The learners of Daf Yomi are, at this time, finishing Massechet Eruvin. This tractate is difficult and filled with minute halachic details, making it all the more difficult to view the forest as a whole beyond the individual trees, and not to mention a view of the beautiful horizon beyond. And yet, at this moment of parting from the tractate, I want to attempt to illuminate one specific point that arose for me throughout my learning. A point that I believe to have within it an important message to internalize, especially during the trying times of the COVID-19 pandemic.
One of the laws that the Rabbis established is that it is forbidden for a person to walk more than two thousand cubits from their Shabbat abode (about a kilometer). That is to say, if one begins Shabbat at the center of a circle, they may walk anywhere so long as they do not exit the enclosed circle around them of radius two thousand cubits.
In this context, the Rabbis added an important law regarding how to define the center of such a circle: if one finds themselves in the middle of an open area, the center of the circle is defined as the point at which the person stands at the beginning of Shabbat. If, however, the person is inside a house, the measuring of the circle is done from the walls of said house as opposed to the direct location of the person. And what is more, if the house is found inside a city, the measuring takes place from the city walls as opposed to the home itself. In other words, we define the entire city as the personal space of each one of its inhabitants.
In this law we see a deep, value filled statement that quantifies a person not as an individual, but as a piece of a bigger, societal puzzle. An individual might just have their own, four-cubit area, but an individual within their home is united with the geographical domain of that entire physical structure. The bedrooms, the living-room, the kitchen, and even the storage room are all considered the place of the individual. Each person’s various traits manifest in the rooms of their home, and as such, they are all considered to be their place. Now, suggesting that one’s home is considered to be their resting place is not so surprising, but it is the next widening of the scope of home which is all the more eye-opening. Halacha actually views the entire city as identified with the personal space of each of its individuals. Each and every place of the city is considered to be the space of each and every individual inhabitant. Whether it is the street on which one lives, or a faraway neighborhood, one’s places are all places. A person’s loyalty is to their city, for the good and the bad. The city features one’s life and it is their place of habitat.
And from the opposite perspective, it is also important to note the limits of this widening of the personal domain. Despite national pride as manifest in each citizen, Halacha does not exclaim that each citizen’s entire land should be considered their personal place of living. In doing so, Halacha highlights specifically the urban, and not the national, feelings within the souls of people. Neighbors, not fellow citizens are better descriptors of one’s life, and one is as such a member of the community of people around them.
However, this widening to the city level of one’s personal space is not absolute. The city is not always considered to be the singular home of its inhabitants. In the following two short sugyas, the Amoraim challenged this notion and sharpen its meaning:
“Rav Huna said: those who live in encamped huts can only measure (their techum or space) from the openings of their homes” (Eruvin 55b). Tent hut dwellers are those who live in small huts made out of branches as opposed to solid, stone homes and their homes are therefore not considered to be permanent. In such a case, though the home is considered to be one’s domain in its entirety, it is not considered to be part of a larger city. Even if there is a centralization of these huts, it is not considered to be a city and each individual’s two thousand cubits are measured from their homes and not the city limits. It seems that this Halacha establishes that in order for someone to feel that their community is their home, their home must be permanent. As long as people live in temporary structures, even if it is for years at a time, they do not become one community, and their place does not become a city. They remain individual entities without any deepening communal glue.
In other words, community requires consistency and grounding. Temporary houses, trailers, one day here and the next day elsewhere, do not create a city or a community. In order to create a feeling of individuals identifying with their city, one must dwell in a permanent dwelling amongst others. And although the Talmud adds that it is enough to even have the minimum number of people in order to create a city, if there is no permanent structure for each individual, the Shabbat domain is not counted from the edge of the city but rather from each home. A similar message appears in Turkish law which was then used by the Zionist movement in the “wall and tower” projects: only a community with permanent structures is considered to have permanence of locale, unable to be simply uprooted.
In another sugiya Rav Yossef added one more condition for turning a place into a city. For he ruled that a city sitting at the bank of a river is defined by whether or not it has a wall protecting its inhabitants from falling into the water. If it has such a wall, the city is considered to be a city and its domain is measured from its edge; if, however, it lacks such a wall, because its inhabitants are scared to near the water, the city limits are measured from each individual home as opposed to the city as a whole. Such a law provides a deep psychological insight into what makes a person a dweller of cities. It is not enough to have permanent structures. In order for one to be a part of a larger whole, the city needs to provide personal security and confidence. The person scared of even wandering the streets of their own city cannot be considered a part of a larger community.
But in addition to such a psychological statement, there is a public, communal one. The project of building a wall along the riverbank is not that of an individual, but rather that of the whole city together. And, as such, the statement is directed at the inhabitants of the city as a whole: in order to create a city or community, the people must deeply plant permanent roots in the ground, and, amongst other responsibilities, make sure they each feel connected and safe in the city limits. Such a community is considered united, and each individual can take to each street as their own. If it is temporary dwelling or the dwellers stay at home, scared and without the ability to identify with something bigger - this is not a "city" in other words it is not a community.
In these times, we are experiencing these very messages. The fact that people are not careful enough and are not worrying about the safety of those around them, is causing division and chasms in the communal fabric of our society. The ever-returning lockdowns, coming from people not taking the laws seriously, continue to cause distance between us and our neighbors, and erode the communal connections we all so deeply cherish. The more we return to a sense of safety, when we can be in each other’s company once again, the more we will be able to quickly return to a sense of social cohesion, calling ourselves once again a community and city.
