Reflections
Reflections on the Chevron Massacre
It was a long and bitter Shabbos for the Jews of Chevron. Hours filled with fear, horror and dread as death ran amok outside; leaving behind not a trace of Jewish Chevron as it once was.
Avi Lazer 07/08/2009 10:00
From the time the Jewish nation settled in the Holy Land, the city of Chevron was never empty of Jewish settlers. Throughout all the generations and eras - whether in growth or destruction, progress or decline - the flame of a Jewish presence by the graves of our holy forefathers in Chevron was never extinguished.
For hundreds of years the Jews lived in relative peace side by side with their Arab neighbours in Chevron, and no one dared to harm them. That was until the bitter and fateful day of the massacre - Shabbos Kodesh, 18th Menachem Av Tarpat - 5689 (1929), when the holy residents of the settlement were slaughtered and every trace of the community wiped out. No remnants remained in this city where David once camped; where our holy forefathers found their eternal rest.
The devastating results of the Tarpat Massacres were felt mainly in Chevron, but not only there. Incidents cropped up in various other cities across the country. The unrest began on Friday – 17th Av. With the conclusion of a fiery sermon delivered by Jerusalem Mufti Hag Amin Al-husseini on the Temple Mount, a mob of bloodthirsty Muslims armed with knives converged on the Jewish neighbourhoods ‘Eshel Avraham’ and ‘Batei Nissen’; nineteen Jews were killed and Shuls and houses were destroyed and burnt. A similar number of fatalities were reported in Tel Aviv and Haifa, and two weeks later in Tzfat and the north.
Like a thunderbolt out of the blue, the quiet streets of Chevron were transformed into a seething cauldron. The Arab inciters in Jerusalem had done their work well, clandestinely spreading seeds of unease throughout the country. Waves of tension had always simmered beneath the surface in the capital and other major cities, but the Jews of Chevron considered their outpost to be the safest and most secure, and did not dream of preparing for the approaching carnage. A day before the riots began rumors spread through the city of a letter of incitement that had arrived from Jerusalem, but the Jews paid scant attention because in all the pogroms that had hit the country in previous years, Chevron had never been touched. Moreover, the local Arab dignitaries had always promised that quiet would reign in the city and no evil would befall the Jews.
Friday the 17th of Av, several hours before the onset of Shabbos, the Arabs began to show signs of agitation. Vehicles arrived from the direction of Jerusalem, bringing with them rumors of pillage in the capital, of Jews attacking their Arab neighbours. This was enough to arouse the masses, and a seething mob gathered and filled the streets. The Jews, gripped with a deathly foreboding, entered their homes and barricaded themselves there. The mobs began to advance on the Jewish Quarter, ignited with their thirst for Jewish blood.
Their first murderous stop was the hallowed doors of the Slabodka Yeshiva. Since it was Erev Shabbos, the Yeshiva was desolate aside for two lone individuals – the Yemenite caretaker and a student by the name of Shmuel Rosenholtz. The caretaker managed to jump into a pit of water and hide there, but the young Masmid, immersed in the intricacies of ‘Abaye and Rava’, was unaware of approaching disaster. He was struck first by a large stone aimed at his head; with difficulty he arose from his place and his body instantly became a sieve to the daggers of the advancing Arabs, whereupon he fell in a pool of his own blood on the threshold of the Yeshiva… The murderers were intent on continuing their rampage but a British Officer and a group of policemen held them back and restored a semblance of order to the streets.
Shabbos descended, and in the houses darkness prevailed. The Jews were closeted inside their homes, each in his own dark corner barely daring to breathe. At eight thirty in the evening the Mayor of the city announced that the next day all Jews were to stay in their houses, in which case he guarantees to protect them. The night passed quietly. Not a soul was seen on the streets. From time to time an armed policeman passed through the streets, disturbing the silence of the dark night. Several solitary families got up and wandered furtively to the ‘safe house’ – the home of Rav Eliezer Dan Slanim. He was the president o the ‘Anglo-Palestine Bank’ whose clientele was largely Arabic; he was also the only Jew on the Chevron municipality and carried arms.
Shabbos Kodesh 18th Av, six o’clock in the morning. The streets were quickly filling up with crowds of Arabs from Chevron and the environs that arrived inflamed with bloodlust and armed with a motley mix of weapons – knives, hatchets and stones. Some of them had succeeded in laying their hands on firearms and were equipped with pistols. Automobiles sped by one after the next, filled with scores of Arabs clinging to the roofs and brandishing daggers, inciting the masses with wild shouts and cries. There are no words that can adequately describe the stark terror of the Jews hiding within the inner rooms of their houses, unprotected as a lamb amongst a pack of hungry wolves.
The Arab mob began to advance and break into the Jewish houses with hatchets and bars. They attacked mercilessly, beating and murdering indiscriminately: men, women and children alike. They spared no one, and did not leave one house untouched – not even the Hadassa house, the medical center where Arabs had been treated with devotion for years by the Jewish staff. They entered remorselessly and destroyed it to its foundations, with the intention that medical aid be cut off to the wounded Jews. The dedicated pharmacist who had served the mainly Arab public for many years was murdered in the most savage manner. Afterwards they set the house on fire and it burned until nothing but ashes remained.
So they passed from house to house; murdering, pillaging and plundering anything they could lay their hands on. Finally they reached the home of Eliezer Dan Slanim, where over seventy people had now gathered in the hope of escaping the wrath of the approaching mob. As the tumult of the mob approached amid the sickening sound of iron bars and axes hammering against the door, the Jewish men inside rushed to the door to try to fend off the attackers. For a quarter of an hour the Arabs rammed the door, until a gaping hole appeared and shots were heard. For a few last moments the brave Jews tried to stave off the beasts, but under a barrage of bullets which left several wounded they were forced to retreat to the inner rooms and barricade themselves there. This too was futile – the murderers had found an entrance to the house via the roof and began a terrifying rampage of slaughter. The eminent Eliezer Dan Slanim began to shoot with his pistol, but a heavy iron pole landed on his head with a force of death, and he fell in a pool of blood… For a full half hour the sound of swords, hatchets and knives filled the house along with screams of pain and the cries of the dying. When they had vented their full fury on the house, they continued onto the next. The bloody campaign continued… the revered Rav of the town, the Gaon Rav Chanoch Chassoun hy’d too was not spared, and he was killed with a fatal blow whilst leaning over his holy Sefarim.
Thus the holy Jewish community of Chevron was destroyed, in a tempest of blood and fire. In the two hours it took for the murderers to storm through the houses, the ancient Jewish community came to a tragic end.
As the terrible day wound to a close, the numerous wounded were brought to the local police station, which by then resembled a large slaughterhouse. Scores of people lay stretched out over the ground in pools of blood, moaning with their last drops of strength and crying out for help. The floor was covered with a layer of blood; several of the victims died there of their wounds. On Sunday towards evening fifteen Jewish vehicles arrived from Jerusalem and transferred the wounded to hospitals there, and later the dead were brought to the cemetery. At first the victims were laid out in the field in rows, so as to identify them. This was one of the most heartrending scenes ever witnessed by the assembled Chevra Kadisha; many of the victims were almost unidentifiable. A new day dawned, the sun arose, and the graves had not yet been filled… sixty Jews buried in the city of our fore-fathers. Seven of the wounded who had clung to life until they arrived in Jerusalem, did not merit to be buried in the city of the Avos.
In letters red with blood and fire this dark page has been engraved in Jewish history, a memorial to the days of yore in Chevron; A lament for the sixty-seven holy souls who were slaughtered and killed with unimaginable savagery on the 17th and 18th of Menachem Av, at the hands of our ancient enemies.
For hundreds of years the Jews lived in relative peace side by side with their Arab neighbours in Chevron, and no one dared to harm them. That was until the bitter and fateful day of the massacre - Shabbos Kodesh, 18th Menachem Av Tarpat - 5689 (1929), when the holy residents of the settlement were slaughtered and every trace of the community wiped out. No remnants remained in this city where David once camped; where our holy forefathers found their eternal rest.
The devastating results of the Tarpat Massacres were felt mainly in Chevron, but not only there. Incidents cropped up in various other cities across the country. The unrest began on Friday – 17th Av. With the conclusion of a fiery sermon delivered by Jerusalem Mufti Hag Amin Al-husseini on the Temple Mount, a mob of bloodthirsty Muslims armed with knives converged on the Jewish neighbourhoods ‘Eshel Avraham’ and ‘Batei Nissen’; nineteen Jews were killed and Shuls and houses were destroyed and burnt. A similar number of fatalities were reported in Tel Aviv and Haifa, and two weeks later in Tzfat and the north.
Like a thunderbolt out of the blue, the quiet streets of Chevron were transformed into a seething cauldron. The Arab inciters in Jerusalem had done their work well, clandestinely spreading seeds of unease throughout the country. Waves of tension had always simmered beneath the surface in the capital and other major cities, but the Jews of Chevron considered their outpost to be the safest and most secure, and did not dream of preparing for the approaching carnage. A day before the riots began rumors spread through the city of a letter of incitement that had arrived from Jerusalem, but the Jews paid scant attention because in all the pogroms that had hit the country in previous years, Chevron had never been touched. Moreover, the local Arab dignitaries had always promised that quiet would reign in the city and no evil would befall the Jews.
Friday the 17th of Av, several hours before the onset of Shabbos, the Arabs began to show signs of agitation. Vehicles arrived from the direction of Jerusalem, bringing with them rumors of pillage in the capital, of Jews attacking their Arab neighbours. This was enough to arouse the masses, and a seething mob gathered and filled the streets. The Jews, gripped with a deathly foreboding, entered their homes and barricaded themselves there. The mobs began to advance on the Jewish Quarter, ignited with their thirst for Jewish blood.
Their first murderous stop was the hallowed doors of the Slabodka Yeshiva. Since it was Erev Shabbos, the Yeshiva was desolate aside for two lone individuals – the Yemenite caretaker and a student by the name of Shmuel Rosenholtz. The caretaker managed to jump into a pit of water and hide there, but the young Masmid, immersed in the intricacies of ‘Abaye and Rava’, was unaware of approaching disaster. He was struck first by a large stone aimed at his head; with difficulty he arose from his place and his body instantly became a sieve to the daggers of the advancing Arabs, whereupon he fell in a pool of his own blood on the threshold of the Yeshiva… The murderers were intent on continuing their rampage but a British Officer and a group of policemen held them back and restored a semblance of order to the streets.
Shabbos descended, and in the houses darkness prevailed. The Jews were closeted inside their homes, each in his own dark corner barely daring to breathe. At eight thirty in the evening the Mayor of the city announced that the next day all Jews were to stay in their houses, in which case he guarantees to protect them. The night passed quietly. Not a soul was seen on the streets. From time to time an armed policeman passed through the streets, disturbing the silence of the dark night. Several solitary families got up and wandered furtively to the ‘safe house’ – the home of Rav Eliezer Dan Slanim. He was the president o the ‘Anglo-Palestine Bank’ whose clientele was largely Arabic; he was also the only Jew on the Chevron municipality and carried arms.
Shabbos Kodesh 18th Av, six o’clock in the morning. The streets were quickly filling up with crowds of Arabs from Chevron and the environs that arrived inflamed with bloodlust and armed with a motley mix of weapons – knives, hatchets and stones. Some of them had succeeded in laying their hands on firearms and were equipped with pistols. Automobiles sped by one after the next, filled with scores of Arabs clinging to the roofs and brandishing daggers, inciting the masses with wild shouts and cries. There are no words that can adequately describe the stark terror of the Jews hiding within the inner rooms of their houses, unprotected as a lamb amongst a pack of hungry wolves.
The Arab mob began to advance and break into the Jewish houses with hatchets and bars. They attacked mercilessly, beating and murdering indiscriminately: men, women and children alike. They spared no one, and did not leave one house untouched – not even the Hadassa house, the medical center where Arabs had been treated with devotion for years by the Jewish staff. They entered remorselessly and destroyed it to its foundations, with the intention that medical aid be cut off to the wounded Jews. The dedicated pharmacist who had served the mainly Arab public for many years was murdered in the most savage manner. Afterwards they set the house on fire and it burned until nothing but ashes remained.
So they passed from house to house; murdering, pillaging and plundering anything they could lay their hands on. Finally they reached the home of Eliezer Dan Slanim, where over seventy people had now gathered in the hope of escaping the wrath of the approaching mob. As the tumult of the mob approached amid the sickening sound of iron bars and axes hammering against the door, the Jewish men inside rushed to the door to try to fend off the attackers. For a quarter of an hour the Arabs rammed the door, until a gaping hole appeared and shots were heard. For a few last moments the brave Jews tried to stave off the beasts, but under a barrage of bullets which left several wounded they were forced to retreat to the inner rooms and barricade themselves there. This too was futile – the murderers had found an entrance to the house via the roof and began a terrifying rampage of slaughter. The eminent Eliezer Dan Slanim began to shoot with his pistol, but a heavy iron pole landed on his head with a force of death, and he fell in a pool of blood… For a full half hour the sound of swords, hatchets and knives filled the house along with screams of pain and the cries of the dying. When they had vented their full fury on the house, they continued onto the next. The bloody campaign continued… the revered Rav of the town, the Gaon Rav Chanoch Chassoun hy’d too was not spared, and he was killed with a fatal blow whilst leaning over his holy Sefarim.
Thus the holy Jewish community of Chevron was destroyed, in a tempest of blood and fire. In the two hours it took for the murderers to storm through the houses, the ancient Jewish community came to a tragic end.
As the terrible day wound to a close, the numerous wounded were brought to the local police station, which by then resembled a large slaughterhouse. Scores of people lay stretched out over the ground in pools of blood, moaning with their last drops of strength and crying out for help. The floor was covered with a layer of blood; several of the victims died there of their wounds. On Sunday towards evening fifteen Jewish vehicles arrived from Jerusalem and transferred the wounded to hospitals there, and later the dead were brought to the cemetery. At first the victims were laid out in the field in rows, so as to identify them. This was one of the most heartrending scenes ever witnessed by the assembled Chevra Kadisha; many of the victims were almost unidentifiable. A new day dawned, the sun arose, and the graves had not yet been filled… sixty Jews buried in the city of our fore-fathers. Seven of the wounded who had clung to life until they arrived in Jerusalem, did not merit to be buried in the city of the Avos.
In letters red with blood and fire this dark page has been engraved in Jewish history, a memorial to the days of yore in Chevron; A lament for the sixty-seven holy souls who were slaughtered and killed with unimaginable savagery on the 17th and 18th of Menachem Av, at the hands of our ancient enemies.
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