Arukh HaShulchan, Orach Chaim 296:17-297:7

Hook

Imagine a spice-scented room in the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem, or perhaps a sun-drenched courtyard in Djerba, where the air is thick with the scent of besamim (spices) and the rhythmic, guttural resonance of the Maqamat. As the sun dips below the horizon, the separation between the sacred and the profane—the Havdalah—is not merely a transition, but a dramatic performance of longing and hope. It is a moment where we stand at the threshold of a new week, clutching the braided candle, eyes reflecting the flickering flame, our souls tethered to the ancient verses that bridge the silence of the Shabbat with the hum of the coming days.

Context

The Geography of the Soul

The Sephardi and Mizrahi experience is a kaleidoscope of geographies. From the intellectual hubs of Cordoba and Toledo to the vibrant, bustling markets of Baghdad, Damascus, and Fez, our traditions are defined by a synthesis of deep legal scholarship and poetic emotional expression. We are the inheritors of the Geonim of Sura and Pumbedita, the philosophers of the Golden Age, and the mystics of Safed.

The Era of Synthesis

While the Arukh HaShulchan (Rabbi Yechiel Michel Epstein) provides a vital, expansive view of the law, our Sephardi/Mizrahi tradition often looks to the Shulchan Arukh of Rabbi Yosef Karo—a product of the 16th-century Levantine synthesis—as our primary anchor. We exist in a timeline where the legal rigor of the Halakhah is constantly softened and sweetened by the Piyut (liturgical poetry) of the Paytanim, who turned the complexities of the law into the melodies of the heart.

The Community of Continuity

Our communities are defined by Mesorah (tradition). Whether it is the rhythmic chanting of the Hazzanut or the meticulous care given to the Bsamim (spices) used during Havdalah, we view these practices not as static rules, but as living, breathing connections to our ancestors. We are a people who have carried our customs across continents, preserving them in the face of displacement and diaspora, keeping the flame of the tradition burning bright through the centuries.

Text Snapshot

The Arukh HaShulchan reminds us of the delicate balance in our transition from the holy to the mundane:

"One must be careful to smell the spices... and this is an old custom in Israel. The reason is because the soul is refreshed by the scent, for the additional soul (neshamah yeterah) departs at the conclusion of Shabbat, and the soul is saddened by its departure... and by the scent, the soul is comforted." (Adapted from Arukh HaShulchan, Orach Chaim 296:17)

This text captures the essence of our approach: we do not merely observe the law; we nurture the soul. The Arukh HaShulchan acknowledges that the transition out of Shabbat is a bereavement of sorts—the loss of the "additional soul"—and our practices are the gentle medicine we apply to soothe that transition.

Minhag/Melody

In the Sephardi and Mizrahi tradition, the Havdalah ceremony is not merely a legal requirement; it is a profound musical and sensory experience. The melody is the vessel through which the halakhah (law) flows. When we chant the Havdalah, we are not just reciting text; we are navigating the Maqamat, the ancient musical modes that define our emotional landscape.

Consider the Maqam Hijaz, often utilized during this time. It carries a sense of longing, a bittersweet nostalgia that perfectly encapsulates the mood of Motza'ei Shabbat. As the candle is lit, the melody rises and falls, mimicking the flicker of the flame. It is a sound that connects the listener to the dusty paths of the Atlas Mountains and the grand synagogues of Istanbul alike.

Our Minhagim (customs) regarding the spices are equally varied and deeply symbolic. In many North African communities, it is customary to use fresh myrtle (hadassim) or cloves, often held in intricate silver containers—b'samim boxes—that have been passed down through generations. These objects are not merely tools; they are heirlooms, physical manifestations of the sanctity of the home. The act of smelling the spices is a sensory bridge, a way to anchor the ephemeral holiness of Shabbat into the physical reality of the week to come.

Furthermore, the practice of Havdalah in our tradition is deeply communal. Even in the diaspora, the Hazzan (cantor) would often lead the community with a specific piyut like "Hamavdil." This piece, attributed to Rabbi Yitzhak ibn Giat, serves as a bridge, a poetic plea to the Almighty to separate the sacred from the profane, the light from the darkness. The melody is often haunting, designed to linger in the memory long after the candle is extinguished.

The complexity of our musical traditions—the way we modulate between joy and sorrow—reflects a sophisticated understanding of the human condition. We do not suppress the sadness of the Shabbat’s departure; we elevate it through melody. The piyutim we sing are not just fillers; they are prayers that acknowledge the fragility of our existence and the strength we derive from our connection to the divine. This is the beauty of the Sephardi/Mizrahi heritage: we take the raw, legalistic requirements of the Torah and we clothe them in the silk of our culture, creating a practice that is as intellectually rigorous as it is emotionally resonant.

The Arukh HaShulchan speaks of the neshamah yeterah (the additional soul) departing. In our tradition, we use the act of Havdalah to bid it a respectful, melodic farewell. We invite the week in with song, ensuring that even as the intense holiness of the Shabbat fades, the echoes of the prayers remain to guide us through the challenges of the six days of labor. This musicality is the heartbeat of our tradition, a rhythm that has pulsed through our communities for millennia, binding us together in a tapestry of sound and spirit that transcends geography and time.

Contrast

A respectful point of distinction exists between our Sephardi/Mizrahi approach to Havdalah and the Ashkenazi tradition, particularly regarding the sequence and the physical gestures involved.

In many Ashkenazi traditions, the Bsamim (spices) are often smelled after the Borei Me’orei Ha’esh (the fire) blessing. However, in most Sephardi and Mizrahi communities, adhering strictly to the Shulchan Arukh (Orach Chaim 296), the order is Yayin (wine), Besamim (spices), and then Esh (fire). This is not a matter of "right or wrong," but rather a difference in the priority of the sensory experience. We emphasize the comfort of the spices before the scrutiny of the fire.

Another subtle difference lies in the use of the hands. Many in our community follow the custom of looking at the fingernails under the light of the Havdalah candle, often reciting a specific pasuk (verse). While the act itself is common, the specific hand gestures—how one holds the fingers to catch the light—often vary by family tradition (the minhag avot). Some hold the hand in a way that creates shadows on the palm; others simply hold them up to the light. These small, tactile differences are markers of regional identity, reminding us that while the law is universal, the expression of it is deeply personal and rooted in the specific soil of our ancestors. We honor these differences as the "variations on a theme" that make the symphony of Jewish law so rich and multifaceted.

Home Practice

To bring this tradition into your home, try the "Scent of Memory" practice this coming Motza'ei Shabbat.

Instead of using a generic store-bought spice mix, curate your own blend of Besamim. Use cloves, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange peels. As you prepare the mix, take a moment to reflect on a specific memory from the past week that felt "holy" or particularly meaningful. When you smell the spices during Havdalah, consciously link that scent to that memory. This practice transforms the mitzvah of smelling the spices into a meditative act of gratitude, anchoring the sweetness of the Shabbat into your consciousness as you step into the new week. It is a small, sensory way to ensure that the peace of the Sabbath does not vanish, but rather sustains you throughout the coming days.

Takeaway

The Sephardi and Mizrahi tradition is a testament to the fact that holiness is not something we leave behind at the end of the Sabbath; it is something we carry with us, transformed and translated into the language of our daily lives. Whether through the mournful beauty of a piyut, the precise sequence of a blessing, or the aromatic ritual of the spices, our practices ensure that we remain connected—to our history, to our communities, and to the Divine. Carry the light of the Havdalah flame with you, not just as a closing of a door, but as a lantern for the week ahead.