From the Kingdom of Memory by Elie Wiesel

Jewish attitude toward the stranger and that of others who were taught to oppress, repress, or altogether eliminate the stranger they confronted. As for us, we have tried to resist the stranger
inside
ourselves. When others were complacent with themselves and ruthless to strangers, we did the opposite. We have been and are compassionate toward others—except for Amalek.
    We are compassionate even toward the enemy—except the enemy whose aim is to annihilate the Jew in us. That is the Jewish belief. If I must die, I shall, but I must, to the last minute, resist death—and resist the enemy who symbolizes death. To wish to die is the ultimate insult to our existence. That is why suicide is a sin: we may not allow the enemy inside us—the stranger inside us—to choose death on our behalf.
    And now, in conclusion, let us return to Abraham,who, on that dramatic and suspenseful night, learned for the first time what the future held for his children. He saw the fire and the smoke; the exile. He saw the darkness and he felt the anguish. On that night he shared the experiences of our generation. On that night he signed, on our behalf, the covenant—a symbol of endurance and survival.
    Our generation can best understand the terms of the covenant. We have seen the smoking furnace, we have seen the burning torch. And night has no end. And Abraham’s sacrificial offerings were not saved. Of all the divine promises, only one was fulfilled: We have not become strangers to our past. Now we are waiting—again—for the rest of the covenant to be implemented. We are waiting.…
    We asked earlier: Why did Abraham agree to its terms? Why didn’t he plead with God to save his descendants from exile? To spare them from slavery? What better time could there have been to ask and obtain compassion for his children? Why didn’t he say,
Ribono shel olam
, Master of the universe, the covenant must be agreed upon by both of us—and I shall not agree unless you accept my conditions? But then, God, too, causes us to wonder: Was that the proper moment to tell His partner that his children would be cast into exile? That they would become strangers? Wasn’t He worried that Abraham might become frightened and discouraged—to the point of refusing the terms of the covenant?
    Yes, Abraham was frightened: the text says so. But his fear didn’t last. Yes, he felt anguish when God first revealed that his descendants would become strangers. But then he heard the last part of the sentence: they will be strangers in foreign lands. Among strangers. Not at home. Not to themselves.
    And so Abraham felt reassured. He understood that the covenant contained a plan, a kind of blueprint for life in society. A society without strangers would be impoverished; to live only amongst ourselves, constantly inbreeding, never facing an outsider to make us question again and again our certainties and rules, would inevitably lead to atrophy. The experience of encountering a stranger—like the experience of suffering—is important and creative, provided we know when to step back.
    In His promise, God told Abraham that his children would always know how far they could go. They would be strangers only among strangers, to strangers, but not to Him. They would return to Him—as His children. And this too is part of the covenant.
    Exile will come to an end—everything does; exile will have a meaning—everything has, for God is also in exile, God is everywhere. God is not a stranger to His creation and surely not to His people.
El
is in
Israel:
God is in Jewish history, therefore in history. And man must not treat Him as a stranger—or be a stranger to Him.
    Of course, we are all strangers on this earth whichis older than we are—and yet it is up to us to be true to ourselves, to live our own lives and share them, to bear our truth and our fervor and share them—and then one day we may all gather around one who has not come as yet—but who
will
come.
    And on that day, when