הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן | “A People That Dwells Apart” — a ritual after withdrawing from those who left us alone, by Rabbi Dr. Andrea Zanardo

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12 July 2026 under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike (CC BY-SA) 4.0 International copyleft license

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Hateful Intolerance, Prejudice, and Bigotry

Tags:

2023-2025 Israel–Hamas war, 21st century C.E., 58th century A.M., apotropaic rituals of protection, combating antisemitism, community support, English vernacular prayer, הבדלות havdalot, Mental Health

I wrote this ritual in 2026 for Jews who have felt compelled to withdraw from friendships, organisations, or social and religious environments in which antisemitism, hostility towards Israel, or the dismissal of Jewish grief had become tolerated or normalised. It is intended particularly for those who have already established a practical boundary—by leaving, blocking, unfollowing, or ending a relationship—and who need a Jewish ritual through which to acknowledge the resulting grief and affirm their dignity, solidarity, and continued connection to the Jewish people.

Contribute a translation	Source (English)
	Before the ritual begins, the practical boundary has already been made: evidence saved if necessary; the message reported if necessary; the person blocked, muted, unfollowed, deleted, or left behind. Objects, all optional: a Havdalah candle; spices; wine or grape juice; a small piece of paper. You may wish to write on the piece of paper the name of the person, the relationship, or the illusion you are releasing. Find a quiet space. Turn towards Jerusalem. You may wish to begin the ritual by placing your phone face down.
	Lighting the Candle — the first fire after loneliness
	One of these two paragraphs:
	“When the sun set at the end of the first Shabbat, darkness began to settle in. Adam was afraid. He asked himself: perhaps the serpent will now come to attack me? What did the Holy One do? God prepared two flints for him. Adam struck them against each other and light came forth. Then Adam blessed the light.” (Bereshit Rabbah 11.2)
	I light this flame before I sit with the loss. May this flame help me see who remained, who left, who minimised, who called contempt an opinion. This light marks the boundary between my tent and what can no longer enter it.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֵֹרא מְאוֹרֵי הָאֵשׁ׃	Barukh Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, borei me’orei ha-esh. Blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, creator of the lights of fire.
	Light the candle.
קְרִיעָה	Qeri‘ah — the tear
	Like many Jews, I too have been betrayed. Like many Jews, I too have been left alone. Like many Jews, I too have endured selective compassion. Like many Jews, I too have heard hatred excused. Like many Jews, I too have found myself standing before closed doors. Like many Jews, my heart too is torn. Like many Jews, I too name the loss.
בָּרוּךְ דַּיַּן הָאֱמֶת׃	Barukh Dayan ha-Emet. Blessed is the True Judge.
	Tear the paper.
שִׁבְעָה	Shivah — sitting with the loss
	One may remove a shoe, sit on cushions if possible, or sit on a low chair. If none of this is possible, simply sit in stillness for a few moments.
הַבֵּיט יָמִין וּרְאֵה וְאֵין־לִי מַכִּיר אָבַד מָנוֹס מִמֶּנִּי אֵין דּוֵֹרשׁ לְנַפְשִׁי׃ (תהלים קמב:ה)	Habit yamin u-re’eh, ve-ein li makir; avad manos mimmeni, ein doresh le-nafshi. Look to the right and see: there is no one who knows me. Refuge has failed me; no one cares for my soul. (Psalms 142:5)
	You may want to add:
	I sit with this loss, not to mourn anyone else, but to mourn the part of myself that believed it was accompanied. I mourn the illusion that certain words would never be spoken. I mourn the illusion that, when hatred of Jews appeared, I would not be left alone. Like David in the cave, I look to the right and see that there are moments when no one seems to know me, no refuge remains, no one asks after my soul.
	Pause for a moment of silence. Then say:
	I will not sit for seven days. I will not give this wound that much power. But I acknowledge that there has been a loss. May God comfort the part of me that believed it was not alone.
	These passages from “Lekhah Dodi” (1529) by Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz of Safed may then be read or sung:
רַב לָךְ שֶׁבֶת בְּעֵמֶק הַבָּכָא הִתְנַעֲרִי מֵעָפָר קוּמִי׃	Rav lakh shevet be-emeq ha-bakha. Hitna’ari me-afar qumi. Long enough have you sat in the valley of tears. […] Shake yourself from the dust.
	Rising — strength and dignity
	May I rise with strength. May I rise with dignity.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם זוֹקֵף כְּפוּפִים׃	Barukh Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, zoqef kefufim. Blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, who raises those who are bowed down.
	The wound is real. But it will not govern my house.
	Rise.
	The Curse Turns Into Blessing
הִנֵּה בָרֵךְ לָקַחְתִּי וּבֵרֵךְ וְלֹא אֲשִׁיבֶנָּה	Hinéh varékh lakaḥti; u-vérékh ve-lo ashivennah. I have received a command to bless: He has blessed, and I cannot reverse it.” (Numbers 23:20)
	One of the two following paragraphs:
	Even Balaam, who came to curse, became a witness. From a place of hostility came the words: this people is not absorbed into the nations’ account. I do not need the hostile gaze to bless me. And I remember: the curse does not have the final word.
	I did not want to be alone. I did not choose this solitude. Sometimes Israel dwells alone because others leave Israel alone. Sometimes a Jew discovers solitude not when enemies shout, but when friends grow quiet. But this solitude will not be my grave. It will become the boundary of my tent.
	A Litany of Enough
	One of the two following paragraphs:
	If I explained and you did not listen — dayenu. If I explained again and you asked me to justify myself — dayenu. If you saw Jewish grief and answered with suspicion — dayenu. If your friendship required my silence — dayenu.
	This is the moment of Hadar: not vanity, but dignity. I will not make myself smaller in order to be tolerated. My patience is not endless. My dignity is not negotiable. My tent is not a public square for contempt.
	The Modesty of Israel
מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל (במדבר כד:ה)	Mah tovu ohalekha Ya‘aqov, mishkenotekha Yisrael. How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel. (Numbers 24:5)
	The Talmud asks what Balaam saw. It answers: he saw that the entrances of Israel’s tents were not aligned with one another, so that one person did not look into the private space of another. From that restraint came the blessing: Mah tovu (Numbers 24:5) — “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob.” (Bava Batra 60a)
	The beauty of Israel’s tents was that every opening had restraint, protected from the gaze of another. My life, too, is a tent. My grief has a threshold. My Jewishness is not an open chamber into which others may enter to judge, minimise, or explain.
	My tent is smaller today. Some people no longer enter it. But it is more truthful, more guarded, more beautiful.
בְּשָׂמִים	Besamim — against the hostile eye
עַיִן הָרָע	‘Ayin hara names the hostile gaze: the gaze that stares at Jewish pain with suspicion; the gaze that turns Jewish vulnerability into an accusation; the gaze that demands endless explanation but refuses recognition. In many Jewish communities, especially among Sephardi and Mizraḥi Jews, the language of protection from ‘ayin hara — the evil or hostile eye — has been attached to Joseph.
	One of the following paragraphs:
בְּלִי עַיִן הָרַע בֵּן פֹּרָת יוֹסֵף	Bli ‘ayin hara. Bén porat Yosef. Without the evil eye. Joseph, fruitful beyond the eye.
יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ שֶׁלֹּא תִּשְׁלֹט בִּי עַיִן הָרָעָה וְשֶׁלֹּא תִּשְׁלֹט בְּאהֶֹל יִשְׂרָאֵל עַיִן שֶׁל שִׂנְאָה	Yehi ratson milfanekha she-lo tishlot bi ‘ayin hara‘ah, ve-she-lo tishlot be-ohel Yisrael ‘ayin shel sin’ah. May it be Your will that no evil eye have power over me, and that no eye of hatred have power over the tent of Israel.
	May I stand, like Joseph, beyond the hostile eye. May the eye that looks at Jewish grief with suspicion not define me. May the eye that turns Jewish fear into accusation not enter my tent. Let my breath return to me.
	Here you can smell the spices, or simply pause and breathe.
הַבְדָּלָה	Havdalah — extinguishing the candle
	Take the wine or grape juice. Extinguish the candle in it, or simply look at the flame and then cover it.
בָּרוּךְ הַמַּבְדִּיל בֵּין אוֹר לְחֹשֶׁךְ בֵּין אֱמֶת לְפַחַד בֵּין חֲבֵרוּת לִנְטִישָׁה בֵּין מַחֲלֹקֶת לְשִׂנְאָה בֵּין פֶּתַח לְפִרְצָה	Barukh ha-mavdil bein or le-ḥoshekh, bein emet le-faḥad, bein ḥaverut linetishah, bein maḥloket le-sin’ah, bein petaḥ le-firtsah. Blessed is the One who separates light from darkness, truth from fear, friendship from abandonment, disagreement from hatred, a doorway from a breach.
	The flame is extinguished. The boundary remains. The relationship ends. The blessing remains. The wound is real. But it will not govern my house.
מַה־טֹּבוּ	Mah Tovu — the tents still stand
מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל (במדבר כד:ה)	Mah tovu ohalekha Ya‘aqov, mishkenotekha Yisrael. How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel. (Numbers 24:5)
עוֹד לֹא אָבְדָה תִּקְוָתֵנוּ הַתִּקְוָה בַּת שְׁנוֹת אַלְפַּיִם לִהְיוֹת עַם חָפְשִׁי בְּאַרְצֵנוּ אֶרֶץ צִיּוֹן וִירוּשָׁלַיִם	Od lo avdah tiqvaténu, ha-tiqvah bat shnot alpayim, lihiyot ‘am ḥofshi be-artseinu, erets Tsiyon vi-Yerushalayim. Our hope is not yet lost, the hope of two thousand years: to be a free people in our land, the land of Ẓíōn and Jerusalem.^[1] Lines from Hatiqvah (1878) by Naphtali Herz Imber, the national anthem of the State of Israel.
	Conclusion
	Where a Jew was left alone, let me add solidarity. Where trust was diminished, let me add tsedaqah. Where the heart was closed, let the hand be opened. The wound does not have the last word.
עַם יִשְׂרָאֵל חַי	Am Yisrael Ḥai. The people of Israel lives.
	After the ritual, consider a donation to Israel, communal security, victims of terror, or your synagogue.

Notes

Notes
1	Lines from Hatiqvah (1878) by Naphtali Herz Imber, the national anthem of the State of Israel.

Andrea Zanardo

Rabbi Dr. Andrea Zanardo, PhD is the rabbi of Brighton & Hove Reform Synagogue, the largest synagogue in Sussex, UK. He studied in Jerusalem, Boston, and London, and has a particular interest in Jewish history, ritual, and the relationship between Judaism and contemporary life. In previous lives, he has been a DJ, a Marxist, and a social historian—though not always at the same time.

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