This time between the narrow straits offers us a period of 21 days in which to open into grief. The spaciousness of this period (multiple weeks rather than a one-day observance) provides time in which our communal losses are given the space to unfurl from the tight quarters where we so often keep them clenched. With each day we allow our grief to speak, to breathe, to be acknowledged and to be felt. Our hard edges begin to soften as we let ourselves feel a sadness that for most of us is always present somewhere under the surface, but is rarely given a chance to speak. 

The calendar is brilliant in that it seems to understand that one day would not be enough to truly open into the work of grief. Instead, we build slowly, allowing ourselves to open the portal to mourning with tenderness and care and see what resides within. Can you imagine giving yourself 21 days to contemplate what’s been lost, what the many communities you are part of have suffered across time? What would you need to be able to truly enter into this portal? What do you imagine might emerge on the other side if you did?

Originally, Tisha B’Av was a day set aside to mourn the destruction of the two ancient Temples in Jerusalem, the centers of connection to God before the rise of rabbinic Judaism. This was a day given over to grieving the loss of space for God in the world and the severing of the threads of community and practice and connection and sanctity that once wove us together. The day marks the loss of a religious system that, like all systems, worked for some and not for others, a system that was seen as unchangeable and immovable until we watched it fall to pieces before our eyes. 

The historic reality that Tisha B’Av commemorates is important, and for some that remains the focal point. But over time, Tisha B’Av has become a doorway into all of our collective losses, connecting and collapsing each tragedy into one day of primal grief. On this day, all of the communal devastation that has transpired across time and space is aggregated and mourned at the same time — mythic loss, ancestral loss, the ever-growing heap of collective losses of the present century and of last year and of five minutes ago when we last checked the news. Tisha B’Av is an invitation to collective grief that transcends the particulars of the destruction of the Temples. 

We live in an era in which losses seem to pile up without end — species, peoples, paradigms, futures. And yet in mainstream American culture, we aren’t given language or practices for tending to, or even acknowledging, these losses. Instead, our grief festers only to come out behind the closed door of therapy, or when we speak sharply to our spouse or children or colleagues, not knowing why we are so agitated and on edge. Without frameworks and rituals, we feel unhinged. Our grief silently gnaws at us, like it’s our own personal problem or psychosis that we need to solve. 

This period of time offers the gift not only of knowing that we aren’t alone in our feelings, not only of opening space for unacknowledged feelings to become known, but of the medicine of the mythic. Ain mukdam u’meuchar baTorah, Jewish tradition teaches. There is no early or late in Torah. Likewise, this time of the calendar brings us into a mythic realm beyond the linearity of space and time, a place where the tragedy and pain of the past is alive, and in that aliveness can be touched so that it may one day be transformed. 

On Tisha B’Av, each of us enters into the grief portal in the ways we can, as a sacred act of service, for ourselves and for one another. To feel grief is not simply to wallow in despair, but to give ourselves a bracketed number of days in which we let the sadness come to the surface, in which we get to sit alongside one another as we cry, to give honor to the past and make space for the future, and to remind ourselves that we don’t have to do any of this alone.

This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on August 10, 2024. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here. 

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Any possession that is not accompanied by a claim is not sufficient to establish the presumption of ownership. How so? If the prior owner said to the possessor: “What are you doing in my land?” And the possessor said to him in response: “I am in possession of the land because no person ever said anything to me,” — his mere use is not sufficient to establish the presumption of ownership. But if the possessor claimed: “I am in possession of the land because you sold it to me,” or “because you gave it to me as a gift,” or “because your father sold it to me,” or “because your father gave it to me as a gift,” — these are valid claims to ownership. In these cases, possession is sufficient to establish the presumption of ownership. And one who comes to claim the land based on inheritance does not need a claim explaining why his ancestors had a right to the land.

Saying you own a property because you stumbled onto it and no one ever kicked you off does not establish a chazakah. However, stating how you legitimately came to own the property, through inheritance or purchase — even though you can’t come up with written documents to support that claim — establishes the presumption. The Gemara immediately explains why this mishnah is necessary: 

It is necessary for the mishnah to state this, lest you say to yourself that the man had actually purchased this land, and he had a bill of sale, but it was lost. And you might suppose that he said that he is in possession of the land because no person ever said anything to him because he thought: “If I say that the prior owner sold me this land, the court will say to me: ‘Show us your bill of sale.’ Therefore, let us say to him: ‘Perhaps you had a bill of sale, and it was lost.’” In a case such as this, one would think that it is a situation where the court should apply the verse: “Open your mouth for the mute” (Proverbs 31:8), and so the mishnah teaches us that it is not such a case.

The Gemara posits that perhaps the person initially claimed a chazakah based solely on occupancy because they lost the deed of sale and are worried that when the court asks for it and they can’t come up with it, they’ll lose the claim. This seems a little convoluted. If you bought a property but lost the deed, why not just come clean and say so?

According to Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, relying on Tosafot’s explanation, a person not familiar with the law might be afraid that if they claimed to have purchased the land, but had no contract to show for it, they would not only lose the claim but be thought both a liar and a thief as well. They would not necessarily realize that claiming to have lost a purchase document is stronger than claiming simply to have occupied the land without anyone objecting.

So should the court, knowing this is likely his reasoning, help him out by asking him directly about a document? The verses excerpted above read in full: “Speak up for the mute, for the rights of all the unfortunate. Speak up, judge righteously, champion the poor and the needy.” (Proverbs 31:8–9) In some cases, Jewish law requires the court to advise a litigant — the “mute” in this verse — so that they don’t make mistakes out of ignorance. But the Gemara advises that in this particular case, the presumption of “speak up for the mute” does not factor in. The Gemara concludes that the court’s intercession is unnecessary, as the possessor can just tell the court everything, including whether they lost a deed, allowing the court to retain its integrity when making the judgment. 

In a time when litigants might come to court without legal representation, the court was required to balance the need to make sure claimants had the information they required without becoming so over-involved as to be accused of impartiality. In this case, we rely on the litigant to come to their own defense.

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A man went to betroth a woman. She said to him: “If you write a document signing over all of your property to me, then I will be your wife, and if not, I will not be your wife.” He went and wrote a document signing over all of his property to her. 

Before the document signing over all of his wealth was delivered, the man’s eldest some accosted him:

“What will become of me if you give all of your property to this woman?”

The father said to two witnesses: “Go hide in Avar Yemina and write a document for my son, giving him my property as a gift.”

It seems this spineless man is dangerously susceptible to the manipulations of those closest to him. The woman he wants to marry convinces him to hand over his wealth and his son does likewise — and convinces the would-be groom to hide it from his future bride. While inquiring minds and reality TV show enthusiasts may want to know about what happens when she finds out about the secret document that made her groom penniless, the Gemara is far more concerned about whether or not such a document is enforceable.

Rav Yehuda says: “With regard to a document detailing a concealed gift, we do not collect with it.”

But Rava says: “A concealed gift is effective as a preemptive declaration for another gift.”

While Rav Yehuda says the gift to the son is not enforceable, and enables the bride to sue for the property, according to Rava even a concealed gift of property to one party that predates a public gift of the same property to a different party renders the public gift null and void.

It seems odd that Rava would support an ethically dubious practice that makes it possible for a person to announce a gift in public that they have no intention of giving. Rav Pappa suggests that what appears to be a dispute between Rava and Rav Yehuda on this point is really something else entirely. According to Rav Pappa, Rava never actually said anything about the matter directly; rather, this position was attributed to him mistakenly based on a judicial ruling that he once made.

The Gemara reports that the case involving the man, the woman he was courting and his son came before Rava,  who actually ruled that neither the son nor the woman had acquired the man’s property. The Gemara then speculates that:

One who observed this incident assumed that Rava invalidated the wife’s acquisition because the concealed gift to his son was a preemptive declaration to the other gift.

But this assumption, suggests Rav Pappa, is erroneous. When Rava invalidated the wife’s acquisition, he did so not because the concealed gift preempted the public one, but rather because the woman had coerced her husband into signing over his possessions to her. And he invalidated the son’s acquisition because, like Rav Yehuda, he holds that concealed gifts are not enforceable.

From all of this we learn that there is agreement between the rabbis that gifts and the documents that record them must be made public if they are to be upheld in court. And, in that same spirit of transparency, Rav Pappa reminds us that it is equally important to know the process through which legal positions became attributed to rabbinic authorities — doing so can help prevent errors from creeping into the system.

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If the one lodging a protest also said: “Do not tell the possessor of the protest,” — what is the halakhah?

Rav Zevid said: “It is not a valid protest … word of the protest will not reach the possessor and it is meaningless.” 

Rav Pappa disagreed and said: “The owner merely meant: ‘Do not tell him personally,’ but they (i.e., the witnesses) should tell others, since your friend has a friend and your friend’s friend has a friend.”

If the protester tells witnesses not to tell the possessor of the protest, Rav Zevid assumes the possessor won’t know that someone has lodged a complaint. In his view, this makes the objection invalid. Rav Pappa, however, presumes the possessor will hear about the objection through the community grapevine, so the objection is a valid one. 

But what if the witnesses who hear the complaint explicitly say they won’t tell the possessor?

If the witnesses before whom the owner lodged the protest said to him: “We are not going to tell the possessor about your protest,” — what is the halakhah?

Rav Zevid said: “It is not a valid protest, and he has to lodge a protest before other witnesses …”

Rav Pappa disagreed and said: “They merely meant: ‘We are not going to tell him personally, but we are going to tell others.’ In that case, word of the protest will reach the possessor, since your friend has a friend and your friend’s friend has a friend … therefore, it is a valid protest.”

Again, Rav Zevid finds the objection ineffective: If those hearing it say they will not pass word along, how can the possessor find out? But Rav Pappa still has faith that word will get around. Even if the witnesses say they won’t tell the possessor, they’ll tell others and eventually the news will reach the possessor.

Finally, what if the protester tells the witnesses not to speak of this to anyone, not just the possessor?

If the one lodging the protest also said to them: “A word should not emerge from you about this,” — what is the halakhah?

Rav Zevid said: “It is not a valid protest …”

Rav Pappa said: “It is not a valid protest, as aren’t they saying to him: ‘We will not have a word emerge from us?’”

Rav Huna, the son of Rav Yehoshua, disagreed and said: “It is a valid protest, because with regard to any matter that is not actually incumbent on a person to keep secret, it is likely that he will say it to others unawares, and therefore the presumption is that word will reach the possessor.”

Not surprisingly, for a third time Rav Zevid finds this to be an invalid protest. But this time even Rav Pappa thinks the possessor will not find out and so he also deems it an invalid protest. Except now a new voice, Rav Huna, enters the fray. In his view, word will reach the possessor because even though the protester charged the witnesses not to tell anyone, that charge has no legal force, and so he expects they will still pass along the hot gossip and it will eventually reach the possessor.

How do we resolve this? The Mishneh Torah and the Shulchan Aruch agree with Rav Zevid that, in the absence of a response from the witnesses, the objector’s direction not to speak negates his protest. However, both codes accept a protest as valid when the witnesses spontaneously say they won’t talk about the protest. The reasoning is that the witnesses will not remain silent unless charged to do so — even if they volunteer to keep mum. The codes also uphold the protest when the instruction is specifically not to notify the possessor. In this case, they feel it is safe to assume the information will reach the possessor through a third party. In this way, they split the difference between the two sides.

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There are three independent provinces in the land of Israel with regard to establishing chazakah: Judea, Transjordan and the Galilee. If the prior owner of the field was in Judea and another took possession of his field in the Galilee, or if he was in the Galilee and another took possession of his field in Judea, the possessor does not establish presumptive ownership until the one possessing the field is with the prior owner in one province. 

While the opening mishnah of our chapter stated the three-year rule without qualification, this mishnah asserts that the practice is only effective if both the prior owner and current possessor are within the same geographical province. So long as they’re in separate provinces, seemingly no length of years working the land can establish presumptive ownership.

The Gemara presents a difficulty:

What does the first tanna (early rabbi) hold? If he holds that a protest that is lodged not in the presence of the one possessing the field is a valid protest, even in the case where one is in Judea and one is in the Galilee, the protest should be valid as well. If he holds that a protest lodged not in his presence is not a valid protest, even in the case where one is in Judea and the other one is in Judea, the protest should not be valid as well.

The Gemara suggests this geographical limitation on chazakah is related to the question of whether one must make a legal protest in the presence of the other party, or whether it’s effective even in their absence. But if this were truly what’s at stake, it’s not clear why the tanna of our mishnah would make the particular distinction of these geographical provinces. If the tanna holds an effective protest doesn’t require the other party’s presence, then regardless of how far apart the two parties are, the chazakah should be valid! And if it does require their presence, even if the two are in the same city, the chazakah should be ineffective.

Before we look at the Gemara’s resolution, there are two dynamics worth pointing out. One is that this is a classic form of challenge raised by the Gemara when interpreting a mishnah. Given the Gemara’s assumption that the mishnah is deeply intentional, there must always be a reason the mishnah made the particular distinction it did. The Gemara will frequently attempt to map those distinctions onto halakhic disputes that were later concretized, and point out that these halakhic disputes are inadequate to explain the dispute or distinction contained within our mishnah.

The second thing worth noting is that the Gemara’s challenge here highlights a basic assumption underlying chazakah: The whole notion of presumptive ownership works because we assume that were the person illegitimately possessing this land, the legitimate owner would have protested at some point. For that assumption to work, it must be a situation where the legitimate owner could have launched an effective protest.

Returning to our discussion, the amoraim (later rabbis) resolve the challenge:

Rabbi Abba bar Memel says that Rav says: Actually, the tanna holds that a protest lodged not in his presence is a valid protest, and the sages taught our mishnah with regard to a period of crisis.

While the tanna of the mishnah generally believes that an effective protest can be launched even in the absence of the other party, we still require a situation where the protest could be then communicated to the other party. In a time of crisis, where travel is far less possible, the original owner living in Judea could protest and the possessor in the Galilee wouldn’t receive word; therefore they might unwittingly make the false claim that they’d worked the land for three years without any protest from the original owner. Alternately, the original owner might never receive word that someone was working their land to begin with!

This is a compelling explanation, but it produces another problem in interpreting the mishnah’s particular examples:

But if this is only true during periods of crisis, what is different about Judea and the Galilee that the tanna cited?

Why give the specific example of these three provinces? The tanna could have simply taught the general principle that during a period of crisis anywhere, during which communication between areas is difficult, chazakah simply doesn’t work; this would seemingly apply in lands besides Israel, and potentially even within provinces, where traveling even short distances could pose a difficulty.

The Gemara replies:

The tanna teaches us that an ordinary situation with regard to travel between Judea and the Galilee is tantamount to a period of crisis.

The Gemara concludes that this principle does in fact apply to any location, and perhaps even within areas as small as provinces; by giving these examples, the tanna merely taught that communication between these provinces is so difficult even under normal circumstances that chazakah is ineffective even in the absence of crisis, since we can’t assume word will have traveled.

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Rav Zevid says: This one acquired the trees and that one acquired the land.

Rav Pappa objects to this: If this is so, then the owner of the trees has no share in the land at all. Let the owner of the land say to the owner of the trees: Uproot your trees, take them, and go. Rather, Rav Pappa said: This one acquired the trees and half of the land, and that one acquired half of the land.

Rav Zevid takes a literal, if impractical approach. Say Reuven owns the trees and Rivka owns the land: If no special arrangements are made at this initial stage for access, Reuven may be unable to benefit in any way from his trees. Rav Pappa points out that if we follow Rav Zevid’s logic, Rivka would be justified in telling Reuben he must dig up his trees and re-plant them elsewhere — something Rav Pappa feels is unfair.

Who is right? The Gemara turns to a similar debate between Rabbi Akiva and the rabbis about what happens when someone owns a cistern that is on someone else’s land. In that context, Rabbi Akiva states a principle which will repeat several times in this tractate: 

One who sells, sells with a good eye.

Rabbi Akiva’s point is not to praise the occasional generous seller, but to establish a legal presumption: If a seller doesn’t specify all the details of a sale, we assume the maximum was sold. For example, if a person sells a field but maintains ownership over a cistern, according to Rabbi Akiva the seller generously intends to sell the entirety of the field, not leaving himself a path to reach the cistern. The previous owner will have to walk on the new owner’s land or buy back a pathway. 

The rabbis disagree, saying if the seller maintains possession over the cistern, she clearly intended to maintain ownership over the path to access it, so as to continue benefiting from the water inside. According to the rabbis, the default seller always sells “with a bad eye,” or sparingly, defensive of their own needs.

At first glance, Rav Zevid’s position seems to align with Rabbi Akiva: All of the land belongs to the new owner without regard for access to the trees or cisterns owned by the other party. Rav Pappa, in turn, appears aligned with the rabbis: The initial sale, unless it states otherwise, is presumed to take into account the need for access.

But the Gemara muddies these waters, suggesting that the cases are not truly parallel and Rabbi Akiva would not hold onto his principle that a seller is generous in the case of trees. Why? Unlike cisterns, trees have roots that grow beyond their immediate boundaries. If I sell you the field, while maintaining possession over the trees, I couldn’t possibly intend to sell you the land immediately surrounding the tree as well because your plowing and planting would hurt my trees and my roots would ruin your produce. So, the Gemara concludes, even Rabbi Akiva would agree that a seller does not mean to automatically include all the land under the trees in such a sale, but retains the necessary land to protect the trees. 

As the Gemara continues, it becomes clear that the debate between Rabbi Akiva and the rabbis is nearly always contextual, depending to a large degree on the specifics of each case. This makes it even harder to generalize about what sellers intend. As with many of the discussions in this chapter, the underlying problem is clear: Challenges arise when a sale occurs without an explicit document detailing all the intentions of the seller. Buyers ought to request these documents be written and are advised to hold onto them for the long term to avoid problems down the line.

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According to Rav Nahman: These members of the household of the exilarch do not establish the presumption of ownership in ours, and we do not establish the presumption of ownership in theirs.

The exilarch was the political head of the Jewish community in the Sasanian Persian Empire. Enormously wealthy and with a large household to support his projects, the exilarch is sometimes described as being in conflict with the rabbis — and his honchos even more so. In the context of significant wealth disparities and political tension, the Talmud suggests, it is better not to presume anything. If good fences make good neighbors, then good signed legal contracts make good rivals. In other words, the rabbis were not inclined to grant the exilarch and his household a chazakah.

The medieval commentator Rabbi Menachem ben Solomon HaMeiri (the Meiri, for short) takes it one step further. He suggests that the exilarch’s men were essentially strongmen who would take other people’s property without asking. Because of their power, no one felt they could complain. So, says the Meiri, even in cases in which no one disputed property occupied by the exilarch’s men, the rabbis refused to grant them presumed ownership in the absence of legal documentation. It also went the other way: Because the exilarch was wealthy and had vast quantities of land, he and his household might not readily recognize when someone had moved into one of their houses or fields and therefore not dispute it. So in that case as well, the courts did not grant presumptive ownership to the squatter. 

The Talmud then shifts its focus from those with the most power to those with the least.

Slaves: Is there presumptive ownership of them? But doesn’t Reish Lakish say: With regard to livestock, possession of them does not establish presumptive ownership.

Animals and enslaved people can and do move around autonomously. Having an animal or enslaved person on your property doesn’t necessarily mean that they belong to you, however:

Rava said: It is true that possession of them does not establish the presumption of ownership immediately, but there is presumptive ownership of them after three years.

While an enslaved person might briefly pass through a property, if they work that property for three years, the court assumes that they belong to the property’s owner. But of course, this conclusion assumes that the enslaved person is independently mobile. Rava points out that babies don’t walk and adds that, therefore, an enslaved baby rocking in a cradle is presumed to belong to the person whose property they are on. 

Isn’t that obvious? No, it is necessary in a case where he has a mother. Lest you say: One should be concerned that perhaps his mother brought him there. Therefore, Rava teaches us that a mother does not forget her son.

The Gemara acknowledges that a mother will move her baby around, but reassures us that she is unlikely to accidentally leave the child in its cradle on someone else’s property. Continuing the theme we developed yesterday, Rava’s statement reminds us that the bonds of the enslaved family — love, care, memory — cross lines of ownership and property boundaries. 

The Talmud’s two case studies on today’s daf teach us that presumptive ownership isn’t as simple as a certain number of years of squatting or extracting someone’s labor without payment. Instead, issues of ownership, and who is believed when they claim to own something, are always tied up in particular cultural moments and complicated power dynamics.

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One who exchanges a cow for a donkey and it calved, and similarly one who sells his enslaved woman and she gave birth, and this one says: “She gave birth before I sold her,” and that one says: “She gave birth after I purchased her” — they should divide the offspring.

The rabbis of late antiquity, like many people of that time, treated enslaved people and animals as legal parallels in numerous cases. It should not surprise us, therefore, that the mishnah treats both cases as one.

It turns out that while the pregnant mother is property, no one owns her fetus until the moment of its birth — so it really matters when the birth occurs. If the buyer and the seller both claim that the birth took place in their domain, the court has them divide the offspring.

To be clear, no one is suggesting splitting the baby or the calf in two. Instead, what the mishnah means is that the two disputed owners should split the value of the baby or calf. One can buy out the other or they can sell the newborn and split the proceeds. 

I’ve discussed this so far in a fairly straightforward manner. But of course, even if “everyone was doing it,” the idea of owning a human being is morally repugnant. It is even more repugnant to contemplate separating a newborn baby from its mother — in an age without ready infant formula, no less — in order to solve a dispute between two free men of property. So it behooves us to read this text carefully and ask: What else might we notice if we center the mother at the heart of the case? 

Here’s what I notice: While it’s true that non-human animals don’t use language the way we do, enslaved people presumably spoke the same language as their enslavers. That means that, in the case of the enslaved woman who has given birth, the easiest solution to this debate over ownership would be to just ask the woman when she gave birth. But the mishnah never suggests that they do this, and the rabbis of the Gemara — in their discussion of the case — never do either. While that might simply be because enslaved women can’t testify in rabbinic court on issues of ownership, it also suggests that this woman is not thought to be a reliable witness. 

And of course she isn’t a reliable witness! If she says she gave birth before she was sold, her newborn will be taken from her and given to her former owner. I can’t imagine a newborn mother who would let that happen. 

In some ways, then, when we look at what the mishnah doesn’t say, a very different picture begins to emerge: A picture where enslaved people had families of their own, with powerful bonds even in the face of the ever-present threat of sale. A picture of enslaved women who would do anything they could — including lie — to keep their families together. And while, according to the mishnah’s rules, that didn’t always work, we can still see these women in the background of the text, fighting like hell. 

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Ninety-year-old Gur-Arieh is a non-stop innovator not only of foods, but of himself. He’s lived on three continents and pursued three distinct careers. Born in Istanbul, Turkey to a family that traces its roots there to the 1500s, he moved on his own at 14 to Israel. A high school dropout, his hopes of a life in the Israeli army ended when an explosion caused a hearing loss. Undeterred, he returned to school and earned a B.S. in chemical engineering.

In Israel, Chaim changed his last name from Mizrachi, a common name there, to Gur-Arieh, meaning “lion cub.” But this wasn’t the only change he made. After working at a rubber factory, Gur-Arieh decided chemical engineering wasn’t for him, he explained in a recent interview. So, he reinvented himself once more. He moved to the U.S., earned a master’s degree and Ph.D. in Food Science at the University of Illinois, and became a food technologist.

His first job was at Quaker Oats Company in the Midwest. It was there Cap’n Crunch was born. At the time, Quaker Oats had another cereal on the market. It also had a problem. That cereal, Life, was infringing on a patent owned by Ralston Purina Company, according to Gur-Arieh. So, Quaker Oats needed an alternative manufacturing method, and while working on one, came the idea of developing a sweet cereal for children, namely Cap’n Crunch.

While Cap’n Crunch is famed for its sugary taste and distinctive cartoon character, Gur-Arieh’s contribution was technical and industry trend setting. He co-developed the cereal’s manufacturing process called extrusion, the mechanical process when grain is forced to flow — under one or more varieties of conditions of mixing, heating and cutting — through a mold which shapes and/or puff-dries the grain. Before extrusion became the most common method of processing cereal, grains were typically rolled.

In the six decades since its introduction by Quaker Oats (now a subsidiary of PepsiCo), the popular corn and oat cereal has spun off into numerous flavors and seasonal variations, including ones with berries, “vanilly,” peanut butter” and “choco.” 

As for Gur-Arieh, he too spun off into multiple ventures. He worked for Del Monte Foods and a company developing food for astronauts. After that, he ran his own companies and along the way hit another gastronomical home run — developing Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing or more accurately the dressing as we dip and devour it today. Years before, ranch dressing had gone to market in dry mix packets, but Gur-Arieh created the bottled liquid formula convenience-loving consumers didn’t know they craved. 

About this time, Gur-Arieh took on a partner-for-life, his wife Elisheva. After 35 years in the food business, at an age when many people might consider retirement, Chaim and Elisheva opted to fulfill a longtime dream of opening a winery. Their Di Arie Vineyard & Winery, located in the Sierra foothills outside of Sacramento, CA, grows 11 varietals of grapes. In addition to the vineyard, there’s a tasting room and a wine club. Chaim makes the wine, while Elisheva, a nationally exhibited artist, oversees sales and marketing. 

Now, 24 years into operating the winery and having just celebrated his 90^th birthday, you might ask when does the man behind Cap’n Crunch start resting on his laurels — or at least on his vineyard? The answer: Not yet.

Since COVID, the vineyard faces new challenges and Gur-Arieh is innovating once again to meet them. Sales are down and consumer tastes are changing, he explained. 

“First, there’s a general decrease in the amount of wine people are drinking. It’s partially an economic decision, but it’s also generational,” he said. “Younger drinkers are turning away from wine and back to hard liquor and that’s having an impact.”

To combat the downturn, this nonagenarian inventor has created three wines that pair with sushi. This new Hikari line is being marketed to money-spending younger foodie fans to win them back to wine. It has three offerings including a specially formulated chilled red wine blend and comes in bottles and cans – again, a nod to a younger demographic. Hikari is already sold in supermarkets in the West and Gur-Arieh is negotiating with a major Midwest chain to place Hikari there.

And with that update on his business, our interview concluded. The man who never lost his stride, be it during relocation from country to country (or continent to continent) or industry to industry, put on his floppy hat and headed out the door. There were grapes to tend to, watered and watched. Another day of work for this constantly innovating continually enterprising food scientist-turned-vintner.

The post The Sweet Jewish History of Cap’n Crunch appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Eighteen years ago, we faced a classic parental dilemma: the name game. We wanted a name beginning with A to honor my husband’s mother Andi who died when he was a teenager. It had to carry the weight of our hopes and dreams for this new little person and help us turn grief into joy. Two names stood out: Avi (“my father”) and Ami (“my people”).  

We sat at our kitchen table, the weight of the world and the promise of new life hanging in the air. “Avi makes me think of the embrace of a parent we always want him to feel,” Jason said. I nodded, thinking of the strength and comfort we seek when we cry out to God as avinu, our parent, during the High Holidays.

“But what about Ami?” I asked. We loved the idea of our child being cradled not just by us, but by our entire people. We were grappling with two sources of Jewish comfort and strength — the divine and the communal — as we took our first steps in helping him navigate the joys and sorrows of life.

That decision feels especially poignant this year. The month of Av begins with deep mourning, particularly during the first nine days when we put joyous occasions on hold. The grief peaks on Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month, a day that gathers all our collective sorrows into one heavy moment. We remember the destruction of both ancient Temples, the expulsion from Spain, and many other heartaches. The weight of our history presses down on us, demanding that we face our pain head-on.

Then, six days later, we dive into Tu B’Av, a matchmaking festival that the Talmud teaches is one of our most joyous days. In between, we mark Shabbat Nachamu, the Sabbath of Consolation. In the Haftarah we read that day, God calls us ami, “my people,” wrapping us in words of comfort and hope. This is why the month is also called Menachem Av (“comforting parent”).

Contemplating the name Avi brings me to a hospice bedside moment. As Betty and I prayed together for her comfort and renewed spirit, her smile lines deepened. “Rabbi, I am ready,” she said. Her fear evaporating, she said she felt like a small child held by a loving God. The grief of life ending wasn’t absent, but joy was in the room too.

“Joy is a deep release of the soul, and it includes death and pain,” writes Rabbi Alan Lew. He teaches that true joy comes from fully inhabiting our experiences, no matter how tough. The month of Av doesn’t deny grief or force celebration. It accompanies us through both.

Reflecting on our tragedies also enhances our gratitude for present blessings. Dr. Erica Brown suggests that “we don’t diminish our happiness when we spend a day or a few weeks meditating on the tragedies of history from which we emerged. We become more grateful, holding on tightly to our blessed lives because we can.” This thread weaves through Av.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks offers another layer of understanding. Joy, he says, is not merely the absence of sorrow, but the presence of a deeper connection that transcends our immediate circumstances. And in Jewish tradition, our joy is inherently collective. “The festivals as described in Deuteronomy are days of joy, precisely because they are occasions of collective celebration,” he writes. In our shared connection with God and each other, we discover a communal joy that carries us through even the toughest times.

Navigating the end of childhood isn’t easy, especially for parents. But the lessons of Av are there for our kids and for us. We live in a world scarred by memories and ongoing experiences of destruction, yet it still bursts with moments of deep joy. That joy is richer because we share it as a people, together seeking God. Opening ourselves to awe and wonder, we touch Divine compassion. We find strength in our shared history and the gritty, beautiful reality of our current lives.

As Av begins, we mourn the destruction happening in real time along with the sorrows of our past. But if we allow ourselves to sit with the pain, we can also feel the loving presence of Menachem Av. By coming together, we gain the strength of community. We join a dance, a song, an act of learning or helping, and tap into the enduring joy and hope of the Jewish people.

And as for our son Amichai, he has already met the Hillel rabbi and is ready to go.

This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on August 3, 2024. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here. 

The post Joy Comes With the Mourning appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Chopped liver is an organ meat, rather than a muscle, thus placing it in the category of offal, or “variety meats.” This alone is not peculiar. Offal has historically been significant in worldwide Jewish cuisine. Oddly, however, chopped liver is still commonly eaten today while most other organ meats are not. Obviously, this is not universal. Some people still love offal, and eating habits vary by location, as well. But in much of the Western world, organ meats have generally fallen out of favor. People long ago stopped eating calf spleens, lamb brains or turkey testicles, but for some reason they still eat chopped liver! Why?

Liver is not unique. There are a few other types of offal that are also still consumed, even in America. Tongue, for example, remains popular as a cold-cut deli meat for sandwiches. Sweetbreads (which, contrary to many people’s beliefs are not brains, but pancreas or thymus) are less popular than they were a few decades ago, but still can be found in fancy restaurants and at catered affairs. But, neither of these are remotely as popular as chopped liver. Its beloved place in the American Jewish kitchen has even been cemented by a popular idiom. No one says, “What am I, p’tcha?!”

Furthermore, liver stands out; it is called by the organ’s name, rather than by a euphemism like sweetbreads. It’s also the only offal dish that I can think of that people make imitation versions of! I’ve never come across “mock tongue” or “imitation oxtail.”

Interestingly, while offal is common in Mizrachi and North African Jewish cuisines, liver on its own was never very popular for these communities. At best it was part of the stuffing for spleen, tripe, or intestines. So what explains its unique popularity among Ashkenazi Jews?

When I first raised this question of chopped liver’s unique persistence, many people explained it simply by claiming, “because it tastes delicious.” While I can’t dispute this opinion (there is no arguing with taste), it doesn’t hold water for me as an explanation. Taste is subjective. Some people love chopped liver, but many others hate, or are indifferent to it. I’m certain many people passionately proclaimed that lungen (cow lung stew) or miltz (spleen) were delicious, too. So why does liver remain popular while other offal dishes have gone the way of Roman garum?

I can only speculate, but to me the explanation reflects the dish’s origins in Europe, and the American contexts in which it was eaten. For starters, let’s not underestimate the French connection. Pâté de foie gras is recognized as the most likely ancestor of Ashkenazi chopped liver. Jews were very familiar with foie gras; in Alsace (the Ashkenazi heartland), Jews were among the experts in its creation. They fattened geese to create more schmaltz for their cooking, then sold the livers to non-Jews once foie gras had become popular and commanded a high price.

This may also explain liver’s lower popularity among non-Ashkenazi Jews. Schmaltz was the primary cooking fat in the colder parts of Europe, while olive oil was more popular elsewhere. So those Jews who didn’t fatten their poultry to get more schmaltz would find smaller livers in their slaughtered animals. But for the Ashkenazim, not only were their poultry’s livers larger, they were the only organ meat in the birds of any decent size on their own.

Yoskowitz sees the French aspect as even more significant. In America, French cuisine was seen as the ultimate in class. And as he says, “If the American Jews were anything, they were aspirational.” So an Ashkenazi classic that resembled a French delicacy would appeal to American Jews as something they would want to eat, and proudly.

Beyond that, chopped liver’s place in the American delicatessen setting is also significant. Among offal, chopped liver and tongue are the only ones normally served in a sandwich — the main type of deli food. Since the deli became the most iconic of American Jewish eateries, its most popular foods also came to define American-Jewish cuisine. While I have not yet researched this deeply, I think most other offal dishes were more commonly eaten at home, rather than in delis.

This aspect might also explain why of all the Jewish American staples, chopped liver is one of the few that is called by its English name. We commonly eat challah, kishke, gefilte fish, knishes, kugel and cholent. But we don’t order gehakte leber. The deli was where our cuisine became Americanized. Similarly, another popular deli food was “chicken soup with matzah balls,” not goldene yoich mit kneidlach.

Chopped liver’s persistence as an Ashkenazi delicacy can best be explained by its European origins as a by-product of producing schmaltz, combined with certain aspects of American Jewish life (growing affluence, the popularity of the deli, etc.). As Yoskowitz also points out, it was a significant feature of the Jewish holiday table. All of this helped solidify chopped liver’s place in the American Jewish food canon.

Reprinted with permission from The Taste of Jewish Culture. Find “18 Jewish Foods” wherever you stream podcasts, or here.

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“That idea of chicken,” Nigella told The Australian Jewish News, “I think it is essentially a Jewish thing.” In her TV shows, she’s often shown whipping up a chicken dinner, throwing ingredients into a roasting tin, emphasizing how easy it is to do, while a jazzy riff plays in the background.

With a famous love of Italy dating back to her adolescence, Lawson also explores dishes from the Italian Jewish kitchen, including a recipe for Venetian haroset. We’ve rounded up Nigella’s seven best Jewish recipes for you to enjoy:

1. Chicken Soup and Matzah Balls

“When it comes to comfort food, this is it. The real McCoy — or the real Mc-Oy,” says Nigella, with a wry smile in the accompanying TV show to her cookbook “Nigella Bites.”

Lawson uses a whole broiling chicken (aka stewing hen, an older bird with tougher but more flavorful meat) — feet and all — in addition to carrots, onion, bay leaves, celery, parsley stalks and peppercorns. The secret to her fluffy matzah balls (which she calls by the Yiddish name “kneidlach”), is to thoroughly whisk the egg — and use schmaltz, for flavor. 

“You just have to taste this, even just look at it, to know that it’s going to do you good,” she says of chicken soup’s healing properties. Giving her bowl of golden soup a lovestruck stare, she digs in. 

2. Venetian Haroset 

Chestnuts, sultanas, dates, apricots and pine nuts are some of the more unusual ingredients in this “rich and sumptuous” haroset recipe from Venice, Italy, featured in “Feast: Food that Celebrates Life.” If you’re seeking to add intrigue to your seder plate this year — Passover is, after all, the holiday of asking questions — give this a try. 

3. Coconut Macaroons 

These large, generous macaroons from “How To Be a Domestic Goddess” are regaled by reviewers due to their light-yet-still-dense-enough texture. Bookmark for Passover, or whenever you have a gluten-free guest.

4. Noodle Kugel

“The recipe comes from Ellen Fishman in San Francisco — I demanded it — and is her Grandma Judy’s. In keeping with the spirit of things, I have kept the vast quantities. Besides, I love it cold and so do my children, wrapped up to take to school for their break,” Nigella writes in “Feast: Food that Celebrates Life.” 

5. Cinnamon Rugelach 

Nigella calls her rugelach “scuffles,” a puzzling choice rigorously dissected in this article. Name aside, this easy recipe doesn’t even require a mixer — and involves a genius hack to take your cookies to the next level. (Spoiler: Nigella rolls her rugelach out in cinnamon-sugar rather than flour.) 

6. Tagliatelle with Chicken from the Venetian Ghetto 

Nigella attributes this easy, comforting pasta made with shredded roast chicken, sultanas, pine nuts and herbs to the godmother of Jewish culinary wisdom, Claudia Roden. “My gratitude is immeasurable. It is such a crucial part of my life,” she writes in “How to Eat.”

7. Honey cake with Dates and Apples

Nigella has two honey cake recipes for Rosh Hashanah, though the first, which appeared in “Feast” does not actually contain any honey, but rather the very British Golden Syrup — a light treacle. The second version is more explicitly Rosh Hashanah coded: “a symbolic expression of most urgent hopes for a sweet year ahead,” writes Nigella, of this “cake of seductive squidginess.”

The post Nigella Lawson’s 7 Best Jewish Recipes appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

It is often recommended that we express our wishes for the end of life in the form of a living will, documenting preferences regarding healthcare. Often, a person will task a healthcare proxy, or healthcare agent, to take responsibility for honoring these wishes in the event they are not able to communicate them themselves. In effect, the living will asks the proxy to make an informal oath to carry out the wishes of the dying person. 

But sometimes, those promises cannot be honored in full, and there can be a particular kind of grief when this happens. I think about the family member whose motto was, “from my house to the cemetery” — meaning their wish was never to have to go into a residential treatment facility. Sadly, we could not honor those wishes in exactly that way, as she lived with years of progressive dementia and other physical ailments necessitating care in a healthcare facility. In grieving her death, I dwelled on the question of whether we had honored the essence of her wishes by trying not to prolong a quality of life she had expressly not wanted. In remembering her, and in recalling her motto, I realized we had done our best to honor her wishes and promised to make her memory a blessing. 

This is an expression we often hear after death — may their memory be a blessing. This is not an oath in a formal legal sense, but more of a promise or an intention. Sometimes this is said passively, or as wishful thinking, in the sense of “may it be so.” But it’s on us to set the intention to actively make it happen. By making someone’s memory a blessing, we can enact the blessing that is remembering. This might mean not just using Bubbie’s recipes to cook for a family gathering on a Jewish holiday, but also talking about Bubbie when we serve her dishes, detailing the memories of cooking with her, the smell of her kitchen, or the feeling we had eating her version of the recipe. It could look like taking time on Zaide’s yahrzeit not just to light a candle or make a donation in his memory, but gathering with family or friends to talk about Zaide’s life and our memories of time spent together. 

When we promise to make someone’s memory a blessing, we must then enact the memory. In so doing, we open ourselves to receive the blessing of the presence of those who have departed in our lives. After death, this presence is the memories we recall regularly, inviting the blessing of memory to support us through the journey of grief. 

This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Reading Torah Through Grief newsletter on August 3, 2024. To sign up to receive this newsletter each week in your inbox, click here.

Looking for a way to say Mourner’s Kaddish in a minyan? My Jewish Learning’s daily online minyan gives mourners and others an opportunity to say Kaddish in community and learn from leading rabbis.

The post Parashat Matot: Honoring Wishes appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

A story on today’s daf further explores the role of physical strength and tangible possession in deciding cases of contested property:

There was a certain boat that two people were quarreling about. This one said: “It is mine,” and that one also said: “It is mine.” One of them came to court and said: “Seize it until I am able to bring witnesses that it is mine.” 

Do we seize it or do we not seize it?  Rav Huna said: “We seize it.” Rav Yehuda said: “We do not seize it.” 

The man went to seek witnesses, but did not find witnesses. He then said to the court: “Release the boat, and whoever is stronger prevails.” 

Do we release it or do we not release it? Rav Yehuda said: “We do not release it.” Rav Pappa said: “We release it.” 

The halakhah is that we do not seize property in a case where ownership is uncertain, and where it was seized, we do not release it.

One of two contested owners of a boat asks the court to intervene and put the boat in escrow until he can gather witnesses for his claim. The court agrees but the claimant does not succeed in producing proof of his ownership. However, by asking the court to intervene the boat is now no longer in the physical possession of either person, nor does either side have proof of ownership. It is a true tie. 

Then, the claimant who asked the court to seize the boat asks something quite brazen: to release the boat and “whoever is stronger will prevail.” Like a referee who throws a jump ball on a basketball court, the court of law is being asked to step aside and let the strongest person wrest the boat away from the other. This seems antithetical to the rule of law, which is supposed to prevent people from violently taking justice into their own hands. 

The rabbis on today’s daf debate when it is appropriate to allow a physical fight to supersede legal decision making. The Gemara concludes by ruling in favor of Rav Yehuda: The court should not get involved in a case where there is no legal evidence on either side. This means that yes, the court should allow the natural, conceivably violent, competition between the two claimants to play out. But once the court gets involved, then there is no going back to direct competition.

Over the centuries, the rabbis have not easily accepted the principle that whoever is stronger wins — even in a case when the court has no other information on which to base its ruling. But sometimes “might makes right” is the path forward and, similar to chazakah, means that tangible hold on an object has legal weight. The 13th-century commentator Rabbeinu Asher justifies this practice by asserting that whoever works the hardest to get an object back likely had a stronger claim in the first place. But other commentators worry that this solution is temporary: If the winner takes all, then maybe these two litigants will continue stealing the boat back and forth for the rest of their lives.

Read all of Bava Batra 34 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on July 29, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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A relative of Rav Idi bar Avin died and left a date tree as an inheritance. Another relative took possession of the tree. Rav Idi bar Avin said: “I am closer,” and the other relative said: “I am closer.” 

Although another unnamed relative claims the tree, Rav Idi bar Avin believes he is the closer relation and therefore has the stronger claim. Given that the Gemara does not provide us with the details of the family tree (pun intended), it is reasonable to assume that neither of them can prove that their connection to the deceased is indeed the closest and, therefore, the one who is already in possession of the tree has the upper hand and gets to keep it. That is, until this happens:

The other relative admitted to Rav Idi bar Avin that, in fact, Rav Idi was closer in relation to the deceased. Rav Hisda established the date tree in the possession of Rav Idi bar Avin.

Though Rav Idi bar Avin has now secured the tree, he is not fully satisfied and sues the other relative for the value of the produce that they consumed while the tree was in their possession. After all, if the tree is rightly his, he reasons, it was his from the moment the owner died, as was any of the fruit that it bore.

It’s an interesting question. When does the tree become Rav Idi’s? Is it at the moment when his relative dies or at the moment the court ruled in his favor? 

Rav Hisda is not inclined to retroactively award him ownership of the produce:

On whom is the Master basing his claim to receive the value of the produce? On this other relative. But the other relative was saying until this point: I am closer in relation to the deceased than he.

As Rav Hisda sees it, Rav Idi’s claim to the tree is only granted based on the admission of the other relative. When the other relative claimed that the tree was theirs, it was and so was its fruit. It was only after the other relative relented that Rav Idi became the owner of the tree and, from that point forward, he also gained the rights to its produce.

But Rav Idi has his supporters as well:

Abaye and Rava do not hold in accordance with this opinion of Rav Hisda, as they hold that once the other admitted that they are not the closer relative, they admitted that they never had any right to the produce of the tree. 

The Gemara does not decide between the two positions, although giving Abaye and Rava the last word may be a nod of approval, and their position is upheld in the legal codes. This good news for Rav Idi, although this development may not have come in time to reverse the ruling of Rav Hisda and allow him to collect.

Read all of Bava Batra 33 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on July 28, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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There was a certain person who said to another: What do you want with this land of mine?

The possessor said to him: I purchased it from you, and this is the bill of sale. 

The first said to him in response: It is a forged bill of sale.

The possessor leaned over and whispered to Rabba: Yes, it is a forged bill. But I had a proper bill of sale and it was lost, and I said to myself: I will hold this bill of sale in my possession, such as it is.

One person is currently in physical possession of the property, and another has proof that the property was previously theirs. The possessor is insisting that they purchased the property from the previous owner, but the document they’ve proffered is a forgery. Although it’s a forgery, the possessor promises Rabba that there once was a legitimate bill of sale. Rabba gives what, at first glance, may seem like a surprising ruling:

Rabba said: Why would he lie and state this claim? If he wants to lie, he can say to him that it is a proper bill of sale.

Even with only a forged bill of sale, Rabba believes the land should remain in the hands of the possessor. His rationale is one that appears in several places throughout Gemara and which we sometimes translate as why-would-I-lie. This concept is often referred to in halakhic literature by the shorthand migo, or “from that,” which expresses the sentiment: From the fact that this person could have made a more advantageous claim and did not, we believe them. The logic of migo relies on the notion that people will usually make the most advantageous claim possible so if there’s a better claim someone could have made, we assume their less advantageous claim is actually the truth.

In this case, the possessor could have simply contested the claim that the document was forged and had both chazakah (presumption of ownership) and the document on his side. But he admitted the document was forged, weakening his own case, so Rabba argues that we should believe him.

Rav Yosef disagrees:

Rav Yosef said to Rabba: On what are you relying to award him the land? On this bill of sale? This admittedly forged bill is merely a worthless shard, and cannot be used in court as evidence.

Rav Yosef finds the migo argument insufficient. Ultimately, all the possessor has in hand is an admittedly forged document, which can’t be used in court to verify his claim.

The Gemara goes on to relate a similar incident involving a monetary claim. In this case, a person tries to collect a debt of 100 dinars with a forged promissory note. Again, they come to Rabba, and again the would-be collector admits the promissory note is forged, but claims there once was a real one that has since been lost. Again, Rabba rules in favor of the person with the forged document, because the claimant could have simply asserted the promissory note was legitimate. And, again, Rav Yosef maintains his position that, in the absence of an actual legitimate document that could be used in court, we don’t award the claimant this money.

In determining how we ultimately rule, the Gemara distinguishes between these two cases, siding in the first with Rabba and in the second with Rav Yosef. Here’s why:

Rav Idi bar Avin said: The halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabba with regard to land, and the halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rav Yosef with regard to money. The halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rabba with regard to land, as the court rules that the land should remain where it is (i.e., with the possessor). And the halakhah is in accordance with the opinion of Rav Yosef with regard to money, as the court rules that the money should remain where it is (i.e., in the possession of the purported debtor).

Rav Idi bar Avin suggests that in neither scenario should we extract property from its current holder. The logic of migo is sufficient to maintain land in the hand of its current possessor who admitted to the falsified document, but it’s insufficient for the monetary claimant to successfully extract money without legitimate documentation. This is a metric that appears throughout this order of the Talmud (Nezikin): In general, we default to maintaining property in the hands of its current physical owner, unless someone else can bring definitive proof contesting that ownership. We would rather risk failing to extract property from someone lacking lawful ownership than incorrectly extracting property from its lawful owner.

Read all of Bava Batra 32 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on July 27, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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This one says: The land belonged to my ancestors. 

That one says: The land belonged to my ancestors.

This one brings witnesses that the land belonged to his ancestors. 

That one brings witnesses that he currently possesses the land and that he worked and profited from the land long enough to establish presumption of ownership.

Two claimants (we’ll call them Reuven and Shimon) each say that a parcel of land belongs to them by virtue of an inheritance. To shore up their claims, Reuven, who does not currently have possession, brings witnesses who testify that the land belonged to his ancestors. In contrast, Shimon, who currently has possession, brings witnesses who testify that he has worked and profited from the land for the amount of time necessary to establish ownership. Who has the stronger claim? 

In order to answer that question, the Gemara relies on two principles: chazakah (presumption of ownership) and the principle of why-would-I-lie, meaning that the court believes a person who brings a weaker claim when he could have brought a stronger one. 

Rabba said: Why would he lie and state this claim? If the possessor wanted to lie, he could have said to the claimant: “I purchased the land from you and I worked and profited from it for the years necessary for establishing the presumption of ownership (in which case he would have been awarded the land).”

Abaye said to Rabba: We do not say the principle of why-would-I-lie in a case where there are witnesses contradicting his current claim.

Rabba relies on the why-would-I-lie principle and rules in Shimon’s favor. Shimon could have claimed to have purchased the land, which might have made a neater and cleaner case for himself, but he didn’t. Abaye disagrees and says that why-would-I-lie doesn’t apply when there are competing sets of witnesses, as there are here. The Gemara now provides additional information:

The possessor then said to the claimant: Yes, it is true that it had belonged to your ancestors, but I purchased it from you, and by originally stating that it belonged to my ancestors, I merely meant that I rely on my ownership of it as if it belonged to my ancestors.

Shimon now explicitly claims to have purchased the land from Reuven and explains his earlier claim that, “it belonged to my ancestors” as a figure of speech — it was as if that particular parcel had belonged to his family for generations. 

This seems fishy. After a discussion about whether it’s kosher to change one’s testimony mid-trial, as Shimon appears to have done, and whether that brings condemnation upon the court itself, the Gemara returns to the more granular matter at hand: Whose claim is stronger?

The Gemara itself does not issue a definitive judgment, but Maimonides rules that: “we grant the field to the person who produced witnesses that it belonged to his ancestors, and give him possession of it. However, if the second person also brought witnesses who testify that the field belonged to his ancestors, and so this testimony also involves a contradiction, the court rescinds its initial ruling, removes the first claimant from it, and leaves it in possession of both of them.” (Mishneh Torah, Plaintiff and Defendant 15:5) Maimonides concludes by stating that “the one who overpowers the other acquires the right of ownership.” 

Back in Genesis, Abraham resolved the dispute with Lot by doing the opposite of “overpowering” him. Instead, even though he had been promised the land by God, he bowed out of a particularly fertile portion chosen by his nephew. Thanks to Abraham’s generosity, Lot ends up in the land of Sodom which, ironically, doesn’t end well for him.

Read all of Bava Batra 31 on Sefaria.

This piece originally appeared in a My Jewish Learning Daf Yomi email newsletter sent on July 26, 2024. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, sign up here.

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Back on 28a, the mishnah says that a person who works irrigated land or uses other types of property continuously for three years establishes a presumption of ownership. (Non-irrigated land has the same three-year requirement, but day-to-day usage isn’t necessary.) Set against this holding, the Gemara relates the following conflict between an owner and a possessor:

There was a certain person who said to another: What do you want with this house of mine?

The possessor said to him: I purchased it from you and I worked and profited from it for the years necessary for establishing the presumption of ownership.

The claimant said to him: I was in the outer marketplaces and was unaware that you were residing in my house, and therefore did not lodge a protest, so your profiting does not establish the presumption of ownership.

The possessor said to him: I have witnesses that every year you would come here for 30 days and had an opportunity to know that I was residing in your house and to lodge a protest.

The claimant said to him: I was occupied with my business in the marketplaces for those 30 days.

Rava said: A person is apt to be occupied with business in the marketplace for all of 30 days, and accepted his claim.

Three years seems (to me) to be a long time to be in the outer marketplaces, and it also strikes me that the claimant’s original statement suspiciously leaves out regular visits to the area. But perhaps in the ancient world, which was far less connected by technology than our world, this is not so unreasonable. Rava certainly doesn’t think so and awards ownership to the man who didn’t know his property was worked by another for three years. 

Here’s another case in which the waters are made muddier by a third, intermediary owner:

There was a certain person who said to another: What do you want with this land of mine?

The possessor said to him: I purchased it from so-and-so, who told me that he purchased it from you.

The claimant said to him: Don’t you concede that this land is formerly mine, and that you did not purchase it from me? Go away; I am not legally answerable to you.

Rava said: The claimant stated the halakhah to the possessor, as this is a legitimate claim, and Rava accepted his claim.

Here, the possessor’s claim is more tenuous: Instead of purchasing the land from the claimant directly, they purchased it from someone who said they purchased it from the claimant. Because of the middleman’s involvement, the possessor has a weaker case, and the claimant (original owner) gets to keep the property.

And there’s a third scenario, even more unexpected than the first two:

There was a certain person who said to another: What do you want with this land of mine?

The possessor said to him: I purchased it from so-and-so and then I worked and profited from it for the years necessary for establishing the presumption of ownership.

The claimant said to him: So-and-so is a robber who robbed me of the field, and he did not have the authority to sell it to you.

The possessor said to him: But I have witnesses that I came and consulted with you, and you said to me: Go purchase the land, indicating that you conceded that he had the authority to sell it.

The claimant said to him: The reason that I advised you to purchase it was because the second person (i.e., you, the possessor) is amenable to me, while the first (i.e., the purported thief) is more difficult than he.

Rava said: The claimant stated the halakhah to the possessor, as this is a legitimate claim, and Rava accepted his claim.

In this scenario, the original owner of the land agreed to let a supposed robber of the land sell to the squatter simply because he thought it would be easier to sue the squatter than it would be to sue the robber. Rava accepts this remarkable story and grants the claimant ownership which, frankly, leads me to wonder about his impartiality. After all, when the possessor asked the claimant’s advice about purchasing the property from the middleman, the claimant suggested that he do so. This seems to be the kind of deviousness that we’d want the law to prevent, but Rava nevertheless accepts this rather questionable legal argument.

The rabbis point out that Rava made a similar argument on Ketubot 109a, with an emphasis on the importance of a written deed over mere words. This highlights the extent to which the rabbis are skeptical of a possessor’s claims and inclined to favor the party with documentation.

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Rava said: A person waives the first year, waives two years, but he will not waive three years.

We can imagine that a landowner who has a number of fields might see someone squat on one of them for a short period of time and assume the squatter is hungry and perhaps needs the produce more than they do. Letting a squatter have the fruit for a year or two might be thought of as a kind of charity, even. But after that, Rava thinks, the landowner would begin to see that the squatter is not treating the land as an emergency stop-gap, but as their own. When that happens, in year three, the landowner will evict the squatter and re-take possession of their land. If they don’t, the court can assume that they actually didn’t care about the field and were ceding it to the squatter — who now becomes the legal owner. 

Interestingly, that’s not the only answer the Talmud — or even Rava — gives us. In fact, the Talmud next gives us two more answers, both also attributed to Rava.  

Rather, Rava said: A person is not particular the first year, and is not particular for two. He is particular for three.

This answer is slightly different from the first one in its reasoning, though not its implications. An owner may not actually waive their rights to their field’s produce, but still not feel like going through an extended process of taking a squatter to court to get them evicted. According to this version of Rava’s view, then, an owner may hesitate to evict a squatter for a while, but by year three would be fed up enough to take legal action — at least if they wanted to keep their land. 

Rava’s third answer is a bit different:

Rather, Rava said: A person is careful with his document the first year, and he is careful for two and three years. For more, he is not careful.

Rava’s focus here is on the squatter. He’s describing a case where two people come to court, each claiming to own a particular field. One is an absentee owner who has a legal document proving ownership, and the other has lived on the land for a time but has no legal document — a presumptive owner. Rava states that if the presumptive owner has lived on the land for one, two or three years, we can and should expect them to have legal documentation of their ownership. If they don’t, then they are a squatter and can be evicted. After that, we are inclined to believe them when they say that they lost the deed.

It can be hard to keep track of all your important documents, contracts, and other ephemera. I’m sure many of us, myself included, have lost an important paper somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle of our desk drawers. Rava’s third answer recognizes this reality. If the presumptive owner has lived on the land for more than three years, then we assume that they are the actual owner and just lost the contract.  

Ultimately, the Talmud doesn’t tell us which of Rava’s rationales is correct. But it’s a good reminder to pay attention — both to your property and to your paperwork.

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With regard to the presumptive ownership of houses, pits, ditches, caves, dovecotes, bathhouses, olive presses, irrigated fields and slaves, and all similar property that continually generates profits: their presumptive ownership (is established by working and profiting from them) for three years from day to day.

Sometimes, there is a dispute about who owns a field or dovecote. In these cases, presumptive ownership — which derives from regular use of the property over the course of three years — can help settle the matter. Rashbam (at this point in the tractate commenting in place of his grandfather Rashi) clarifies that this presumption only works if it’s accompanied by an explanation of how one acquired the property. For example: If someone claims a field is theirs, and I respond by proving that I’ve worked it continuously for three years and, in addition, claim that they sold it to me but I lost the document, then I am believed — even in the absence of a deed of sale. The presumption is that if this property weren’t really mine, I wouldn’t have been allowed to work it and benefit from its produce for this long.

Not all properties, however, are worked continuously. The mishnah continues:

With regard to a non-irrigated field (i.e., one that is watered by rain), its presumption of ownership is established in three years, but not from day to day. 

Fields that rely on seasonal rain generally lie fallow for parts of the year. It doesn’t make sense, therefore, to make someone prove that they’ve worked it daily for three years, since it is generally worked only in certain months.

Of course, this ambiguity cries out for quantification. Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yishmael dispute exactly how we calculate “three years, but not from day to day”:

Rabbi Yishmael says: Three months of possession in the first year, three months of possession in the last year, and 12 months of possession in the middle, which are 18 months. 

Rabbi Akiva says: A month of possession in the first year, and a month of possession in the last year, and 12 months of possession in the middle, which are 14 months.

Though they disagree on the details, both rabbis believe a combination of non-consecutive but significant usage over the course of three  years constitutes a presumptive claim to non-irrigated fields.

Rabbi Yishmael makes a caveat to his statement:

Rabbi Yishmael said: In what case is this statement said? It is said with regard to a white field (i.e., a grain field). But with regard to a field of trees, once he gathered his produce, and then harvested his olives, and then gathered his figs, these three harvests are the equivalent of three years.

The standard for an orchard differs from that of a grain field. According to Rabbi Yishmael, once one has harvested three types of produce from an orchard, this is considered equivalent to three years of work and benefit. 

This opening mishnah gives us a good preview of how the chapter will unfold: Not only does it introduce us to the idea of chazakah as a means of proving one’s claim to property, but it acknowledges that what sort of actions constitute presumptive ownership can vary dramatically depending on the property in question. Given that different properties have different normative usages, we have to take into account each case’s particular material realities to determine the appropriate ruling.

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