The Kaplan Rule — Hatikvah Magazine

The Kaplan Rule

By JAMIE KAPLAN
Editor, Fiction & Poetry
Pub. 30 June 2025

The Lord said to Abram, “go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.” _{(Genesis 12:1-2)}

Hashem’s charge to Abram was “לֶךְ־לְךָ֛” translating to “go forth.” “לֶךְ־לְךָ֛” was the first commandment given to the first Jew; this fact cannot be coincidental. Yet, on first glance לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ seems to be an idiosyncratic commandment. Hashem says these two words to Abram, which contain the same letters but hold different meanings. לֶךְ neatly translates to “go,” indicating the physicality of Hashem’s commandment. The meaning of the second word, לְךָ֛, leaves space for interpretation. The in-text translation interprets this word to mean “forth.” However, in modern Hebrew, לְךָ֛ can mean “to/for you.” If one takes the latter interpretation, they can conclude that Abram’s journey had to start within himself, connoting a spiritual journey. In some ways, לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ reminds me of a married couple: the words have the same letters, like a married couple typically shares a name; yet, their purposes differ. This can be seen later in Genesis by analyzing Avraham and Sarah’s roles as the first Jewish couple. Avraham had to do the physical work of getting circumcised and almost killing his son. Meanwhile, Sarah lived in another world inside her head, laughing for reasons that even Hashem ostensibly could not decipher, and she carried Yitzchak inside her post-menopausal body.

The Meeting between Abraham and Melchizedek, circa 1625 by Peter Paul Rubens

This primary commandment has further shaped the Jewish people and how we operate in the world. We have been nomads for almost our whole existence, continuously “[going] forth” and searching for the place that will finally offer us protection and security. In a smaller sense, though, it is likely that from this commandment and many others, we were taught to persevere. To keep moving. No matter what obstacles stand in our way, we are taught that if we move forward, we will eventually reach a destination filled with community, prosperity, and fulfillment. At least, this is how I have been taught to view Judaism and my own place in it.

Friday, November 22, 2024

Firstly, before anything, we are Jewish. It’s as simple as that, my dad says to me now that we are outside and can relax after a hectic week. My dad is holding a Scotch in his left hand while his right rests on his forehead. He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, angles his face up to the sky. In this moment, he reminds me of one of God’s angels, and of a person reclining at the Seder table. He works so hard. Stays up late, wakes up early—always working. Always moving forward. Despite his work ethic, my siblings and I have never felt a void in our dad’s absence. We know that we are the reason that he works himself to the bone. It’s all about the children; there is nothing more important than the children, is another one of the mantras he repeats over and over. He makes sure we are listening. Always planning ahead, ensuring that we know who we are and what we need to do. I think my dad can be considered to be a quiet man. Humble, contemplative, unfathomably intelligent, and strategic. More than anything though, he is a Jew.

. . .

One cannot consider the gravity of Abram’s initial charge from Hashem without acknowledging Sarai’s sacrifices made for her husband’s journey “forth.” She too left her family, home, and life behind, trusting in her husband instead of thinking him deranged. She not only played the part of the loyal wife who makes sacrifices for the betterment of her family—she invented that role. I have always pictured Sarah as Jewish womens’ ultimate role-model. A brave, selfless, hospitable, joyful woman and fierce mother I knew I wanted to emulate. Today, I know that she could be insecure, and maybe even a bitch. Intolerant to strangers and overly competitive. Either way you want to look at her, you cannot deny that she is the Original Jewish- Mother, literally and figuratively.

Abram’s Counsel to Sarai, 1836-1902, by James Jacques Joseph Tissot

. . .

Friday, November 22, 2024

I go inside my house to see if my mom needs any help with cooking. The aromas of cooking brisket fill my nose and my soul, telling me that it is almost Shabbos. Mom has been laboring since yesterday, repeating her long-honed, pre-Shabbos routine that entails creating a menu at the beginning of the week, gradually buying all the needed ingredients, preparing dishes early, and then doing the majority of cooking on Thursday and Friday. Her method is meticulous, her execution exquisite. My mom does this all without complaint, embodying grace, her long wavy hair as a microcosm of herself: strong, unique, impossible to look away from, sometimes unruly and unpredictable. She does not want my help in the kitchen but thanks me for offering. She has everything figured out. I must go relax. Sometimes I feel just as attached to my mom now as I was in her womb, relying on her for emotional and physical sustenance and validation of my presence in this chaotic world.

Over time, I have realized that my parents exist on two sides of the same coin. They are both experts in the fields they have chosen: my dad an incredibly successful immigration lawyer and my mom an impressive and reverent homemaker.

This, again, is no coincidence.

They were both born and raised in Johannesburg, South Africa. My dad is the youngest of three boys and my mom is the youngest with two brothers above her. They grew up together, in their small but mighty Jewish community, in a bubble that separated them from the evils of apartheid occurring right outside their gates. My dad had a calling to be a lawyer, to make his best attempt to quell injustices like those he saw on the daily in his home country. He decided to pursue a law degree in the United States, planting himself in San Diego. At the time, my mom was a rowdy teenager, just finished with matric, which is the South African version of senior year of high school. She was in a long-distance relationship with my dad, and one year later, they got engaged and prepared my mom to immigrate to San Diego as well. By twenty, she went from child to wife, native to South African. A stranger in this new country which she endeavored to make home.

South Africa

. . .

I struggle to imagine what my parents’ life looked like in the early stages of their immigration to America. I sometimes try to picture it: my parents in a small apartment somewhere in California, my mom cooking simple meals for just the two of them. I wonder, what did their kitchen look like? What were their haircuts like back in the 90s? How did they detach from their families? How did they start completely fresh, solely motivated by a vision of the future? What I do know is that they were newlyweds in a new country, forced to make new friends and immerse themselves in a new community. With their lives turned on their heads, they managed to create a family and fulfill every wish they made before beginning their journey. My mom gave Sarah life every night that she tackled bedtime alone or attended one of our sports games by herself, my dad somewhere on the other side of the world on a business trip, trying his best to provide for us. Avraham lived on in my dad through his relentless faith in Hashem and unbreakable pride in being a Jew. I see my parents’ history in Hashem’s commandment to Abram: they went “forth” from their homeland and were sustained by their faith that they would have great success and have a blessed family name. I notice my dad in the action of לֶךְ and my mom in the internal embodiment of לְךָ֛; both two sides of the same commandment, both relying on each other to survive and prosper.

. . .

Shabbat, November 22, 2024

My mom strikes the match and lights her candles. She wears her hair down, a pair of gingham trousers, and a chestnut blouse that brings out the green in her eyes. She gives me the lit match and I light my singular candle, a reminder of my unmarried status and the childhood that I cling to. My sister lights her candle, we make the blessing, hug and kiss each other while we sing Good Shabbos. My dad makes Kiddush, exhales. We indulge in the food, drink wine, confide in each other. My dad repeats to us the Kaplan Rule: we must always keep moving. This is our routine.

Jamie Kaplan is Hatikvah’s Fiction & Poetry editor.

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