The imagination that began it all: The Persian-Jewish poet bringing Genesis back to life - opinion

Does an identity gain strength by filtering out every external influence, or by encountering another culture without losing its own essence?

As the annual cycle of Torah reading begins anew, Israeli readers once again find themselves facing the story of Creation. We have known it since childhood: from Bible classes and ceremonies to debates on faith versus science and countless commentaries. Yet, precisely because of this deep familiarity, it can seem as though no surprises remain. The world was created, humanity was placed at its center, Eden was sealed – and we move on.

Yet centuries ago, at the far end of the Jewish world, a poet named Shahin Shirazi dared to do what we often struggle to do today: inject risk, color, and imagination back into a familiar narrative. This was not imagination as mere decoration, but as a driving force allowing us to re-examine the foundational roots of human culture.

Shahin, who lived in 14th-century Persia, was one of Persian Jewry’s greatest and most daring creators. He was not simply a poet writing on Jewish themes; he was an artist who constructed an entire cultural worldview – deeply Jewish in its roots, Persian in its aesthetic language, and Middle Eastern in the scope of its imagery. His monumental oeuvre included expansive epics, among them poetic cycles dedicated to Moses, Ezra, Esther, and the Creation. His final masterpiece, Genesis-Nama, marked his most mature work – a tapestry where memory, faith, Midrash, and fantasy converge within a single vision.

The work of Shahin Shirazi

Shahin’s adoption of the Persian epic form was by no means accidental. He understood that stories do not survive on content alone; they live through rhythm, music, metaphor, and the heroic figures that stir a culture’s soul. He harnessed the artistic tools of his environment in service of Jewish memory. He did so neither apologetically nor to assimilate, but out of a profound conviction that Judaism could engage with Iran’s great cultural landscape and speak there in its own distinct voice.

This is not merely a literary question; it is a profoundly Israeli one: Does an identity gain strength by filtering out every external influence, or by encountering another culture without losing its own essence?

In Shahin’s work, Adam is not merely a naive creature who falls. He is a figure of cosmic, almost majestic stature. The Patriarchs and leaders do not appear as static figures from a textbook, but as heroes endowed with radiance, responsibility, and a sense of destiny. Shahin reminds us of a truth that Israeli discourse often forgets: tradition is not a museum exhibit. It is a living canvas, and every generation possesses the right – perhaps even the duty – to clothe it in the imagery through which it thinks and feels.

One of the most compelling concepts in his work concerns the tension between fire and earth. Azazel, created from fire and light, looks upon the human being formed from earth and concludes that a creature’s material origins dictate its worth. To him, fire appears superior: bright, intense, impressive, and immediate. Earth, by contrast, seems humble, heavy, and devoid of glory. Shahin subverts this perspective. Earth is that which sustains, receives, nurtures, and carries life. Fire consumes itself; earth enables others to be born.

This message resonates far beyond theology. We live in an era that worships the immediate and the flashy: power, speed, virality, victory, and visibility. Whatever makes an instant impression is valued over that which is built patiently over time. Shahin proposes a different hierarchy of values: a thing’s worth is not defined by its brilliance, but by its capacity to contain and nurture. The loudest voice in the room is not necessarily the strongest; true strength often belongs to those capable of sustaining life even when it is complex, slow, and unphotogenic.

This is also a vital lesson in humility. The tragic flaw is not merely a rebellion against a command, but a failure of vision. Anyone who sees only the physical material from which a human being was formed misses the divine breath placed within them. Anyone who judges people solely by their origins, status, or appearance fails to recognize their inner potential. In this sense, Shahin’s Azazel is strikingly contemporary: he falls because he knows how to categorize, but lacks the ability to imagine.

Even the Garden of Eden in Shahin’s work is not a product of simple nostalgia for a bygone paradise. Wheat becomes a symbol of knowledge hard-won through labor, persistence, craftsmanship, and the transformation of nature into culture. This offers an almost Zionist imagery of knowledge: not an instantaneous revelation from the heavens, but wisdom acquired through dedicated effort. Human partnership, too, is presented not as an abstract ideal, but as the capacity to build a life together within physical bounds, time, and human limitations. Perfection is not found in a pure spirit hovering above the world, but in a bond that manages to endure within it.

Here lies Shahin’s unique relevance for Israel today. For decades, we have relied on a narrow narrative of Jewish culture: East versus West, tradition versus modernity, Israeliness versus Diaspora. Shahin dismantles these dichotomies. He reminds us that Judaism can be profound without being closed, faithful to itself without being defensive, and Middle Eastern without apology.

Moreover, he brings to center stage a chapter long relegated to the margins: the Jews of Iran. This is not merely a community that survived, nor simply a diaspora to be recalled on memorial days. It is a vibrant spiritual world that created, renewed, and imagined, bestowing an epic language upon our foundational stories. It is an integral part of the Jewish home, not an afterthought.

In this context, it is essential to acknowledge the dedicated individuals and patrons of culture who work faithfully to preserve and transmit Persian-Jewish heritage through the “Bama Tova” organization (www.bamatova.org). Thanks to key supporters and families, such as the Ganji family and the Mahfar family, this rich heritage does not remain locked in an archive. It continues to breathe, reach the next generation, and claim its rightful place within Israeli culture. Heritage does not preserve itself; it relies on those who believe in it, invest in it, and carry it forward.

As we open the Book of Genesis once again, perhaps we should not rush toward familiar debates over literal interpretation versus Midrash, faith versus science, or past versus present. Instead, we might ask a simpler question: What do we choose to see when we look at a human being? Do we see only earth – weakness, origins, and physical matter – or do we see the capacity to turn matter into a vessel for life?

Shahin does not call on us to return to medieval Persia. He invites us to return to the creative imagination from which all creation begins – the fundamental power that enables us to see possibility where others see only raw material, history, or limitation. In an Israel where everything seems to have already been said about Genesis, imagination may be the newest way to begin the year.

The writer is a scholar of cultures and religions, liturgical poet, filmmaker, and director of the “Bama Tova” organization.