The lifespan of a carob tree is 70 years, and the world fundamentally changes every 70 years

“So that you should tell in the ears of your children and grandchildren how I made a mockery of Mitzrayim and My signs that I put in them, and you should know that I am Hashem.” (Shemos 10:2)

R

av Chaim Volozhiner references a kabbalistic concept: “The secret of the carob tree, the world that is destroyed.” What does this mean?

Rav Yisroel Reisman explains that the lifespan of a carob tree is 70 years, and the world fundamentally changes every 70 years. Seventy years represents a significant period of time, during which values, mentalities, and philosophies are completely transformed (Rabbi Ozer Alport, Parsha Potpourri).

Every Leil Tishah B’Av, I tell my children the story of their Opa’s escape from Germany and their Bubby’s life from Meah Shearim to Brooklyn. I want my children to know their past and to know the nissim Hashem did for their grandparents. To me I’m transmitting a part of myself; to them it’s a piece of their history.

The Gemara (Taanis 23a) records that Choni Hame’agel slept for 70 years. Upon awaking, he went to the beis medrash, but nobody knew him, or believed he was the famed talmid chacham Choni. This left Choni depressed. Yet why would a great sage like Choni become despondent simply because people didn’t show him honor? And why didn’t Choni simply prove his identity by sharing his prodigious wisdom with the other scholars there?

Rav Reisman answers, based on Rav Chaim, that each generation has its own unique approach and connection to the Torah, suited for their strengths and personality. Therefore, Choni wasn’t able to discuss Torah with these chachamim, not because he had changed, but because 70 years later the Torah world had changed. Thus, Choni felt he had no place in this new world.

Recently, my brother sent me a picture of the boat that took my father and grandparents from Yokohama, Japan across the Pacific Ocean to safety on the US west coast. (It was sunk by the Americans three years later.) I was mesmerized, staring at the picture of this boat, imagining my father as a young boy, blond hair, blue eyes, staring at the water. (My son Shloime looks just like him.) I wondered what was going through his head, how much he understood of the danger, and the unknown. I wished I could ask him if he remembered this boat.

In our parshah, Hashem told Moshe that one of the purposes of the plagues was to make sure that we’ll relate to our sons and grandsons all the miracles that Hashem performed in Mitzrayim. However, it was common then to live 100 years or more and to merit having great-grandchildren and more. Why did Hashem limit the transmission of this information just to children and grandchildren?

Rav Reisman explains that although a person can relate to his sons and grandsons, he won’t be able to form the same connection with subsequent generations, who’ll be too far removed from him in mentality and style. Applying this insight to our generation, Rav Reisman adds that we’ve passed the 70-year anniversary of the end of the Holocaust. [Now, it’s 80 years.] Accordingly, our ability to connect to those important historical events and to those who survived them has also changed. With the passage of time, it’ll become increasingly difficult to relate to the unspeakable tragedies that took place. Before the flames of connection are completely extinguished, we must interact with the remaining survivors and internalize their message meaningfully, before it’s too late.

With the start of the Lebanese ceasefire, I tackled cleaning out our mamad — our safe room. At the beginning of the war, the Home Safety Committee warned all citizens to stock their mamad with three days’ worth of food and water. The crackers and cans had only stayed until Pesach; now it was the water’s turn.

As I schlepped out the bottles, I wondered if they held any significance to my kids. Do they remember this life-sustaining stock as we sat huddled in the room when sirens wailed? Do the bottles evoke fear for them, or is it just another piece of their lives? Obviously, this can’t compare to what happened in Europe during World War II, but I wonder if they’ll tell their children about this time of fear, of hatred, of uncertainty that we’re living through. Will they pass on this piece of our history that has affected everyone across the globe?

Moshe Yess’s thoughts echo in my brain: Who will be the witness for our children? Who will tell them stories, if not we?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 929)