By Rabbi Joe Schwartz
This Sunday night and Monday marks Tu Bishvat, the 15th of the month of Shvat. The holiday is mentioned in the Mishna (c. 200 C.E.) and marks the beginning of the calendar year for calculating tithes (in essence, taxes) on fruit. Those accustomed to the seasons in Europe and North America tend to think of the winter months as a time of deadness. Think of T.S. Eliot, for whom winter is “dead land,” “dull roots,” and “forgetful snow.” But in the Land of Israel, when rain falls only from Tishrei (September / October) through Nisan (March / April), the wet winter months are a time of blossoming. Citrus trees are in flower right now.
When the Jews lost contact with the agricultural cycle of the Land of Israel, the holiday of Tu Bishvat fell out of use. However, following the Spanish Expulsion in 1492, when mystically-inclined Jews began to return to the Land of Israel, there was a renewed interest in this all-but-forgotten holiday. The circle of mystics who gathered around Rabbi Isaac Luria (1524-1572, known by the acronym “Ha’ari” or “Arizal”) gave renewed attention to the holiday. It was they who established the “Tu Bishvat Seder” which many celebrate today.
One of the more striking dimensions of Jews’ return to the land of Israel is the renewed relevance of an ancient calendar ordered specifically around this land, and the rediscovery of linkages between traditional Jewish liturgy and the land’s agricultural cycles. Outside of the land of Israel, Jews pray for rain at the end of the summer months — during which, depending on where they live, there may have been many summer rain showers. Here, however, by the time Sukkot comes around the land is parched and the fields yellow. Not only Jews, but the land itself prays for rain. The realignment between Jewish time and nature following on the return to the land of Israel is one of the reasons for the revival of interest in Tu Bishvat.
Another is the metaphoric power of the figure of trees (in Modern Hebrew, Tu Bishvat is known as “Chag Ha’ilanot”, the Holiday of Trees). Trees drive their roots deep into the earth. The tree becomes as much a part of the landscape as the hills and streams. Zionism was a movement that sought to do the same for the Jews. We would not just return to the land of Israel; we would re-root ourselves in the land, fusing ourselves body and spirit with the land itself. It is this poetic resonance, perhaps, that accounted for some of the appeal of the Jewish National Fund’s efforts to afforest much of the land it acquired. In the 120 years since the JNF has been in existence, it has planted hundreds of millions of trees all over Israel.
Planting trees in the Gilboa mountains, c.1960
In recent years, however, there has been a reconsideration of the JNF and its activities, on the basis of two considerations. First, it is not clear that Israel can support the amount of trees it planted or some of the non-native species, such as pines, the JNF introduced. The destructive forest fires that swept across the north of Israel in 2010, 2016, and 2021 have been attributed to over-forestation and highly combustible pines. Second, the JNF acquired land for the benefit of Jewish settlement — a purpose in tension with Israel’s non-discrimination laws. And the JNF operates across the Green Line, a practice opposed by stakeholders who would like to see all construction across the Green Line cease.
These controversies are useful background for a fascinating short video produced by Beit Avi Chai and Israel Museum, “Point of View,” on the shifting meanings of this holiday in Israeli culture over the past century. (Be sure to click on CC to see the English captions).
The metaphoric (mystical?) link between trees and human beings is the subject of a magnificent poem by the late poet Natan Zach (1930 – 6 November 2020), whose first Yahrtzeit was observed this past November. Taking as his starting point a phrase found in Deuteronomy 20:19 — “is a tree like a man?” — Zach plays out the many concordances between himself and a tree. Here, to be a tree is not, as in the imagination of the early Zionists, to stand tall and erect, deeply rooted in the soil. Instead, for Zach, it is to be mortal, combustible, thirsting, and ever aspiring. You can hear Zach himself reading his poem:
And here is the song set to music by Shalom Hanoch:
“For Man is a Tree of the Field”
For man is a tree of the field:
Like man, a tree, too, flourishes.
Like a tree, man is cut down.
And I do not know
Where I have been, or where I shall be
Like a tree of the field.
For man is a tree of the field:
Like a tree, he reaches upward.
Like man, he burns in fire.
And I do not know
Where I have been, or where I shall be
Like a tree of the field.
For man is a tree of the field:
Like a tree, he thirsts for water.
Like man, he remains thirsty.
And I do not know
Where I have been, or where I shall be
Like a tree of the field.
I have loved and I have loathed,
I have tasted of this and that.
I am buried in a plot of dust,
And it is bitter, bitter in my mouth.
Like a tree of the field.
Like a tree of the field.
כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כְּמוֹ הָאָדָם גַּם הָעֵץ צוֹמֵחַ
כְּמוֹ הָעֵץ הָאָדָם נִגְדָּע
וַאֲנִי לֹא יוֹדֵעַ
אֵיפֹה הָיִיתִי וְאֵיפֹה אֶהְיֶה
כְּמוֹ עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כְּמוֹ הָעֵץ הוּא שׁוֹאֵף לְמַעְלָה
כְּמוֹ הָאָדָם הוּא נִשְׂרָף בָּאֵשׁ
וַאֲנִי לֹא יוֹדֵעַ
אֵיפֹה הָיִיתִי וְאֵיפֹה אֶהְיֶה
כְּמוֹ עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כְּמוֹ הָעֵץ הוּא צָמֵא לְמַיִם
כְּמוֹ הָאָדָם הוּא נִשְׁאָר צָמֵא
וַאֲנִי לֹא יוֹדֵעַ
אֵיפֹה הָיִיתִי וְאֵיפֹה אֶהְיֶה
כְּמוֹ עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
אָהַבְתִּי וְגַם שָׂנֵאתִי
טָעַמְתִּי מִזֶּה וּמִזֶּה
קָבְרוּ אוֹתִי בְּחֶלְקָה שֶׁל עָפָר
וּמַר לִי מַר לִי בַּפֶּה
כְּמוֹ עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
כְּמוֹ עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה
