The fifth son

Rabbi Eli Pink describes his continual desire to reach out to the fifth son of Passover and introduc

For different people Passover will always bring to mind different things. For many people, Passover will always mean the frantic cleaning of the house for any trace of chametz – leavened food that is prohibited on Passover. For others it will bring to mind the matzah price wars between the supermarkets and local grocery stores. And for some, the genial atmosphere of the family meals springs to mind. However for me, Passover, and especially the Seder meal, has always been about the fifth son.

Allow me to explain. Passover is the festival which commemorates the Exodus from Egypt and birth of the Jewish nation approximately 3300 years ago. In commanding us to teach our children about the Exodus, the Bible uses four distinct expressions, which the authors of the Haggadah, (the liturgical text used at the Pesach Seder), explained to refer to four types of children - the wise son, the wicked son, the simpleton and the clueless son – and gives the appropriate approach to each son.

However there is a fifth son, the lost son - the son that does not even reach the Passover Seder. The son who does not even know that there is a Passover Seder. It is this son that talks to me the most.

Having grown up in a family of educators, my father being a Headmaster, my mother a teacher and three of my brothers - community Rabbis, education has always been at the forefront of my life. Passover would exemplify this, with a cross-section of the Jewish community always present at my parents’ Seder table. As I grew up, I too yearned to reach out to the ‘fifth son’ and help unaffiliated Jews experience the beauty that is Passover.

My main field of operation in my early years as a Rabbi was the Ukraine. It was an incredible feeling to celebrate a Passover Seder in a former communist meeting hall, protected by members of the Ukrainian Interior Ministry Police (formally the K.G.B), helping 350 people regain their Jewish heritage that had been suppressed by the selfsame officers during the communist regime. It was heart-warming to hear tens of families, young and old, proclaim ‘Next Year in Jerusalem,’ the same declaration that Jews everywhere had been proclaiming for 2000 years, yet that a few short years earlier would have earned them a night-time visit for counter-revolutionary activity.

I remember my first communal Seder in the Crimean capital of Simferopol. We expected two hundred people, catered for three hundred, and hosted three hundred and fifty. From two hours before our published starting time, queues were beginning to form outside the doors and for three hours the hall was full of three hundred and fifty ‘fifth sons,’ relearning Jewish traditions.

Memories like these do not fade quickly. I keep them with me and they give me the impetus to carry the Passover message into the entire year, looking for the fifth son wherever Divine providence takes me.

Rabbi Eli Pink was Program Director for the Tzivos Hashem International Childrens’ Organisation in the Ukraine before settling in Leeds, England together with his wife Dabrushy and children Leah and Avremi. Rabbi Pink is the Director of Education for Lubavitch Foundation of Leeds.
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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times