Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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16 M ASMID EDITORIAL EDUCATION, as has been stated time and again, is a preparation for life. Some men in public office have lately, upon the basis of this adage, advocated a radi- cal change in our present educational system. Literature, philosophy, and abstract sciences are to be banned from the colleges. The deck must be cleared for courses that shall train the students for a practical life. How to earn a livelihood, how to adapt oneself to society, to various financial, political and social con- ditions — these are the proper objects of a practical education. It is hardly necessary for students who have been brought up under the idealistic at- mosphere of religion to express a dissenting opinion. Practical life is a fraction only of the whole of life, which is essentially spiri- tual. A curriculum such as these extreme materialists propose would scarcely satisfy the real needs of culturally-minded young men. History, philosophy, poetry and even theoret- ical science, satisfy our thirst to know our past development and present environment; they also shape a finer man with a broad and healthy outlook upon life. STILL, is there nothing we can learn from this newest doctrine, even though we are out of accord with it as a whole? Is there nothing in the proposal that may be adopted even b y its opponents? The suggestion was undoubtedly born out of the conditions of our age. The need for reform may be exaggerated and the plan of reform be deformed, but there is no denial of the fact that there is a kernel of truth in the matter. What is the nature of the suggestion men- tioned? Its main features are that it disre- gards the spiritual side of man and stresses the materialistic side. Let us, then, after hav- ing discredited the first part of its attitude, re- tain from the second part whatever is not exaggerated, overestimated and magnified. We do not and cannot shut our eyes to practical realities; we cannot afford to ignore facts that stare us in the face. The fact is that the students of the Yeshiva are the prospective leaders of the great Jewish masses in America. Leadenship has always been the most difficult task one could under- take in the social and spiritual realms; it is doubly so in our own age when things are being re-evaluated and the rabbi ' s field of activity is constantly widening. The preparation for the spiritual aspect of the rabbi ' s prerequisite, is generally acknowl- edged satisfactory. Leadership, however, is quite another matter. This quality cannot be injected by either faculty or books; it must be developed and trained. The conscientious Yeshiva student must himself search out the opportunity and the occasion to assert his in- fluence among his peers, the Jewish youth. He should develop a genuine interest in hu- manitarian problems and in questions that face the Jewish world. He is advised to ob- serve the reaction of the people to issues with which they are confronted. He is to acquire first hand information about the spiritual and social phases of our society; he must study their weaknesses and their remedies. He must, in brief, train himself to be a leader of men. of the Jewish masses. It is not complete absorption in social life that we preach. The great majority of our time must still be devoted to the pursuit of our cultural studies. Yet no student who wishes to be well adapted to his call in life can afford to leave himself without a sound conception of what his vocation will demand of him. Clarification and crystallization of the subject can only be beneficial to him. There are enough organizations that would welcome the presence of Yeshiva students among them. Young Israel and the Mizrachi Hatzair are examples of organizations that are anxious to have as leading members stu- dents of the Yeshiva. These and other or- ganizations have shown their eagerness to be inspired by the intensive Jewish spirit that our students carry with them. Many a pro- minent rabbi has started his communal lead- ership in these organizations while still at- tending the Yeshiva; there are those of us now who are heart and soul devoted to Young Israel or some other movement of the Jewish youth. Our complaint is that there are not enough of us following this excellent example. It is by combining spiritual maturity with worldly sagacity that wc can hope to leave our mark.

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i Board of Editors I m m H tiLi :o Mantel, Editor in (Jiief % ' 0. ii W . , . M H Assjiiate H.riiturs jS H Abraham S. Guterman Joseph Kaminetsky ' % M Louis Engelberg j| W p % Hyman Muss, Business Manager % B. Gordon - I. Goldberg, l pists z -♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦•♦♦•♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦•♦♦♦ ; 1 ? ' IP 3v ' ' j 1. lir %sr Seated left to right Abraham S. Guterman, Hugo Mar tel, Hyman Muss Standing: I. Goldberg, Joseph Kaminetsky, Louis Engelberg, B. Gordon

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M A SMID 17 MY ISLE By Louis I sit and look far, down where still the white winter lingers, where still an unguent of soft, soothing snow covers the silent earth. I look at Gravesend Creek, shrivelled to map size, a trickling, muddy rivulet. I look at a vast stretch of barren land, a frozen coun- try, white and silent, winding westward from the cold shores of Coney Island to the hazy, morning sky-line, and there dissolving with air and earth into one deep, hazy golden sleep. Here and there, in that slumberous haze, beyond the buttes and furthermost foothills of this desolate land, burrowed into the vast unfeatured plain, stand a few odd, weather- beaten shacks. As the dark shadows fade with the passing night and return to their infernal abode, a weary figure leaves a humble hut, and treads these frozen fields, forlorn. Now it stoops, raises something from the cold ground. Now it comes closer and I can dis- cern some human characteristics. From my elevated position I see only relaxed womanly features, topped by a crowd of flowing white hair. Everything else is hazy, but even from the distance I seem to feel a steady, piercing gaze directed from a pair of sinister and pro- vocative eyes — eyes that tell of suffering and sacrifice, poverty and denial. The island is not wanting in these im- poverished slaves of mighty Hunger: the island cries with them. But they are lost from all consideration, all human sympathy. An urban associates the island only with gay lights, only with dance and frolic, only with filth and sin. The outrageous and deplorable condition shadowed by the dark blanket of destiny, he does not see, his heart does not understand . . . Towards the east lies the centre of the isle. Gay lights are now but a memory, for they have faded with the warmth of summer. The island is cold and quiet and only the tired waves break the silence as they meet the wait- ing shore. By day the sea is gilded with an azure flow of sunlight, by night it hides be- neath a blanket of silvery moonlight. By day one can see the slow majestic liners mak- ing their way towards the end of the sky. By night the stars are not the only twinkling Barishnikoff gems — the stately liners, coming into harbor, pass the narrows adorned with distant lights. Though winter rules the isle and the air is sullen and sad, my soul exalts to solemn thought and ethereal musing. When evening comes and a cold wind sweeps the solemnent air, I visit the cherished shores adorned with a winter robe of purest white, and I run along the coast, following with joy the waterline which, as the waters recede, is left stamped on the shore. When summer returns, and the languid sun begins to send from the rosy west her warming rays, the grade of nature fades from the isle. The profound peace is swept from the atmosphere and in place of harmony, comes havoc. The sea no longer holds its sway, and the air no more its peace. But all is not lost — to the west still lies that vast meadow, though its grass is now sere and yellow. The oak and maple trees point long shadowy fingers towards the motherly sky whose gentle breast feeds them fresh, life- giving rain. Though the sun is low, the plain shim- mers in the heat. Nowhere in that vast ex- panse is there a sign of life. You might be looking upon a dead world or a painted can- vas. I find myself a little grove, heavy with shade, and there I rest contented. There I lie, drawing pleasure and delight from the renascent and inspiring shades, and touched by the harmonious perfection of this myster- ious peace I fall to reminiscence — a mood of contemplation and understanding. The landscape seems to accentuate a natural atmo- sphere not yet contaminated by the fetid breath of civilization, a virgin atmosphere not yet seduced by the crushing and alien force of industrialism. Tears from the depth of some divine des- pair now well in my heart and gather to my eyes. Already I see an alien power crushing my isle. My trees are thrown to earth, my grove upset and destroyed. Huge machines, noisy men at work, the clang of shovels, the crash of dynamite — all take part in the orgy of destruction.