On the Historicity, Nature, and Morality of the Purim Narrative

Overview: A ten-point analysis of the historical, theological, and moral nature surrounding the fascinating book of Esther and its enduring legacy, as well as the fast day of Esther.

1. Xerxes is Achashverosh

“And it was in the time of Achashverosh.”

The Persian royal records were destroyed by Alexander the Great in his conquest of Persia in 334 BCE. As a result, most of our historical information comes from the Greek historians who wrote in great detail the many histories, tales, and legends of the Persian monarchy. For the earlier period, we have the works of Herodotus, Ctesias, and Xenophon. For the later period, although less detailed, we have the works of Arrian, Diodorus, Strabo, Plutarch, Quintus Curtius, and Justin. Piecing together these often-unreliable writings, in addition to Persian archaeological remains, historians have been able to reconstruct the Persian Achaemenid dynasty with a fair level of certainty.

Originally there were many opinions about the identity of Achashverosh of the book of Esther, who is not mentioned in that name format anywhere in the historical genealogies of Persia outside the biblical texts. The traditional Jewish sources had various lists and chronologies for the Persian monarchs.^[1] In the confirmed accounts that modern historians use, the kings of Persia (Achaemenid Dynasty) are listed as follows in chronological order: Cyrus the Great, Cambyses I, Cyrus II, Cambyses II, Bardiya, Darius I (“the Great”), Xerxes I, Artaxerxes I, Xerxes II, Sogdianus, Darius II, Artaxerxes II, Artaxerxes-Ochus III, Artaxerxes-Arses IV, Darius III, Artaxerxes V.

Ezra (4:4-7) lists, seemingly in chronological order, the kings of Cyrus, Darius, Achashverosh, Artaxerxes (Artachshasta). Skipping Cambyses, this would represent the first 5 kings of Persia, calling Xerxes (“the Great”) with the Hebrew Achashverosh.

The real evidence that Xerxes was the biblical Achashverosh came from the decipherment of Persian monuments which name Xerxes using the Persian spelling, rather than the Greek “Xerxes.” In the Persian column of the trilingual inscriptions of this king from Persepolis, Elvend, and Van, he is called Khshayarsha; in the Babylonian equivalent, Khishi’arshii. In Babylonian tablets such forms occur as Akhshiyarshii, Akkashiarshi, Akkisharshu, Akhshiyawarshu, Akhshuwarshi, and Aklishiwarshu. In an Aramaic inscription the consonants Kh-sh-y-‘-r-sh appear, almost identical to the Hebrew variant of the name.^[2] In Hebrew, it is often the case that an aleph is added to the beginning of a foreign name with two consonants.^[3]

Xerxes is also the only king that the details of the Megillah can work with. He ruled from India to Ethiopia, controlled the Mediterranean islands, and his capital was in Susa. No other Persian king had all these criteria. For this reason, almost all modern historians – Jewish, Christian, or secular – associate Achashverosh with Xerxes I, also known as Xerxes the Great.

2. God’s name is not once mentioned

The book of Esther is the only book not to mention God’s name, of all the biblical books. The ten chapters speak of the miracles that occurred and the celebration of an annual holiday, without any mention to God, nor reference to Him. Similarly, there is no mention of any religious act, direct prayer, ritual, or theology. The closest thing to a religious act in the narrative is the fasting and outcries mentioned in Esther 4:16, although that doesn’t necessarily imply a religious ceremony as it can merely be an act of mourning (similar to the sack-cloth and ashes earlier in the chapter).

Several explanations have been presented to confront this astonishing observation.

The first is by Rabbeinu Eliezer Eskenazi in his commentary “Yosef Lekach” on Esther 1:1 where he talks of the “hinted” names of God in the book of Esther. The first Hebrew letters in the words “Let the king and Haman come today” (Es. 5:4) write out the sacred name of God, YHWH. The final Hebrew letters in the words “that evil was determined against him” (Es. 7:7) also spell out God’s sacred name. Why was it hidden and not explicit? He explains further in his commentary on Es. 5:4. The story was originally written by the Persian scribes, according to the Talmud^[4] and therefore lacked God’s name.

The issue with this response is obvious. The hints found for God’s name in the book are mere coincidence; there’s nothing striking about the appearance of those acronyms twice in the 10 chapters-long book. There may be intuitive merit to the explanation of it being originally a document written by the Persian nobility of Xerxes as the Talmud states. But as we will soon see, there is almost no chance it was written at the time of Xerxes, as indicated by many internal inferences.

A similar explanation was offered by the rabbinic commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra.^[5] He argues that Mordechai wrote the book and was concerned about writing God’s name in there. For he knew that the Persian nobility would copy his work into their chronicles but replace all references to God with their pagan gods’ names. This would be a disgrace to God, and it would therefore be honorable to God to avoid mentioning his name in the narrative.

While intriguing, this explanation seems forced. Should Mordechai really neglect God from the miracle book that will be read for generations by the Jewish people just because he is concerned about what the pagan-worshipping Persian nobility will do? Moreover, should Mordechai be making assumptions about what the Persian scribes will do? It would seem quite odd that the Persians would find particular interest in replacing the Jewish god from the story of the Jewish people; especially given how tolerant the Persians were of other national deities. Furthermore, this will fail to explain why there is no theological message at all in the narrative, even without the mention of God’s name. And finally, there is evidence that Mordechai didn’t write the book of Esther, as we will soon discuss.

Some explain that the omission of God’s name is a theological message intended by the writer. It’s in the theme of the narrative as a whole: that God is present even in the very natural course of events. Even when all seems doomed, God is always there putting the right people in the right place to be able to turn the situation around. You don’t need a sea-splitting miracle in order to be saved or an obvious revelation of God; a preordained, intentional natural “coincidence” is also a miracle of God.

The beauty in this message is obvious; but as an answer to our question, it doesn’t fare so well. It seems more like a post-hoc, forced message to be learned from the fact, than an explanation for it. A non-apparent message by omission is far inferior to a direct, explicit message. Despite this difficulty, we cannot rule out this possibility of the author intending this brilliant message by omission, even if it’s non-apparent to the average reader.

Perhaps a simpler answer, though perhaps objectionable to many on a theological basis, is that the writer was much less religious than we imagine. Many diasporic Jewish communities were very secularized (or Hellenized), with Jewishness only being a cultural and ethnic identity of theirs. As a narrative concerning diasporic Jews, we can assume that the book of Esther was written in the diaspora. The author, and the initial readers, may have not seen the narrative as a miracle by God directly. Instead, they saw it as a dramatic coincidence that led to a militarily triumphant Jewish resistance. However, this is not to preclude them from any Jewish observances, especially cultural (see Es. 3:8).

This explanation would help explain several details in the narrative. First is the omission of any religious rituals, the temple (which was already built at this time), Israel, or anything of Judaism. Jews like Esther can “pass” by merely refraining from saying she is Jewish (Es. 2:20), an indicator of how secular her lifestyle likely was. Even with regards to Mordechai, Haman fails to realize that he’s a Jew until he is told so by his colleagues (Es. 3:4). Even the names of the Esther and Mordechai are most likely of Babylonian origins (more on this later), implying a level of cultural assimilation.

3. Is the Purim celebration originally a non-Jewish, pagan holiday?

If the Purim narrative is ahistorical (soon to be discussed), then either the holiday sprouted organically within the Jewish communities, or it was borrowed and revised from a more dominant culture. If the latter is true, it would likely be a dominant culture like Babylon or Persia from whom the Jewish diaspora would adopt this pre-existing holiday and Judaize it with a mythical narrative of their own.

There have been many attempts to identify this original non-Jewish, pagan holiday. But thus far to no success. Several proposals have been given though. What are the clues, in the book of Esther itself, that tell us that this holiday was likely originally a non-Jewish holiday?

The first obvious one is the name: Purim. Purim means “lot” (Es. 9:26), referring to the lot cast by Haman on which day to kill the Jews (Es. 3:7). This is not a Hebrew word, however, ad early commentators assumed it was a Persian word. The word pur is actually Akkadian (a Babylonian dialect) rather than Persian, perhaps a reflection of the more populous Jewish diaspora in the Babylonian region.^[6] Be as it may, there are two obvious issues with this explanation that the book of Esther itself provides. The first is the usage of a non-Hebrew word for the name of a Hebrew holiday. Why – if given the choice – would the Jewish leaders choose this non-Hebrew word for “lot” when they can use the Hebrew goral instead? Furthermore, why name it “lot” to begin with, a very trivial aspect of the Purim narrative? This suggests that the name came from elsewhere, an Akkadian or Persian holiday of sorts, in which lots did play a major role. The holiday was then Judaized and the author of the book of Esther needed to find some sort of explanation for the name Purim.

The second indication of its non-Jewish origins are the main characters in the narrative, those being Mordechai, Esther, Haman, and Vashti. The etymology of these names has one thing in common: they are all names, or derivative names, of Babylonian and Persian deities.

Mordechai – Marduk, the Babylonian national deity.

Esther – Ishtar, the “Queen of Heaven” goddess in Babylon and Assyria.

Haman – possibly a derivative of Humman/Humban or Khumban, an Elamite/Persian god.^[7]

Vashti – possibly a derivative of Mashti, an Elamite/Persian deity.

These deity person-names may represent an earlier pagan holiday based on a myth of the Babylonian deities of Marduk and Ishtar triumphing against the Persian/Elamite forces of Humman and Mashti in a war of the gods. Interestingly, the first quasi-mention of Purim is the second-century Book of Maccabees II (15:36) where it mentions in the original Greek a 14th of Adar celebration called “day of Marduk” or “day of Mordechai,” depending on how it’s read.^[8]

Perhaps yet another indication for its non-Jewish roots is the timing of the holiday. Purim is celebrated on the 14-15th of Adar, at the Full Moon of the month. Just like the other agricultural holidays of the Torah (Passover and Sukkot), this one takes place by the Full Moon of the month. The month it takes place in is particularly important as it is the time of the Spring Equinox, which takes place on March 21st, about the same time as Purim. The Persians, as well as other Near Eastern groups, celebrated this day known as Nowruz.

If Purim was derived from an unknown Babylonian holiday celebrating a war of the gods victory, or if it were derived from the Persian New Years festival, or a combination of the two, is unclear. But there does seem to be indicators that suggest a non-Jewish origin for this “Purim” holiday. There is indeed precedence for this borrowing of celebrations in other major Jewish holidays like Passover, originally a Canaanite agricultural holiday, and Sukkot, originally a Near Eastern agricultural holiday.^[9]

Alternatively, there may have been some sort of massive pogrom against the Jews on this drunken holiday of theirs, in which the Jews were victorious against their oppressors. The book of Esther would be a hyperbolic recounting of this historical account with a mythicized plotline.

4. Mordechai and Esther are not mentioned until Josephus.

The major Jewish characters of Mordechai and Esther are not mentioned in any Jewish, Persian, or Greek literature until the first-century historian Josephus. There is a quasi-mention of a “day of Mordechai (or Marduk)” on the 14th of Adar in the Book of Maccabees II (2nd-century BCE).^[10] This would imply that the holiday existed in some form or another already by the second-century BCE, although there is no indication of it existing for the hundreds of years before that and to the extent it is celebrated today.

There is a royal servant named Marduka at about the time of Xerxes mentioned in Aramaic inscriptions of the time. Several more Mardukas do appear in earlier and later periods, as it was a popular name.^[11] This is neither here nor there, in terms of evidence for the historicity of the Purim story, since although this Marduka could have been second-to-the-king, there is no indication that he was. And even if he were, that doesn’t validate the entire narrative of the book of Esther.

The massive Second Temple-era library at Qumran (the “Dead Sea Scrolls”) lacks any book of Esther or any mention of the holiday or its characters. This may just be coincidental (indeed only one copy was found of several of the other biblical books); but this fits into a pattern we are observing of a holiday barely celebrated in Israel prior to the first-century.

The later books of Tanach – Ezra, Nehemiah, Daniel, late Psalms – make no reference to the narrative or its characters.^[12] Same goes for the non-canonized apocryphal books of the Second Temple era. In fact, there is a glaring omission of Mordechai and Esther from an extensive list of Jewish heroes written in the second-century by Ben Sira (chapters 44-49), implying that he had no idea of any such characters. Philo (early first-century) too makes no mention of the holiday or its characters. Many Greek historians of the time spent many books recording life in ancient Persia. They know nothing of a second-to-the-king named Mordechai, or Haman, a queen Esther, or a massive Jewish massacre on the 13th of Adar. Nor do they know of a 180 day-long feast by Xerxes or any other Persian king.

The general absence of anything Purim before the first-century implies a later invention of the Purim narrative recorded in the book of Esther.

5. Improbability of the narrative.

The book of Esther is a dramatic narrative, with plot twists reminiscent of fictional plays starting from the Hellenistic era. Is this Purim story an accurate portrayal of historical events or an imagined creation of the author(s)?

We don’t know the answer to this question for certain, but there is some evidence of the narrative’s improbability. Making this case-study particularly difficult is Alexander the Great’s crime of destroying all the royal Persian archives. This leaves us with only some Persian inscriptions to rely on, and many ancient Greek historians to build a better understanding of the Achaemenid Persian dynasties. Despite the difficulties, historians have been able to build a somewhat reliable timeline of the Persian monarchs and their royal affairs.

The historical data tells us that the Purim narrative could have occurred historically but is not too likely. The internal details of the narrative further highlight the improbability of the events being historical.

The author of the book of Esther clearly has a pretty good understanding of Persian culture, making it possible that he is recording accurate history. But this argument is countered by the fact that many Greeks and Persians continued to remember and write about the Persian culture for many years after the fall of the empire. There aren’t any obvious historically inaccurate statements in the Purim narrative, but some possible contradictions in various details with the Greek historians like Herodotus.

The overall tone of the narrative is that of a fictitious drama, filled with a plenitude of quoted dialogue, thoughts, exaggerated numbers, entertaining plot-twists, and turn-of-events at the eleventh-hour with a happy ending. This style is very reflective of fiction and is rarely found in historical accounts. It is unclear if the writer himself believed the narrative to be true or not. It is possible that the narrative was originally intended as fiction and later misunderstood as history and celebrated as a holiday.

The exaggerated, unrealistic numbers in the narrative include the 75,000 killed by the Judeans (Es. 9:16), a 180-day royal feast, and a sum of money offered by Haman (10,000 kikars of silver) to get permission to kill the Jews that would value at several billion dollars when adjusted for inflation.^[13]

There are also no corroborating accounts, in the Greek writings and Persian inscriptions, of people like Haman, Esther, or a 180-day feast or 75,000 Persian citizens killed by Judeans. The story seems unknown to the early Second Temple era writers in Israel, as previously discussed.

Mordechai is from the Judean exiles with Jehoiachin (Es 2:5) which is 597 in the accepted secular chronology. Yet he is appointed as minister in the 12th year of Xerxes (474) (Es. 3:7, 8:2). That would make him a staggering 123 years of age, an unlikely historical reality.^[14] Traditional rabbinic chronology of the Persian era doesn’t have this issue since it only sees 4 or 5 Persian kings from Cyrus until Alexander the Great. In contrast, the accepted historical chronology, based on many ancient Greek writers and some Persian inscriptions, sees at least 13 monarchs from Cyrus to Alexander. The rabbinic chronology differs from the accepted historical timeline by a staggering 166 years.

According to Es. 1:1, Xerxes ruled over 127 “medina”s, which was the Aramaic word for an administrative province. The Persians divided their lands into satrapies for administrative purposes, of which there were only 20 recorded in Herodotus and no more than 27 in the Persian inscriptions.^[15] The 127 provinces recorded in the book of Esther seems more like a fantastical description of an era long gone rather than being rooted in historical reality.

Adding to the suspicion of historical inaccuracy of the Esther narrative is the unlikelihood that the virgin candidates required 12 months of perfume oils (Es. 2:12). Similarly improbable is the 4 years wait period it took until Esther was presented (Es. 2:16). These are just some of many examples of inconsistencies or improbabilities in the Esther narrative (see footnote for more^[16]).

6. When it was written.

When was the book of Esther written? The Talmud (3rd-6th-centuries) records a legend implying it was written by the Men of the Great Assembly (~5th-3rd centuries BCE),^[17] or by Esther and Mordechai,^[18] or by Esther and Mordechai in conjunction with the Men of the Great Assembly.^[19] This would seem to imply an immediate recounting after the events took place, or sometime in the near follow-up years.

A critical analysis of the book’s text suggests a much later date. We will argue for an early Greek-era writing of the book or a late Persian era writing of it (4th-2nd centuries BCE).

The opening verse starts “it was in the days of Xerxes, he was [the] Xerxes who ruled from India to Ethiopia.” The description that he ruled from “India to Ethiopia” suggests that at the author’s time, this was no longer the case of the Persian empire. From Artaxerxes II (402 BCE), the Persian kingdom no longer ruled over Egypt and Nubia. Thus, the Purim story was likely written at least some 70 years after the narrative.

Verse 2 of the book of Esther further implies a passage of time. It reads: In those days, when King Ahasuerus occupied the royal throne which was in the fortress Shushan, (verse 3) In the third year of his reign he made a party…” The purpose of the verse seems to be either to transition the reader to a time long ago (“in those days”), or to let us know that back then the capital was in Susa (“which was in the fortress Shushan”). Either way, this suggests a long passage of time, since Susa remained the capital until Alexander the Great’s invasion of the capital city in 331 BCE.

Esther 9:28 implies that at least several generations passed by its writing. It reads: “Consequently, these days are recalled and observed in every generation: by every family, every province, and every city. And these days of Purim shall never cease among the Jews, and the memory of them shall never perish among their descendants.”

The genre of the Esther narrative is very Greek in style; the harem intrigue and court intrigue are reminiscent of the classical Greek novels. The romanticization of the Persian Empire in great detail suggests the writer lived long after the collapse of the empire.

In terms of the vocabulary used in the book of Esther, there’s an abundance of Persian words and no Greek words. This is purposeful by the writer, since the setting is portrayed to have happened in Persia. The Hebrew portrayed in the book is known as late biblical Hebrew, comparing with the Hebrew of the later biblical books of Chronicles, Ezra, and Daniel. Some words are even as late as Mishnaic/Rabbinic Hebrew of post-biblical writings.^[20] This may also point to a later authorship of the book.

The book would have been written by a Jew living in the diaspora, as the narrative focuses squarely on the dispersed Jewish communities and their struggle with anti-Semitism. There is not a single mention of Israel, Zion, or Judeans living in Israel at the time. The author likely lived in Susa/Persia or in Babylon, based on what we have said earlier.

The first reference to “the day of Mordechai” is in the second-century BCE work of Maccabees II, although the extent of that day of celebration is not apparent. Earlier in that century Jews have no knowledge of the Purim characters (e.g. Ben Sira, see above). All this, in addition to historical inaccuracies discussed earlier, imply an early Greek-era authorship of the book of Esther.

7. The story talks to the heart of Jewish survival.

Leaving the dramatic, hyperbolic narrative of Esther alone, the Purim story does talk to the essence of Jewish diaspora in their exile and persecution. The constant persecution, anti-Semitism, threat of annihilation, crying out in prayer, playing politics with the local governments, are all familiar experiences to the diasporic Jew. The Purim celebration serves as a reminder, that no matter what we will persevere, we will outlive our enemies, and will celebrate our victories thousands of years later even if in the most remote of lands.

Throughout Jewish history, many “mini-Purims” have been established in various communities. These are to celebrate local extraordinary events that spared them from impending disasters. Known as Purim Katan in Hebrew, these communities would have annual celebrations of festivities on those days to commemorate the miracle of survival.

Here are a few examples of minor Purim celebrations that have been established by specific Jewish communities:

Purim of Saragossa (17th/18th Shevat).

Purim of Shiraz (2nd of Cheshvan).

Purim of Tiberias (4th of Elul).

Purim of Tripoli (15th of Shevat).

Purim of Frankfurt, also known as Purim Vinz (20th of Adar).^[21]

8. Reenactment of Saul vs Amalek.

The Purim story is, implicitly, a continuation of a larger battle between the Jews – particularly King Saul – and their historical arch-nemesis, the nation of Amalek. In the book of Exodus, God tells Moses that the evil nation of Amalek must be rooted out entirely.^[22] King Saul takes up the task in the 10th-century BCE, but fails to eliminate them, sparing their king, Agag, as well.^[23]

In the Esther narrative, Mordechai is a descendant of King Saul,^[24] and Haman of Agag.^[25] It’s a rematch between the inter-generational enemies of Israel and Amalek, spearheaded by the descendant of King Saul and the descendent of King Agag.

The battle ensues, initially with Haman having the upper-hand. At the eleventh hour, the Jews prevail, killing Haman, his sons, and all his supporters throughout the empire.  But they did not lay hands on the spoil,^[26] just as Saul was commanded with regards to the spoil of Amalek.^[27] Indeed, to commemorate this larger battle against Amalek, the rabbis instituted to read from the Torah section of Amalek in the book of Exodus, on the Shabbat before Purim and on Purim day itself.^[28]

9. The moral question: A Jewish massacre or self defense?

The often-emphasized aspect of the Purim narrative is the salvation of the Jews of an extinction inscribed to happen to them. But equally as emphasized in the book of Esther is the offensive action taken by the Jews in Persia against their enemies. It was on such a large scale, according to the numbers given in the book of Esther, that it would have been one of the largest single-day massacres in history. Given what we said earlier, this is likely hyperbolic and/or non-historical. But regardless, this aspect of the narrative raises an interesting moral question. Were the Jews justified in their massacre as a matter of self-defense, or was it an ugly act of vengeance? Are we to celebrate such an event (historical or mythical)?

Many modern observers have pointed out this moral dilemma,^[29] as have ancient rabbinic commentators,^[30] each with their own answers and approaches. Lewis Paton writes the following in his 1908 commentary of Esther:

“Esther secures not merely that the Jews escape from danger, but that they fall upon their enemies, slay their wives and children, and plunder their property (8:11; 9:2–10). Not satisfied with this slaughter, she asks that Haman’s ten sons may be hanged, and that the Jews may be allowed another day for killing their enemies in Susa (9:13–15).”^[31]

Paton makes several errors in this one paragraph, as do many of the moral critics of the book of Esther. First he assumes that the Jews killed women and children, an accusation that is not stated in the book of Esther. In Esther 8:11 we read of the king’s permission for the Jews to kill the enemies and their families, but there is no indication that the Jews actually did this. The edict of the king seems to just be linguistically parallel to the earlier edict he gave Haman^[32] where he gave permission for him to kill all the Jewish families, women and children included. But that does not mean that this is what the Jews capitalized on.

In fact, every indication is that they only killed men (note the continuous usage of “men” being killed by the Jews throughout chapter 9). Additionally, the book constantly emphasizes the self-defense aspect of the massacre done by the Jews. It uses phrases like “killed among their enemies” and “those who wished to kill them.”^[33]

Further highlighting this point is that the Jews clearly did not take advantage of all the king’s permissions in his edict. He allowed for the plunder of their property, but, as the book of Esther continuously emphasizes, the Jews did not take any of their possessions.^[34] This was another error of Paton, since he made the claim that the Jews did plunder their property, in direct contradiction with what the text says. So we need not assume that just because the king allowed for the killing of women and children, that the Jews would indeed do that.

Bringing this point even further is the fact that the celebration of Purim is noticeably the day after the attacks, when they rested from their enemies.^[35] The indication of this is that they were celebrating a sense of security that they otherwise wouldn’t have had, constantly under the threat of another Haman ordering the mass destruction of their nation using his anti-Semitic henchmen around the empire.

The text indicates that the Jews were acting in self-defense. Some do express a moral objection to this since these enemies of the Jews were not in a position to murder Jews at that point and were therefore not actively attacking the Jews. Therefore it shouldn’t be regarded as “self-defense” but an act of vengeful aggression perpetrated by the Persian Jews against their enemies.^[36]

But this view assumes two things. First is that indeed there aren’t any conditions under which one can pre-emptively strike in an offensive manner that would be regarded as “self-defense.” I think this is wrong, as there are cases where pre-emptively striking first can help prevent much future loss of innocent lives. One such example is the preemptive strike by Israel during the six-day-war in 1967 against the Arabs who planned an invasion of Israel. We don’t know for certain what the conditions of the Persian Jews and the anti-Semites in the narrative exactly were. It can be argued that the Jews needed to offensively fight in order to save themselves; this is certainly how the book of Esther frames it.

The second assumption that they get wrong is assuming that the ancients are bound by our modern sensibilities and standards. Morality changes over time. Things that were once deemed as acceptable, and even encouraged at times, are often later regarded as immoral. Ancient wars included the massacres of women and children – and the ancient Jews often did the same (although in our Purim case there is reason to think otherwise, as discussed above). Ancient wars were not bound by the Geneva Conventions or even by our moral perceptions of what is and isn’t allowed in war. The ancients believed that almost anything can be tolerated in war, since that was the only way to win and the only way to deter future attacks. It’s easy for us to retroactively cast judgement on the ancients, but doing so ignores the drastically different culture, society, economy, psychology, and education that they had from ours.

Moreover, given the hyperbolic touch to the entire narrative, it is possible that the Jews did indeed encounter mobs of anti-Semites, whom they ended up defeating in battle. Perhaps even many Jews died in the process. But the story is clearly only trying to highlight the Jewish strength and victories of the time, using hyperbole and by omitting the count of Jewish deaths. If this were the case, then certainly the Jews were acting in self defense.

10. Origins of the Fast of Esther.

The 14th of Adar is an annual celebration of the Purim miracle. The day prior is generally marked a day of fasting, known as the Fast of Esther. This fast is to commemorate the three-day fast the Jews undertook at the time of the Haman decree.^[37] Interestingly, this three-day fast undertaken by the Persian Jews wouldn’t have occurred right before the 14th of Adar; instead it was in the month of Nissan.

The origins of this fast day are mysterious. There is no mention of this fast in the Talmud, or in any other Jewish text before the 9th-century.^[38] Starting from the Geonic-period (in the 9th-century), do we begin to see references to this fast on the 13th of Adar.^[39] At that point there were also those who had the custom to fast for three non-consecutive days in commemoration of the Esther fasts.^[40] One 14th-century reference even makes mention of a custom to fast for three consecutive days in the month of Adar to commemorate the Esther fasts.^[41]

There is a mention of fast days instituted in the book of Esther:

“These days of Purim shall be observed at their proper time, as Mordecai the Jew and Queen Esther have obligated them to do, and just as they have assumed for themselves and their descendants the matter of the fasts with their lamentations.” (Es. 9:31)

But more likely than not, this reference is to the Temple-destruction related fasts already instituted by Zacharia’s times,^[42] as opposed to being a reference to the currently observed Fast of Esther. This is indeed the way many of the rabbinic commentators read the verse.

During the Second Temple era, the 13th of Adar was commemorated – not as a fast – but as a day of celebration.^[43] It was known as Nicanor Day, commemorating the military victory of the Hasmoneans against the Syrian-Greek general, Nicanor.^[44] This day, like many other ancient Jewish celebrations, was to be forgotten and eventually replaced with a fast-day associated with Esther.