I Samuel 11

Hook

The low, resonant thrum of an oud string vibrates in the cool air of a Jerusalem courtyard, its microtones hanging suspended like incense. This is the sound of transition—the delicate, tension-filled space between the quiet pastures of a farmer and the blazing, spirit-gripped fire of a king.

In the Sephardic and Mizrahi tradition, the coronation of Saul is not merely a dusty chapter of political history; it is a living drama of communal unity, psychological transformation, and spiritual awakening, preserved in the majestic, modal melodies of our liturgy and the razor-sharp insights of our sages.

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Context

The Place: Aleppo, Safed, and Baghdad

Our journey through this text is guided by the intellectual and musical giants of the Fertile Crescent and the Levant. We stand in the great study houses of Aleppo (Aram Soba)—where the biblical text was guarded with unmatched precision via the Keter Aram Soba (the Aleppo Codex)—and the mystical alleyways of sixteenth-century Safed, where Spanish exiles and local Middle Eastern Jews (Musta'arabim) fused Torah study with cosmic song.

The Era: The Ottoman Golden Age to the Late 19th Century

This was an era of intense cross-pollination. Sages like Rabbi Moshe Alshich (the "Holy Alshich," 1508–1593) lived in a world where the Hebrew language was treated as a living, breathing palace of secrets, while later commentators like the Malbim (Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser, 1809–1879), though writing in Europe, became deeply revered in Sephardic lands for his systematic, hyper-precise grammatical analyses that mirrored the classic Andalusian linguistic tradition.

The Community: The Syrian and Iraqi Diasporas

For centuries, the Jewish communities of Syria (both the Halabi of Aleppo and the Shami of Damascus) and Iraq (the ancient Babylonian community) lived in close proximity to the classical Arab musical world. They did not merely tolerate this musical environment; they sanctified it. They developed a sophisticated system wherein the weekly Torah portion and its accompanying Haftarah (prophetic reading) were matched to a specific Maqam (a classical Middle Eastern melodic mode) that reflected the emotional and spiritual themes of the text.

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Text Snapshot

To understand the dramatic turning point of Saul's monarchy, we look to the opening and closing movements of I Samuel 11, where the threat of national humiliation is transformed into a triumphant renewal of the kingdom.

Nahash the Ammonite marched up and besieged Jabesh-gilead. All the people of Jabesh said to Nahash, “Make a pact with us, and we will serve you.” But Nahash the Ammonite answered them, “I will make a pact with you on this condition, that every man’s right eye be gouged out; I will make this a humiliation for all Israel.” ... Samuel said to the people, “Come, let us go to Gilgal and there inaugurate the monarchy.” So all the people went to Gilgal, and there at Gilgal they declared Saul king before God. I Samuel 11:1-2, 14-15

   [Ammonite Siege of Jabesh-Gilead] ──> Demands Mutilation & Humiliation
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   [Saul in the Field with Oxen] ──────> Gripped by the Spirit of God (Ruach Elokim)
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   [The Call to Arms (Oxen Cut)] ──────> National Awakening & Unity
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   [Triumphant Victory at Bezek] ──────> Mercy to Detractors
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   [Coronation at Gilgal] ─────────────> Kingdom Renewed through Joy & Song

Unpacking the Commentary: Tribal Connections and Psychological Shifts

To fully appreciate this narrative, we must examine it through the lens of our great commentators, who parse every word to reveal the deep psychological and historical undercurrents of the text.

The Malbim, in his commentary on I Samuel 11:1, raises three fundamental questions that get to the heart of the geopolitical tension:

השאלות: למה עלה נחש אז על יושבי גלעד דוקא? לאיזה תכלית רצה לנקור עיני העם הזה? ואיך התרצה להמתין שבעה ימים שיכינו עצה וגבורה למלחמה?

“The questions: Why did Nahash march specifically against the inhabitants of Gilead at that time? For what purpose did he desire to gouge out the right eyes of this nation? And how did he agree to wait seven days, allowing them to prepare counsel and strength for war?”

To answer the first question, the Malbim reveals a fascinating web of family alliances and tribal history in his commentary on I Samuel 11:1:2:

כפי הנראה התקנא נחש על שהמליכו ישראל מלך, ורצה לתגר בו מלחמה, לכן עלה על אנשי יביש גלעד, כי בני בנימין לקחו נשיהם (אחר מעשה של פלגש בגבעה) מבנות יביש גלעד, ומסתמא התישבו שמה מבני בנימין, כי את אנשי יביש הרגו, והבנות ירשו נחלת אבותיהן, ולכן עלה עליהם באשר הם משפחת המלך ומחותניו...

“It appears that Nahash was envious that Israel had crowned a king, and he wanted to provoke a war with him. Therefore, he marched against the men of Jabesh-Gilead, because the children of Benjamin had taken their wives (after the incident of the Concubine of Gibeah Judges 21) from the daughters of Jabesh-Gilead. Presumably, some of the Benjaminites had settled there... Therefore, he marched against them because they were the family of the king and his in-laws.”

This is a brilliant historical synthesis. Nahash does not strike at random; he strikes at the soft underbelly of Saul’s own tribal network. He targets Jabesh-Gilead because they are Saul’s kin. By humiliating them, he humiliates the brand-new king of Israel before Saul has even had a chance to establish his court.

But what of the bizarre, cruel demand to gouge out their right eyes? The Ralbag (Rabbi Levi ben Gershon, 1288–1344), writing with the characteristic rationalism of the medieval Provençal-Sephardic school, explains the strategic and psychological cruelty of this term:

...והוא לאכזריותו לא הסכים לקחת מהם מס אלא שינקר להם כל עין ימין להשים זה הענין חרפה על כל ישראל שלחולשתם הלכו ויצטרכו לכרות ברית עמו וזה האופן אשר בו מהזרות והקושי הרבה.

“...And he, in his cruelty, did not agree to take a tribute tax from them, but rather insisted on gouging out every right eye to place this matter as a disgrace upon all of Israel—showing that in their weakness, they had to make a covenant with him. This condition is filled with extreme strangeness and harshness.”

The gouging of the right eye was not merely a physical mutilation; it was a tactical neutralization. In ancient warfare, a soldier held his shield in his left hand, covering his left eye, and looked out at the enemy with his right eye. To gouge out the right eye was to render a man permanently useless in battle, forever dependent and subjugated.

Yet, why did Nahash grant them a seven-day respite? The commentaries suggest that Nahash was so arrogant, so confident in Israel’s fragmentation, that he believed no savior would arise. He wanted the news to travel throughout the land to prove that the newly crowned king, Saul, was powerless to save his own flesh and blood.

This brings us to the profound spiritual insight of Rabbi Moshe Alshich in his work Marot HaTzoveot:

הנה שאול הלך אל ביתו סר וזעף כבעל הבית א׳ משולל אדר מלכות על כן מה׳ יצא ימשך ענין נחש מלך בני עמון למען יראו הצלחה ע״י שאול ויחשיבוהו אחרי כן כאשר היה.

“Behold, Saul had gone to his home, dejected and downcast, like an ordinary homeowner devoid of the mantle of majesty. Therefore, from God did this matter of Nahash, king of the children of Ammon, unfold—so that they would witness success through Saul, and esteem him afterward as he truly deserved to be.”

The Alshich reframes the crisis. The terrifying invasion of Nahash was not an administrative failure of the Divine court; it was a catalyst. Saul, in his profound humility, had shrunk back from his calling. He had returned to his oxen, hiding from the grand destiny Samuel had anointed him for. God brought about this national emergency to pull Saul out of the fields, to kindle the Ruach Elokim (the Spirit of God) within him, and to force the nation to unite under his banner.

And when the messengers returned with the news, Saul used a brilliant, desperate tactical move. As the Malbim notes on I Samuel 11:10:

מחר נצא... והיה מאמר משותף כי כוונו באמת שיצאו להלחם בם.

“‘Tomorrow we will come out...’ This was a double entendre (a shared, ambiguous statement), for they truly intended to come out to fight them, though the Ammonites believed they meant to surrender.”

Through courage, tactical brilliance, and sudden spiritual fire, Saul rescues his kin, unites the tribes, and secures his throne.

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Minhag/Melody

The Soul of Maqam Rast: The Sound of Kingship

In the Sephardic and Mizrahi world, particularly within the Syrian (Halabi) and Jerusalem-Sephardic traditions, the study of Torah is inseparable from the study of the Maqamat (the classical Middle Eastern modal system). We do not read the text in a vacuum; we sing it. And the melody we choose is not arbitrary—it is an exegetical tool, a musical commentary that unlocks the emotional landscape of the verses.

For a text that deals with the establishment of the monarchy, the triumph of the king, and the alignment of the nation under divine law, our tradition calls for Maqam Rast.

Maqam Rast Scale:
C  ──  D  ──  E½♭  ──  F  ──  G  ──  A  ──  B½♭  ──  C
              [The Quarter-Tone: The Heart of the Mode]

Rast is a Persian word meaning "truth," "right," or "straight." It is the mother of all maqamat, the foundational mode from which the others flow. It is majestic, stable, authoritative, and deeply grounded. When a Hazzan (cantor) chants the prayers or the Haftarah in Maqam Rast, they are evoking the grand, orderly structure of creation and the re-establishment of righteous leadership.

The Anatomy of Maqam Rast

To understand the power of Rast, one must understand its structure. It begins on the note C (or its equivalent in the cantor’s range) and ascends with a proud, measured stride. What makes Rast unique to the Western ear is its use of the quarter-tone (or microtone)—specifically, the half-flat E (E-half-flat) and the half-flat B (B-half-flat).

These are not notes that can be played on a standard piano; they exist in the cracks between the keys. They require the human voice or a fretless instrument like the oud or violin to find them.

• The half-flat note does not sound unstable; rather, in Maqam Rast, it sounds incredibly warm, ancient, and grounded. It sits precisely between the bright optimism of the major scale and the solemn introspection of the minor scale.
• This balance is the musical embodiment of the Jewish monarchy: a king must be powerful and majestic (the major elements), yet humble and acutely aware of his own human limitations before God (the minor elements).

The Syrian Shabbat Maqam System

In the Syrian Jewish community of Aleppo, this musical tradition was codified into a weekly cycle. Every Shabbat, the entire liturgy of the morning service (Shacharit and Musaf) is sung in a specific Maqam that matches the theme of the weekly Torah portion.

If the Torah portion of the week deals with themes of creation, lawgiving, or the establishment of the covenant, the community sings in Maqam Rast.

Imagine entering the Great Synagogue of Aleppo on such a Shabbat. The Hazzan does not merely sing the prayers; he improvises long, soaring vocal solos known as Mawwal, weaving the microtones of Rast through the ancient words of the Nishmat or the Kedushah. The congregation, well-versed in the musical modes since childhood, joins in, their voices rising together in perfect, microtonal harmony.

[Hazzan's Mawwal (Improvisation)] ──> Sets the Spiritual Atmosphere in Rast
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[Congregational Response] ─────────> Harmonized Chanting of the Liturgy
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[Reading of the Prophets] ─────────> Chanted with the Majestic Yerushalmi Trope

The Fiery Shift: Maqam Hijaz

However, a master Hazzan is also a dramatist. As he chants the story of Saul in I Samuel 11, he will not stay strictly within Maqam Rast. When he reaches verse 6—“When he heard these things, the spirit of God gripped Saul and his anger blazed up”—the cantor may skillfully modulate into Maqam Hijaz.

Hijaz is the mode of intense emotion, fire, longing, and grief. It features a wide, dramatic interval (an augmented second) between its second and third notes, creating a sound that is haunting, urgent, and deeply passionate.

By shifting from the stable, royal tones of Rast to the fiery, dramatic peaks of Hijaz, the cantor allows the congregation to feel the physical sensation of Saul’s sudden transformation. We do not just hear that Saul was angry; we feel the heat of his anger vibrating in our chest. Then, as the battle is won and the people gather at Gilgal to offer sacrifices of well-being, the cantor smoothly guides the melody back into the triumphant, peaceful resolution of Rast.

The Legacy of the Baqashot

This musical sophistication is kept alive through the practice of the Baqashot (petitions). Originating in Safed in the sixteenth century under the influence of the Kabbalists of Rabbi Isaac Luria’s circle, the Baqashot became a beloved weekly ritual in the Syrian, Moroccan, and Jerusalemite communities.

During the long, cold winter Friday nights, hours before the sun rises, the community gathers in the synagogue. In the dim candlelight, they sing complex suites of Piyutim (liturgical poems) structured around the Maqamat.

These are not simple sing-alongs; they are highly demanding classical compositions. Through the Baqashot, generations of Sephardic and Mizrahi Jews—from simple laborers to great rabbis—became virtuosos of the voice and the spirit, learning how to express every shade of human emotion, from the terror of Nahash’s siege to the joy of Saul’s coronation, through the sacred medium of song.

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Contrast

The Sephardic vs. Ashkenazic Approach to Prophetic Cantillation

To understand the unique texture of the Sephardic and Mizrahi heritage, it is helpful to place its practices alongside those of our Ashkenazic brethren. While we share the exact same biblical text, our cultural expressions, musical systems, and communal dynamics create beautifully distinct spiritual experiences.

Dimension	Sephardic / Mizrahi Tradition	Ashkenazic Tradition
Musical System	Modal & Fluid (Maqamat): Melodies change weekly based on the themes of the text; utilizes microtones and vocal improvisation.	Fixed & Diatonic: Melodies are based on a standardized, diatonic scale (mostly minor/major keys) that remains constant throughout the year.
Cantillation Tone	Majestic, Rhythmic, & Declarative: The trope (T'amim) is bright, flowing, and designed to move the narrative forward with dramatic momentum.	Plaintive, Melancholic, & Introspective: The trope is highly stylized, often featuring long, expressive, weeping phrases.
Congregational Role	Active & Communal: The congregation frequently chants key verses aloud together; the synagogue is a collective choir.	Receptive & Listening: The reader (Ba'al Koreh) chants the text while the congregation listens in silent meditation.
Liturgy Integration	Unified Theme: The musical mode of the Shabbat morning prayers is directly aligned with the theme of the Torah/Haftarah reading.	Differentiated Theme: The prayers follow a standard seasonal motif, while the Haftarah is read with its own independent, fixed melody.

The Philosophy of the Melody

In the Ashkenazic tradition, the chanting of the Haftarah is a moment of deep, solemn introspection. The melody (the Haftarah trope) is beautiful, but it is generally fixed. Whether the prophet is weeping over the destruction of Jerusalem or rejoicing in the ultimate redemption, the same basic melodic formulas are applied. This creates a sense of timeless, historic weight—the voice of the prophets echoing across centuries of exile.

In the Sephardic and Mizrahi world, the melody is a living, breathing commentary on the immediate emotional state of the character. The Hazzan is expected to be a translator of the soul.

If Saul is hiding among the baggage, the Hazzan’s voice drops into a quiet, hesitant mode (perhaps Maqam Saba, the mode of pain and humility). If Saul is rallying the nation with a fierce call to arms, the voice rises into the bold, military intervals of Maqam Jarka or Ajam.

The melody is not a passive vessel for the words; it is the active partner of the text, painting the story in vivid, sonic colors.

Communal Dynamics: The Synagogue as a Living Choir

There is also a profound difference in the social dynamic of the synagogue. In many Ashkenazic communities, the reading of the Haftarah is a solo performance. The congregation sits in respectful silence, listening to the young Bar Mitzvah boy or the designated reader.

In a traditional Sephardic or Mizrahi synagogue—whether in Brooklyn, Jerusalem, Casablanca, or Milan—the reading of the Prophets is a highly interactive, communal event.

• When the reader reaches a pivotal verse, such as Saul’s declaration in I Samuel 11:13—“Nobody shall be put to death this day! For this day God has brought victory to Israel”—the entire congregation will swell, chanting the verse aloud in unison before the reader can continue.
• The synagogue is not divided into a "performer" and an "audience." It is a collective, democratic choir, where the boundaries between the leader and the community are beautifully blurred. The reading of the text is a shared act of re-enactment, where we all stand together at Gilgal, crowning our king.

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Home Practice

The beauty of the Sephardic and Mizrahi tradition is that it is not confined to the synagogue or the academy. It is a heritage designed to be tasted, smelled, and sung within the walls of the home. Here is a beautiful, accessible practice that anyone can adopt to bring the spirit of this heritage into their daily life.

The Practice of the Pizmon: Sanctifying the Secular Tune

One of the most powerful contributions of the Syrian Jewish community is the concept of the Pizmon (plural: Pizmonim). A Pizmon is a sacred song, written in Hebrew, that is set to a popular secular melody—often from classical Arabic, Turkish, Greek, or Spanish music.

The great Sephardic poets, most notably Rabbi Israel Najara (1555–1625), realized that people loved the beautiful, emotional melodies they heard in the streets and marketplaces. Rather than banning these foreign tunes, the sages did something revolutionary: they "redeemed" them.

They wrote exquisite Hebrew lyrics—filled with love for God, yearning for Jerusalem, and deep biblical allusions—that fit the rhythm and meter of the popular tunes perfectly.

You can bring this beautiful, elevating practice into your own home using the following steps:

[Step 1: Choose a Melody] ──> Select a song that evokes the right emotional state
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[Step 2: Select a Text] ────> Match it with a sacred Hebrew verse or prayer
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[Step 3: Sing at the Table] ─> Elevate the mealtime into a space of holy song

Step 1: Choose a Melody of Meaning

Select a song that you love—a melody that moves you, evokes joy, or brings a sense of peace. It could be a classical piece, a folk song, or even a contemporary melody that has a majestic, soulful quality.

Step 2: Select a Sacred Text

Choose a short Hebrew prayer, a verse from I Samuel 11, or a psalm that matches the emotional tone of the melody. For example, if you chose a grand, triumphant melody, you might pair it with the words:

כִּי הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה ה׳ תְּשׁוּעָה בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל

“Ki hayom asah Adonai t'shuah b'Yisrael”

“For this day God has brought victory to Israel.” I Samuel 11:13

If you chose a gentle, peaceful melody, you might pair it with the classic Shabbat table song, Shalom Aleichem.

Step 3: Sing at Your Table

At your next Shabbat dinner or festive meal, gather your family or friends and teach them this new pairing. Explain the history of the Pizmonim—how our ancestors refused to separate the beauty of the world from the holiness of the Torah.

By singing holy words to a melody you love, you are doing exactly what the sages of Aleppo and Safed did: you are elevating the mundane, sanctifying the cultural landscape around you, and turning your dining table into an altar of divine song.

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Takeaway

The story of Saul’s rise in I Samuel 11 is a timeless reminder that leadership and unity are not born in moments of ease, but in how we respond to the crises that threaten to divide us.

When Nahash the Ammonite sought to humiliate Israel by gouging out their right eyes, he was trying to blind them to their own collective power and destiny. But through the sudden, fiery awakening of Saul and the unified response of the tribes, that threat became the very engine of their redemption.

The Sephardic and Mizrahi heritage is a living testament to this resilience. Through centuries of migration, exile, and cultural transition, our communities did not lose their sight. They did not allow their unique voices to be silenced. Instead, they took the rich, complex musical and intellectual traditions of the lands they inhabited—the deep philosophies, the intricate Maqamat, the soaring poetry—and wove them into a magnificent, microtonal tapestry of faith.

When we study their commentaries, sing their melodies, and adopt their practices, we are not just preserving the past. We are actively participating in a living, breathing tradition that knows how to find the sacred in every corner of the world, transforming the weeping of Gibeah into the triumphant, majestic song of Gilgal.