Daf Yomi · Sephardi & Mizrahi Heritage · Standard
Chullin 63
Hook
Imagine a sky not as an empty blue canvas, but as a living, swirling scroll of the Torah—where the golden-tipped feathers of the hoopoe, the sudden dive of the osprey, and the rhythmic whistle of the Egyptian vulture are not mere accidents of nature, but the very letters of a divine code waiting to be read by the eyes of the sages.
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Context
- Place: The sun-drenched landscapes of the Levant, the fertile river valleys of Mesopotamia, and the bustling scholarly enclaves of Ottoman Cairo and Jerusalem.
- Era: The classical Talmudic era of the Amoraim in Babylonia (3rd–5th centuries CE), stretching across time to the early modern flowering of Sephardic halakha and Kabbalah in the 16th through the 18th centuries.
- Community: The vibrant, interconnected world of Levantine Musta'rabim (indigenous Arabic-speaking Jews), North African Toshavim, and Spanish-Portuguese exiles, whose continuous physical proximity to the flora and fauna of the Mediterranean basin allowed them to maintain a sensory, unbroken relationship with the zoology of the Bible and the Talmud.
The Living Landscape of Sephardi Zoology
To open the pages of the Talmud in the academies of Baghdad, Aleppo, or Cairo was never an exercise in abstract imagination. When the sages of the Gemara debated the identity of the raḥam, the dukhifat, or the shalakh, they were not deciphering dead languages or speculating about exotic creatures from a distant continent. They were looking out their windows. The birds that nested in the limestone crevices of the Western Wall, that swooped over the waters of the Tigris, or that migrated annually along the Great Rift Valley were the very subjects of their halakhic discourse.
In the Sephardic and Mizrahi heritage, Torah study has always been deeply integrated with the natural world. This integration is not merely academic; it is poetic, liturgical, and experiential. The sky was an extension of the Beit Midrash. For a community whose ancestors never left the Mediterranean and Middle Eastern ecosystems, the laws of kosher birds in Chullin 63a were a direct commentary on their daily environment.
This connection became even more pronounced during the Ottoman period, when scholars like Rabbi Chaim Joseph David Azulai (the Chida) traveled extensively throughout these lands. They carried with them an intellectual tradition that refused to separate halakha from the physical reality of the earth. Today, as we study these ancient texts, we do so not as archaeologists of a forgotten world, but as heirs to a living, breathing tradition that hears the voice of the Creator in the call of the wild bird.
Text Snapshot
"Rav Yehuda says: As for the shalakh... this is the bird that scoops fish out of the sea. The dukhifat is the bird whose comb seems bent... and this is the bird that brought the shamir to the Temple... Rabbi Yoḥanan says: Why is it called the raḥam? Because when the raḥam comes, mercy [raḥamim] comes to the world... And it is learned as a tradition that if it sits on the ground and hisses, this is a sign that the Messiah is coming, as it is stated: 'I will hiss for them, and gather them' Zechariah 10:8."
— Chullin 63a
Minhag/Melody
The Cry of the Raḥam: Between Rain and Redemption
In the heart of our text in Chullin 63a, we encounter a remarkable bird known as the raḥam. The Gemara identifies this bird as the sherakrak, known for its distinctive whistling or hissing sound. Rabbi Yoḥanan reveals a beautiful linguistic and spiritual connection: the bird is called raḥam because its arrival heralds the coming of raḥamim—divine mercy—to the world.
But what is this "mercy" of which Rabbi Yoḥanan speaks? The great commentator Rashi, in his succinct commentary on this passage, writes simply: "Rachamim — this is rain." (רחמים - מטר). In the arid and semi-arid climates of the Land of Israel and the broader Middle East, rain is not a mere meteorological event or an inconvenience to be avoided. Rain is the very lifeblood of existence. It is the ultimate manifestation of God's sustenance and mercy. When the earth is parched and the summer heat has cracked the soil, the first sighting of the raḥam bird at the beginning of the autumn rainy season is greeted with immense joy. It is a visual and auditory sign that the heavens are about to open, pouring down the blessings of life upon a thirsty land.
Yet, the Talmud does not stop at the physical blessing of rain. It elevates the raḥam bird into a cosmic herald of the ultimate redemption. Rav Beivai bar Abaye brings down an ancient tradition: if the raḥam bird sits on the ground and hisses (veshareik), it is a sign that the Messiah is coming. This is derived from the prophecy of Zechariah: "I will hiss [eshreka] for them, and gather them" Zechariah 10:8.
The Chida’s Insight: Mercy in the Daily and the Eternal
In his masterful work Petach Einayim, the legendary Sephardic sage Rabbi Chaim Joseph David Azulai (the Chida) unpacks this dual role of the raḥam bird. The Chida lived a life of constant movement, traveling as a Shadar (rabbinical emissary) from Jerusalem to North Africa, Europe, and back. He was deeply attuned to both the literal meaning of the texts and their hidden, Kabbalistic resonances.
The Chida asks a penetrating question: If the bird's song can herald both rain and the Messiah, why is its primary name (raḥam) derived from the annual rain, rather than the singular, epochal event of the Messianic redemption? Why is it not called the "Messiah bird"?
[ The Dual Nature of Raḥam ]
│
┌─────────────────────────┴─────────────────────────┐
▼ ▼
[ Rain / Mator ] [ Messiah / Mashiach ]
- Daily Sustenance - Ultimate Redemption
- Bird sits on a structure - Bird sits on the ground
- Natural order of Mercy - Supernatural gathering
To resolve this, the Chida directs us to the precise language of the Gemara and Rashi's commentary. He explains that the natural, annual arrival of the bird—when it sits on an elevated structure and makes its whistling sound—is indeed a sign of rain, the daily mercy that sustains the physical world. However, the Messianic sign is highly specific and unnatural: it occurs only when the bird descends from its high perch, sits directly on the dusty ground, and hisses.
The Chida notes that the bird is named raḥam (mercy) because the daily preservation of the world through rain is itself a continuous miracle of divine love, no less wondrous than the ultimate redemption. By calling the bird raḥam, the Torah teaches us to find the hand of God in the recurring rhythms of nature, training our eyes to recognize daily mercies so that we will be ready to recognize the ultimate mercy of the redemption when it finally arrives.
The Music of the Desert: Makam Saba and the Longing of Tzom Tammuz
This profound connection between natural signs, divine mercy, and the longing for redemption is not kept as a silent text in the Sephardic tradition. It is sung. It is woven into the very fabric of our liturgy through the system of the Makamat—the classical Arabic musical modes that Sephardic and Mizrahi communities have used for centuries to unlock the emotional depths of the prayers.
Today is Tzom Tammuz (the Fast of the Seventeenth of Tammuz). This solemn day marks the beginning of the "Three Weeks" of mourning, commemorating the day the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the invading forces, leading to the destruction of the Holy Temple. On this day, our liturgy is steeped in the theme of exile, loss, and the crying out for divine mercy.
In the Syrian, Iraqi, and Jerusalem-Sephardic traditions, the prayers of Tzom Tammuz and the subsequent weeks of mourning are sung in Makam Saba.
[ Makam Saba Scale ]
D -> E-half-flat -> F -> G-flat -> A -> B-flat -> C -> D
(Characterized by its narrow, weeping intervals and intense emotional yearning)
Saba is a unique and deeply moving mode. It is characterized by its microtonal intervals, which create a feeling of constriction, weeping, and profound longing. It is the musical expression of the soul crying out from the depths of the "great deep" (tehom), echoing the words of Rabbi Yoḥanan in our Gemara: "Your judgments are like the great deep" Psalms 36:7.
When the Hazzan (cantor) leads the congregation in the Selichot (prayers of forgiveness) on Tzom Tammuz, he modulates his voice into the narrow, aching paths of Saba. The prayers sound like a spiritual sigh, mimicking the low, persistent whistling of the raḥam bird sitting in the dust of the ruins. The music itself becomes the sherakrak—the hiss of longing for the gathering of the exiled.
Yet, within the Sephardic musical tradition, we never wallow in despair without a glimmer of hope. Even as we sing in the weeping tones of Saba, the Hazzan will subtly resolve the melody into Makam Rast—the mode of beginnings, of divine light, and of cosmic order. Rast is the musical equivalent of the rain falling on the parched earth. It is the sound of the ultimate redemption.
By transitioning from the constriction of Saba to the expansiveness of Rast, the liturgy mimics the natural movement of the raḥam bird. It reminds us that the very same voice that cries out in the dust of our current exile contains within it the seed of our future joy. The walls may be breached, but the bird still sings, and the promise of redemption remains written in the skies.
Contrast
The Sephardic and Ashkenazic Approaches to Kosher Birds
The laws governing the identification of kosher birds reveal a fascinating and beautiful divergence in halakhic development between Sephardic/Mizrahi communities and their Ashkenazic brethren. This difference is not one of superiority, but of geography, history, and the preservation of ecological memory.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [ Halakhic Methodologies ] │
├────────────────────────────────────┬────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Sephardic / Mizrahi │ Ashkenazic │
├────────────────────────────────────┼────────────────────────────────────┤
│ - Primary reliance on Talmudic │ - Strict requirement of an │
│ anatomical signs & local experts │ unbroken, localized family │
│ (hunters/sayyadim). │ tradition (masorah) for species. │
│ - Fluid integration of regional │ - Defensive posture to avoid error │
│ fauna (e.g., wild waterfowl, │ in unfamiliar northern European │
│ specific locust species). │ ecosystems. │
└────────────────────────────────────┴────────────────────────────────────┘
The Ashkenazic Path: The Safeguard of the Closed Masorah
In the Ashkenazic world, the codification of the laws of kosher birds took a highly conservative turn. The Torah lists twenty-four non-kosher birds Leviticus 11:13-19, implying that all other birds in the world are kosher. However, because the exact identity of many of these biblical birds became obscured over centuries of exile, the sages of the Talmud provided four anatomical signs to determine if a bird is kosher:
- It is not a bird of prey (dores).
- It has an extra toe (etzba yeteirah).
- It has a crop (zefek).
- Its gizzard can be peeled by hand (korkoban nikal).
Despite these signs, as the Jewish people migrated into the cold, unfamiliar climates of Northern and Eastern Europe, the local wildlife changed dramatically. The birds of Poland, Germany, and Russia did not match the descriptions or names found in the Mediterranean-centered Talmud. Fearing that communities might misidentify a bird of prey as a kosher bird, Ashkenazic authorities—most notably codified by Rabbi Moses Isserles (the Rema) in his glosses to the Shulchan Aruch—ruled that no bird may be eaten unless there is an unbroken, highly specific local tradition (masorah) affirming its kosher status in that exact town.
This meant that even if a newly discovered bird possessed all the kosher signs outlined in Chullin 63a, an Ashkenazi Jew could not eat it without an active, ancestral chain of consumption. This defensive posture protected the community from error but significantly narrowed the list of permitted birds in Ashkenazic Europe, effectively limiting their poultry consumption to a few familiar species like chicken, duck, goose, and pigeon.
The Sephardic Path: The Living Testimony of the Field
In contrast, the Sephardic and Mizrahi halakhic tradition, following the rulings of Maran Yosef Karo in the Shulchan Aruch, maintained a more open and dynamic approach to the zoology of the kitchen. Because Sephardic communities remained in the Mediterranean basin, the Middle East, and North Africa, they continued to live alongside the species described in the Mishnah and Gemara. The ecological gap was far narrower, and in some places, non-existent.
Therefore, Sephardic halakha did not require an absolute, unbroken local masorah for every single bird, provided that the bird clearly exhibited the kosher signs and could be reliably identified as belonging to a kosher category. Furthermore, Sephardic authorities placed immense trust in the living knowledge of local experts.
This is directly rooted in our text in Chullin 63a, which states:
"The hunter is deemed credible to say: My teacher conveyed to me that this bird is kosher."
The Gemara clarifies that this "teacher" is not necessarily a rabbi sitting in a study hall, but the veteran hunter (sayyad) who knows the birds of the field, their behaviors, and their nesting habits.
In places like Yemen, Morocco, and Iraq, this reliance on living ecological knowledge allowed for the preservation of ancient dietary traditions that were lost elsewhere. For example:
- Locusts (Hagavim): Yemenite and certain Moroccan Jewish communities maintained a continuous, active masorah for identifying and eating specific species of kosher locusts (such as the desert locust, Schistocerca gregaria), a practice completely unknown in Europe.
- Wild Waterfowl and Game Birds: In Ottoman Turkey and Egypt, Jews regularly consumed a wide variety of wild quail, partridges, and waterfowl, relying on the anatomical signs and the testimony of local Jewish hunters who were experts in the local fauna.
This Sephardic approach reflects a profound trust in the continuity of human knowledge and the inherent holiness of the natural world. It views the earth not as a place of hidden spiritual traps where one must tread with extreme restriction, but as a garden of divine abundance where, through careful study and the guidance of experienced eyes, the bounty of creation can be holy and permitted.
Home Practice
The Practice of Natural Mindfulness: Rabbi Yoḥanan's Contemplation
One of the most beautiful and easily adoptable practices found in our text is the spiritual reflex of Rabbi Yoḥanan. The Gemara records:
"When Rabbi Yoḥanan would see a shalakh [a fish-eating water bird], he would say: 'Your judgments are like the great deep' Psalms 36:7. When he would see an ant, he would say: 'Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains' Psalms 36:7."
Rabbi Yoḥanan did not view the animal kingdom as a passive backdrop to human life. For him, every creature was a living mirror reflecting a specific attribute of the Divine. When he saw the predatory water bird diving into the dark depths of the sea to claim its prey, he was reminded of the deep, sometimes hidden, and rigorous justice of God. When he saw the tiny, fragile ant finding its food amidst the vastness of the earth, he was filled with awe at God's gentle, all-encompassing righteousness that sustains even the smallest of creations.
[ Rabbi Yoḥanan's Spiritual Reflex ]
│
┌────────────────────┴────────────────────┐
▼ ▼
[ The Shalakh ] [ The Ant ]
- Dives into the sea - Tiny and fragile
- Recalls Divine Judgment - Recalls Divine Righteousness
- "Your judgments are like - "Your righteousness is like
the great deep" the mighty mountains"
You can bring this ancient Sephardic practice of "natural mindfulness" into your daily life through a simple, three-step exercise:
- The Nature Pause: Once a day, when you encounter a living creature—be it a bird flying past your window, a dog walking down the street, or a small insect crawling on a leaf—stop what you are doing. Do not just look at it; truly observe it for thirty seconds.
- The Attribute Reflection: Ask yourself: What divine quality does this creature embody? Does the soaring bird represent freedom and the expansive mercy of God? Does the diligent insect represent focus and the beauty of small beginnings? Does the loyal animal represent unconditional love and companionship?
- The Verse of Praise: Offer a short verse or personal phrase of praise that connects the creature to its Creator. You can use the universal verse from the Sephardic Bakashot (morning petitions):
"How manifold are Your works, O Lord! In wisdom You have made them all; the earth is full of Your creatures" Psalms 104:24.
By practicing this, you transform your daily walk through the world into a walk through a living Temple, turning ordinary sight into holy vision.
Takeaway
The Earth as an Open Scroll
As we close our study of Chullin 63a, we are left with a profound appreciation for the textured, deeply connected world of Sephardic and Mizrahi Torah. In this tradition, the laws of kashrut are not cold, clinical definitions designed to separate us from the world. Rather, they are an invitation to look closer, to listen more deeply, and to live in harmony with the rhythm of creation.
On this day of Tzom Tammuz, as we stand at the gateway of the Three Weeks and contemplate the ancient destruction of Jerusalem, the teachings of this tractate offer us a unique comfort. We are reminded of the dukhifat—the hoopoe—the bird that brought the miraculous shamir worm to King Solomon so that the stones of the Temple could be carved without the violent, clashing iron of weapons of war Gittin 68b.
[ Symbols of Tzom Tammuz ]
│
┌─────────────────────────┴─────────────────────────┐
▼ ▼
[ The Dukhifat ] [ The Raḥam ]
- Brought the Shamir worm - Sits in the dust
- Built the Temple without iron - Heralds the Messiah
- Symbol of peaceful creation - Symbol of future hope
The Temple was built through a partnership between human wisdom, a quiet bird, and a tiny worm. It was an edifice of peace, grown out of the cooperative beauty of the natural world. And though those physical walls were breached on this very day, the natural world remains, carrying the blueprint of our future rebuilding.
The raḥam bird still flies over the hills of Judea. It still senses the changing of the seasons, calling down the rains of mercy to wash away the dust of our exile. And one day, our sages promise, it will descend to the earth, sit in the dust of our long journey, and hiss its song of gathering—and the whole world will hear the whistle of redemption.
Until that day, let us walk through the world with our eyes open to the sky, our ears tuned to the melody of the Makamat, and our hearts committed to preserving the living, breathing Torah that connects the depths of the earth to the heights of the heavens. Chazak u'baruch—be strong and be blessed!
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