From Within and Without

Binyanim are the various structures that Hebrew words take, the verb forms that shift words from their root meanings. They’re the added letters and vowel patterns used to transform words. “Break” becomes “shatter,” “to be loved” becomes “to fall in love,” “to speak” becomes “to vanquish.” The journey from one meaning to the next is sometimes clear, and other times completely opaque. On occasion, a verb can mean just about the same thing across all binyanim—but only if we don’t dive in deep. As you can imagine, the SVARA method is there to encourage us to dive.

Without a doubt, my favorite binyan is Hitpa’el, along with its Aramaic equivalent, Ithpa’el, and its nearly-identical passive form, Nitpa’el. (It’s worth noting that the scholarly jury is out on whether or not Nitpa’el is meaningfully distinct enough from the Hitpa’el to truly be its own binyan, and we only find it in Mishnaic Hebrew.) This binyan is often explained as being “reflexive”, which is to say that whoever is doing the verb is also receiving it. So how can we tell if a word is in this binyan? The key signifier that you’re in this form is a הִת / heet or מִת / meet prefix. (If you find an אִת / eet prefix, you’re likely in the Aramaic Ithpa’el.) Depending on the tense conjugation, the first letter of the word might change, so keep the vowel pattern in mind! You’ll also almost always find a dagesh khazak in the second root letter, with some exceptions when that second letter is “allergic” to dagesh khazakim. 

A key example of a hitpa’el word is found in the bracha for putting on a tallis. It’s the verb לְהִתעַטֵּף / lehitatef, which means “to wrap”. When we think about wrapping ourselves in a tallis, we are doing the wrapping and being wrapped, all at the same time. Similarly, one might think of dressing oneself, which we also find in hitpa’el in the form of לְהִתְלַבֵּש / lehitlabeish. Sometimes the reflexive-ness of a hitpa’el word is less immediately obvious. Take, for example, the word לְהִתְפַּלֵּל / lehitpalel. In its base form (aka the qal binyan), it means to divide or separate. But when it makes its way into hitpa’el, the meaning shifts to “to pray”! What makes prayer a reflexive separation? Perhaps we can understand lehitpalel not just as reciting liturgy, but as the process of taking some time away from the mundane in order to undertake the holy act of looking both inward and outward, listening to our still small voice while also speaking out into the Universe. 

Our Sages of Blessed Memory (חז”ל / Chazal) believed that every bit of Torah, down to the letter, is perfect. Anything that seems superfluous (or Hashem-forbid seems like a typo) is actually just a sign that there’s some hidden lesson or law amongst tiny details. While I’m not sure I genuinely believe this, I do think it’s an impactful exercise to treat all the texts of our tradition this way. If nothing is superfluous, then there must be a lesson to learn from each binyan, however minute. 

Hitpael and Nitpael aren’t especially common, especially compared to other binyanim. So my ears perked up when I found multiple instances of it in Berachot 61b.  

תָּנוּ רַבָּנַן: פַּעַם אַחַת גָּזְרָה מַלְכוּת הָרְשָׁעָה שֶׁלֹּא יַעַסְקוּ יִשְׂרָאֵל בַּתּוֹרָה. בָּא פַּפּוּס בֶּן יְהוּדָה וּמְצָאוֹ לְרַבִּי עֲקִיבָא שֶׁהָיָה מַקְהִיל קְהִלּוֹת בָּרַבִּים וְעוֹסֵק בַּתּוֹרָה. אָמַר לוֹ: עֲקִיבָא אִי אַתָּה מִתְיָרֵא מִפְּנֵי מַלְכוּת?

The Sages taught: Once upon a time [after the bar Kokheva rebellion], the wicked [Roman] empire decreed that the people of Israel may not engage in [the study of] Torah. Pappus ben Yehuda came and found Rabbi Akiva, who was convening large assemblies in public and engaging in Torah. [Pappos] said to him, “Akiva, are you not afraid of the empire?”

The word מִתְיָרֵא / mityarei immediately stood out to me. I had never seen the root, י-ר-א , in hitpa’el (well, technically nitpa’el) before. As it would turn out, it’s one of those words that means just about the same thing in every binyan. All the definitions boil down to feeling fear and awe. However, in all the other binyanim that י-ר-א appears in, the word means either “to feel fear” OR “to make someone else afraid”—but in hitpa’el/nitpa’el, it can be either! Perhaps מִתְיָרֵא is about being so overcome with fear that it overtakes you completely, a fear that emanates from within you just as much as it comes from an external force. If י-ר-א in the qal binyan (יָרֵא) is being startled by a jumpscare, then in the hitp’ael it’s an existential dread. So why did Papus use this form? Maybe he wasn’t just enquiring about Akiva’s surface level worry about the Romans. From the use of hitpa’el we can surmise that Papus is not actually asking, “Aren’t you afraid of the Roman Empire?” They were so powerful, of course Akiva is afraid! But rather, he is asking, “Are you not so entirely threatened by external sources of fear, that the fear now grows from within you as well?” Or even, “HOW are you not letting your fear of political repression overcome you?”

Akiva offers a metaphorical story in response. He tells the tale of a fox walking alongside a riverbank, when he spots a school of fish gathering (מִתְקַבְּצִים) from place to place. He asks the fish what they’re fleeing from. The fish explain that they are avoiding the nets that humans cast into the water. The fox asks if they’d like to come up onto dry land, where they could all coexist. The fish exclaim, “You’re the animal that everyone says is the most clever!? You’re not clever, you’re a fool!” What do they find so foolish about the fox’s offer? 

וּמָה בִּמְקוֹם חִיּוּתֵנוּ אָנוּ מִתְיָרְאִין, בִּמְקוֹם מִיתָתֵנוּ — עַל אַחַת כַּמָּה וְכַמָּה

If we are afraid in a place which gives us life (the water), then in a habitat that causes our death (dry land), so much more so [would we be afraid].

When Akiva describes the fish gathering from place to place, he uses the verb “מִתְקַבְּצִים”, from the root ק-ב-צ. Once again, this is a root that means, at first blush, essentially the same thing across all its binyanim. So what can we surmise from the use of hitpa’el? Perhaps it asserts that the movement of the fish isn’t accidental. Perhaps it asks us to consider that the fish aren’t just scrambling apart from one another, unorganized and scattered, only coming together by chance. Maybe instead, the reflexive nature of the word tells us that the desire to gather stems both from within each fish, and externally from each fish’s neighbor. The desire to organize, to move collectively and purposefully, is what creates safety. It radiates from within, outward to the next fish over, such that the entire school moves and acts as one. Noticeably, Akiva uses the same word for “afraid” that Papus used earlier, י-ר-א in the hit’pael, helping draw a clear metaphorical line between the Jews under Roman occupation and the fish avoiding capture.

Akiva sums up his teaching with the line:

אַף אֲנַחְנוּ עַכְשָׁיו שֶׁאָנוּ יוֹשְׁבִים וְעוֹסְקִים בַּתּוֹרָה, שֶׁכָּתוּב בָּהּ: ״כִּי הוּא חַיֶּיךָ וְאֹרֶךְ יָמֶיךָ״, כָּךְ, אִם אָנוּ הוֹלְכִים וּמְבַטְּלִים מִמֶּנָּה — עַל אַחַת כַּמָּה וְכַמָּה!

So [it is for] us, who now sit and engage in Torah study, as it is written in Torah (Deuteronomy 30:20), “For it (Torah) is your life, and the length of your days.” It is so: if we proceed to sit idle from Torah study, all the more so [will we fear the empire].

Akiva is offering advice to his fellow Jews who are falling prey to an all-encompassing fear: if you find yourself מתירא-ing, try מתקבּצ-ing! Torah study is to the Jews as water is to fish. However fearful they may be of the Romans, Jews (and Judaism) cannot survive without Torah any more than a fish can survive on dry land—it is a מְקוֹם מִיתָתֵנוּ / a place of our death. 

Finding this story was a refreshing reminder of just how powerfully relevant the Talmud remains today. We are seeing terrifying ICE raids, activists taken away by plainclothes officers, staggering amounts of government funding for bombings and cop cities, countless attempts at stripping away transgender rights. These are scary times, my friends. Who amongst us is not deep in י-ר-א? 

I wish the rest of Berakhot 61b went easefully. I wish that Akiva and his comrades continued to מִתְקַבְּצִים and study torah without violence or interruption. Unfortunately, the Talmud teaches that, shortly after this conversation, Akiva was captured and arrested by the Romans. However, so was Papus, who had not joined them in their study. The two are together in prison, and Papus cries out: 

אַשְׁרֶיךָ רַבִּי עֲקִיבָא שֶׁנִּתְפַּסְתָּ עַל דִּבְרֵי תוֹרָה אוֹי לוֹ לְפַפּוּס שֶׁנִּתְפַּס עַל דְּבָרִים בְּטֵלִים

Happy are you, Rabbi Akiva, for you were arrested for [studying] Torah! Woe unto Papus, who was arrested for idle matters.

Papus had not taken the risk of gathering to study Torah, and all the same he found himself under the thumb of the ruling powers. Wicked empires need not wait for a just reason to do as they wish. Akiva’s risk cost him his life—B’zrat Hashem that cost will never have to be paid again by any of us. 

I wish I could say that I believe we will wake up to a glittering version of Olam Haba tomorrow, where the dream of collective liberation has come true. Until that fateful morning, though, I hope we find ourselves emboldened to follow in the footsteps of Rabbi Akiva. To learn from Papus that being preemptively complicit will not save us. May we travel the path of the fabled fish, knowing that we will find מקום חיותנו / “the place of our life” only by gathering together in the Torah-soaked waters of solidarity.