers’ privacy were “entirely inconsistent with China’s own laws and well-established practices.”
China has repeatedly rejected allegations of it using technology for spying purposes.
The Syrian Ministry of telecommunications told Reuters any decisions related to equipment and infrastructure are made “in accordance with national technical and security standards, ensuring data protection and service continuity.”
The ministry said it is also prioritizing the diversification of partnerships and technology sources to serve the national interest.
Syria‘s telecom infrastructure has relied heavily on Chinese technology due to US sanctions imposed on successive Assad governments over the civil war that grew from a crackdown on anti-government protests in 2011.
Huawei technology accounts for more than 50% of the infrastructure of Syriatel and MTN, the country’s only telecom operators, according to a senior source at one of the companies and documents reviewed by Reuters. Huawei did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
Syria is seeking to develop its private telecommunications sector, devastated by 14 years of war, by attracting foreign investment.
In early February, Saudi Arabia’s largest telecom operator, STC, announced it would invest $800 million to “strengthen telecommunications infrastructure and connect Syria regionally and internationally through a fiber-optic network extending over 4,500 kilometers.”
The ministry of telecommunications says that US restrictions “hinder the availability of many American technologies and services in the Syrian market,” emphasizing that it welcomes expanding cooperation with US companies when these restrictions are lifted.
Syria has inadequate telecommunications infrastructure, with network coverage weak outside city centers and connection speeds in many areas barely exceeding a few kilobits per second.
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Israeli Cybersecurity Startup Wiz Hosts $3 Million ABBA-Themed Purim Party Ahead of Google Acquisition
In this photo illustration, a Google logo is seen displayed on a smartphone with a WIZ logo in the background. Photo: Avishek Das / SOPA Images via Reuters Connect
The Israeli-founded cybersecurity startup Wiz was set to host a Purim party on Thursday night in Tel Aviv inspired by the famous pop group ABBA at the cost of $3.2 million, according to Israeli media reports,
Wiz hosts a Purim celebration every year, but this year’s gathering at Pavilion 2 at Expo Tel Aviv might be its last as an independent company, since it is on the verge of completing a $32 billion all-cash deal with Google. The cloud security platform headquartered in New York announced in March of last year that it signed a deal to be acquired by Google, and Wiz will join Google Cloud after closing. The agreement marks Google’s biggest deal ever, and approvals have already been secured in the United States and the European Union. The deal is expected to close this year, pending regulatory approvals in Australia, South Africa, Turkey, and Israel.
More than 20 Israeli artists were expected to perform a cover of an ABBA classic at Wiz’s Purim party this year, CTech reported. Sources familiar with the event told the Israeli publication that the lineup of performers would include Osher Cohen, Eden Golan, Sarit Hadad, Odeya, Ivri Lider, Eden Ben Zaken, Dana International, Shiri Maimon, Ninet, Harel Skaat, and Harel Moyal. The celebration is reportedly the most expensive party in Israel’s high-tech sector.
Wiz’s Purim celebration last year paid tribute to Madonna and featured a lineup of some of Israel’s biggest singers – including Rita, Omer Adam, Noa Kirel, Static, and Noga Erez — as well as more than 100 dancers and performers.