Hanukkah: Maoz Tzur, the Song of the Exiles

— Go ahead, Rav Benizri, the floor is yours. — Well, dear friends, good evening. To step off the beaten paths of the festival of Hanukkah, I preferred to go through this song that everyone knows, that everyone sings when the Hanukkah lights are kindled — a song composed at the beginning of this millennium, which traces, in a way, the stages that forge the messianic Jewish identity. For from the very creation we were told that the first beginnings of Israel pass through a state of tohu, vohu, and hoshekh al penei tehom — “formless, void, and darkness over the face of the deep.” Tohu, say our sages, is the Babylonian empire; vohu is the Persian empire; darkness — or obscurantism — is Greece, paradoxical as that may seem; and al penei tehom — tehom — is Rome: the abyss. Why? Because it sums up the persecutions of the three empires before it. The Babylonian sought to strip the Jewish people of its primal worship, that is, of the surge of religiosity it carried within. The second, Persia, is the age of Haman, who sought to wipe out the Jewish people physically.

And finally Greece is the one that sought to replace Judaism with a universalist movement of thought, which would reduce Jewish thought to one school among so many others. The abyss proper would be Edom: it is Edom that, in sum, would seek to drown the Jewish heart, to persecute the Jewish identity — the very reality of a Jewish nation — and finally to substitute philosophy for prophecy, or simply for the holy spirit that animated Jewish thought. For you must know that at the moment Greek philosophy makes its appearance, prophetic thought falls silent; it is condemned to silence. But even though it is condemned to silence, our sages say:

Hakham adif mi-navi — “a sage is greater than a prophet.” Why? Because the prophet receives what is transmitted to him from above and reproduces it here below, while the hakham is the one who, by his own means, uncovers prophetic thought. That is what our sages did through the Oral Torah, and we know well that the Oral Torah reaches beyond the Written Torah. The Written Law in its first form was condemned to be shattered because of the golden calf — and our sages likened the translation of the Bible into Greek to the appearance of the golden calf within Israel. As much as the Jews of Alexandria rejoiced at the chance to spread the biblical teaching across humanity, the inhabitants of Jerusalem made it a day of mourning, because they held that translating the biblical word into another language, into Greek, was a way of limiting its reach. And yet our sages approved of the translation, saying: “The beauty of Yefet shall dwell only in the tents of Shem.” That is, the beauty of Greek thought, of Greek art, of technology — Greek philosophy, in short — could find its place in the tent of Shem, provided there was no will to substitute its own thought for that of the Torah, nor any attempt to vulgarize revealed thought. For we insist that every idea, however obvious, however natural it may be — take, for example, the commandments “do not steal,” “do not kill,” which seem, so to speak, morally natural — be given the stamp of revelation, so as to place the commandment beyond its narrowed human understanding or interpretation. With this introduction, let us try to understand what the text suggests through this poem. Maoz tzur yeshuati, lekha naeh leshabe’ah. We hold that the One who was the Tzayar, the designer of the Jewish people and of its deliverance, is the Tzur: the Rock, the rampart — it is translated as “the stronghold.” And lekha naeh leshabe’ah: it is fitting — to You praise is due. For every victory in any situation, every crisis we pass through that comes to a happy end, is an occasion to praise, to give thanks to the Eternal; to recognize that in even the most natural event, in every victory we win by our own means, there is always a hand that shows itself through all these events.

We cannot, so to speak, ignore this aspect even in the smallest details, since even the blessing recited on leaving the washroom associates this natural act — relieving oneself — with mafli la’asot, the wonder of one’s own reality; and when we add to this that the neshamah, the soul, is united with it, the matter takes on an entirely different dimension. The author of this poem is aware of it, for he holds that behind every action, every stage of life, there is a Tzur, a Tzayar — a painter, an artist — who has but one aim: to establish a dwelling of prayer in His world, so that He may find His own abode there, and to set the whole relationship between the transcendent and the immanent, the particular and the universal, upon the notion of todah. Todah is related to vidui — to acknowledge. Todah means, precisely, “to thank,” but these thanks come from yad, the hand: to shake another’s hand, to give one’s hand to another. That is why our sages said that if all the offerings were to disappear, one alone would not: the thanksgiving offering, the todah.

Just as they also affirmed that if all the festivals were to disappear, Purim would not — and some add that Hanukkah too would not disappear. Why? Because the other festivals were given by the Creator to the people of Israel, and we served only as receivers; but for a festival to be revealed by us and instituted by us ourselves, as Purim was, as Hanukkah was — that is the ideal. Moreover, there is a likeness between these festivals instituted by our rabbis and the festivals instituted by the Torah. One can recognize a likeness between Purim and Shavuot: the Torah was given to the people, and we know well that those tablets were broken; but the people truly embraced the Torah when it escaped Haman’s attempt to eliminate the Jewish people. At that moment the Jews accepted and committed themselves. And I ask: to what did they commit themselves? To keep what had been given to them at the start, which they had reduced — reduced to a golden calf. What does it mean, that they reduced it to a golden calf? Imagine: a people that, forty days earlier, had witnessed the revelation of G-d at Mount Sinai.

It heard His voice, it experienced trembling and dread — and now it gives way to a golden calf and bows before it. In reality it did not change religion; it simply reduced. It reduced to its own personal stirrings of heart, to its little faith, to its own way of feeling and interpreting it. It did not seek to discover it and decode its secrets. It made of it a cult — and to make the Torah into a cult is a golden calf. There is a very important idea here, because this movement of the golden calf has not disappeared; it is still present today, and in that sense we ourselves are the cause of the breaking of the tablets of the Law.

A law reduced to a cult is worth nothing. So then let it be man who hews the tablets of the Law, and G-d who writes the Law upon the tablets hewn by man — for there must be a contribution from man. The Torah granted great importance to this contribution because — as we shall see — it is what justifies the festival of Hanukkah, which in a way closes the cycle of the festivals. As I said, Purim is connected to Shavuot; Hanukkah would be connected to Pesach, because it means leaving the tutelage of a people, as we did in Egypt; and the day will come when we celebrate the festival of Sukkot with the coming of the Messiah. Now Hanukkah is the extension of Sukkot. Why? Because Sukkot is the festival of openness: we go out of our houses, we can allow ourselves to go out. On Pesach we are gathered in upon our families; we have gained our independence, we set out toward the Promised Land, we receive the gift of the Torah on Shavuot, which is a covenant between the Jewish people and its Creator. But Sukkot is the means of not curling up upon our own values, and of aspiring to share them with others.

This movement already exists in embryonic form in Yaakov. When Yosef was born, Yaakov decided to put an end to his exile and return to the Promised Land, so he set out for his father’s house. But on the way he wages a struggle in which his name undergoes a change: from Yaakov, the name of exile, to Israel, the name of his completed identity. I say “completed identity” because it matters: new converts were not, so to speak, admitted into the family of the patriarchs, so as not to alter the embryonic constitution of the soul of Israel. You remember that a woman named Timna asked to be converted to Judaism — to the family of Avraham, or to the way of thought of Avraham’s family.

She comes to Avraham; Avraham refuses her. She comes to Yitzchak; Yitzchak refuses her. She comes to Yaakov; Yaakov refuses her. She tells herself: since they do not want me, and I want at all costs to enter this family of Avraham, I will take a side road — I will marry one of Esav’s sons, Elifaz, and in that way belong to the family of Avraham. And that is how Amalek was born. So our sages ask: could we not have avoided Amalek emerging from the refused conversion of a woman who wanted at all costs to enter Avraham’s family? And the answer is that as long as the family is not solidly constituted, bringing in a foreign element endangers its very existence. That is why there were no daughters among the patriarchs’ descendants, only sons: Avraham has Yishmael and Yitzchak; Yitzchak has Yaakov and Esav; and Yaakov has sons — but he has one daughter. And that daughter, Dina, has a tragic destiny. He does not want to give her to Esav at all; he hides her from Esav’s sight. But she falls into the hands of Shekhem and suffers violence, and becomes the object of dealings between Yaakov’s sons and the people of Shekhem — I will skip the story. In the end, the sons do not accept that their sister remain in Shekhem’s family, and they prefer to take her out of there. She already has a little daughter. So the child is sent away from the house, and she ends up, tradition tells us, with Potiphera; and Potiphera’s daughter, Asnat bat Potiphera, becomes Yosef’s future wife. Now, if you pay attention, the story of Yaakov extends over five parashiyot (weekly Torah portions), with Yosef appearing from the parashah of Vayeshev: Vayeshev, Miketz, Vayigash, Vayehi — four parashiyot devoted to Yosef. And Yosef will play an important role in Yaakov’s family. He has two children in Egypt; he rises to the post of viceroy of Egypt; he is recognized, and he will serve Egypt.

This is how the Jewish people, in its exile, will serve all the nations that receive it, that recognize it, among which it will make its mark and through which it will communicate. Little by little it distills its own values — and what are those values? We can say, or we have already said, that Yosef taught Egypt the notion of Elokim, of a Creator who governs His world. On the national level, he introduced an agrarian arrangement close to Marx’s, nationalizing all the land and distributing its revenue evenly to the whole population. And he also passed on to Egypt the resolution of certain “Freudian” problems, let us put it that way: he interprets people’s dreams, their inner preoccupations.

It is a movement Yosef holds dear: once the identity of Israel has been realized, one must try to let all participants benefit from it — that is, all the inhabitants of the earth. One must know how to share with others. It is generous of him, and that is why he does not seek to renew contact with his parents, with his brothers, who do not share his dreams or his deepest aspirations — to bind alumim, sheaves, and to bring about the recognition of the stars of heaven bowing down before us, submitting together to our science, to our knowledge, to our way of seeing things. This is a current inaugurated by Yosef together with Dina — the only daughter of the patriarchs, who passes through a foreign matrix and finds herself joined with Yosef — to say, through the name of the first son: “G-d has made me forget my father’s house and all my toil,” all my pains and sufferings, because here I fulfill myself completely; and through the second, Ephraim: “For G-d has made me fruitful in the land of my affliction.”

In other words: I have accomplished my mission. But it is a mission condemned to failure, since Yosef will draw his brothers into the exile of Egypt, which will last four hundred years, as we know; and the return will come about through an intervention, through a miraculous providence of G-d that brings the people of Israel back to its fold. People thought the moment had come. No — the moment had not come, because the Egyptians sought to pass their culture through the Jewish matrix and did not grant that Jewish matrix the recognition it had hoped for. As you see: “A new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Yosef.” Well, the story is not over.

We know well that Egypt, at the outset, concentrates within itself all the other exiles, and Rome, at the end, concentrates all the other exiles. And that is what the author does here in this song, saying: “My soul was sated with troubles, my strength was spent in sorrow; they embittered my life with hardship under the bondage of the kingdom of Eglah” — I will not go back over that: Eglah is Egypt — “and by His outstretched hand deliverance came forth; Pharaoh’s army and all his offspring sank like a stone into the deep.” Well, I will not dwell on that now. Next, let us speak of Zerubavel: “He brought me into His holy sanctuary, yet even there I found no rest. The oppressor came and exiled me, for I had served strangers; I had mixed a poisoned wine, and I nearly perished.”

“The end of Babel — Zerubavel; at the end of seventy years I was saved.” That said, here too our sages catalogued these four servitudes — enslavements, subjugations to foreign empires — through the expressions ahoti, ra’yati, yonati, tamati: ahoti, my sister; ra’yati, my companion; then yonati, my dove; and tamati, my twin — read not tamati but te’omati. In other words, the Jewish people, despite everything, at the heart of these crises and sufferings, retained something that led it to bear witness, at all costs, to its attachment to its roots, to its origins. So it was in Babel, so it was in Persia, and so it was also with Yevanim nikbetzu alai: when the Greeks gathered, they banded together against me… Why Yevanim nikbetzu alai, azai bimei Hashmanim?

Quite simply because the Greeks acknowledged the reach of Jewish thought — but stripped it of its revealed character. For them, if G-d created the world, He will not stoop to governing it; He has no concern for human problems; it is up to His creatures to take their responsibilities in hand. Consequently, Greek philosophy would sweep away all prophetic thought — all the prophetic existence of thought — and reduce it to a mode of rational thought: everything that does not obey reason is the refuse of thought. That is why the Greeks set about forbidding the study of Torah, the practice of milah (circumcision) on the physical plane and the study of Torah on the plane of the spirit, and the observance of Shabbat and the Jewish calendar.

Now, to attack the management of time — which begins with the sanctification of Shabbat — to deny the Jewish people’s ability to sanctify time through Rosh Chodesh, to disparage milah as a means of perfecting the creation of man, to eliminate the study of Torah as a source of revelation: that was indeed to condemn the Jewish people to a movement of assimilation, whereby it could exist only as one community among the nations. That is why the text says azai bimei Hashmanim, “then, in the days of the Hasmoneans.” Now, as I told you earlier, after G-d’s revelation at Mount Sinai there was a will among the people to reduce: to turn the revealed laws simply into a cult, and not to see in them a support for a thought reaching beyond — a support for prophetic thought that, on the contrary, demanded to be decoded and broadened.

Now Aharon the Kohen gave way to this attempt of the people after the revelation. It now falls to him, through his descendants, to set things right — just as he himself tried to make amends by pursuing the instigators of the golden calf. Those descendants are the Hashmonaim, the Hasmoneans; and the instigators of the calf, this time, are the movement of the Mityavnim (Hellenizers) — that Greco-Syrian movement of Jews who assimilated to this thought and sought to serve Judaism by way of a foreign one. So who will now redeem the situation? The kohanim — those very kohanim who were presented to us in the story of Alexander of Macedon going out to meet the Kohen Gadol, who put on his ceremonial vestments to go out and meet him and to tell him: take care — there is a way to make these two cultures coexist, provided one accepts that the voice of the prophets has not been silenced, and that it continues to vibrate on the lips of the sages, those who devote themselves to uncovering the secrets of the Torah.

Unfortunately, this message was not heard. That is why it was said that Yavan is hoshekh, darkness. Why? Because “it darkened the eyes of Israel.” They blinded, they clouded, the sight of the people of Israel. You know how one can say that the light of Greece — with all its art, all its philosophy, its mathematics, all its technology — darkened it? It is the meeting of two great lights: when two lights cross, and one imposes itself on the other, it creates a zone of shadow. That is the zone created by all those who wished to yield to the allure of Greek thought. And that is nikbetzu alai: they besieged me. They besieged me with all their culture.

I, for my part, was not open to all that. It was a movement begun by Yosef, and which we, in a sense, halted, because we were not yet sure of ourselves; we did not have the weapons to fight. And they had already made breaches in my walls — u-fartzu homot migdalai. What does it mean, they made breaches? You know, there were thirteen ramparts around the Sanctuary, and they were posts of inspection against infiltration — like mahsomim, you know, checkpoints. There were checkpoints; there is a hierarchy in the sacred; one cannot simply pass through. Now these thirteen checkpoints corresponded to the thirteen measures by which G-d governs His world,

which were invoked after the sin of the golden calf: Hashem, Hashem, El rahum ve-hanun. Thirteen attributes of kindness are named there, when Moshe asks to know how G-d governs His world. He tells him: here, if you wish to understand it — these are the thirteen ramparts. So they, the Greeks, destroyed them; they destroyed them, they made breaches. And when the Hasmoneans won their victory, they did not build new walls. No — they simply tried to seal the breaches. And why? Because the possibility of coexistence between these two cultures is not to be ruled out, provided each recognizes its limits. And so, even among those who wish to enter the Holy of Holies — not everyone may enter the Holy of Holies.

The outsider who dares to approach without the required qualities is condemned to die. The Greeks, precisely, wanted a uniform democracy — yes, one reduced to uniformity, where everyone is the same. And that is ve-tim’u kol ha-shemanim: they defiled all the oils. All the oils — and one must understand what ve-tim’u kol ha-shemanim means. You know, it is not because an oil has been made impure that it will not burn. And in any case it is permitted to light the Menorah in the Sanctuary even in a state of impurity. So it could have been done. This zeal of the Hasmoneans to find a flask of oil is not even mentioned in the texts of praise we recite around the lights.

When we kindle the lights, we know that the mitzvah of Hanukkah is praise itself, and that is what we speak of. In the text Ha-nerot halalu anu madlikin, or in the text inserted into the prayer, Al ha-nissim ve-al ha-purkan ve-al ha-gevurot, we do not mention the miracle of the flask of oil at all. The flask of oil came afterward, grafted onto the first miracle, the triumph: rabbim be-yad me’atim, teme’im be-yad tehorim, zedim be-yad oskei Toratekha — the many into the hands of the few, the impure into the hands of the pure, the wanton into the hands of those who engage in Your Torah. Now here we understand that gibborim be-yad halashim, the mighty into the hands of the weak, is of course a feat; that rabbim be-yad me’atim, the many into the hands of the few, is also an event.

Now I say: in the affairs of this earth, that those who act wickedly, who are unbelievers, who declare themselves unbelievers, should fall before those who practice the Law or who engage in the Law — this does not seem to stand in the same balance of forces as the others, because that is entirely normal; it obeys a logic. What the text means is that what matters is this: everything belonging to the natural order became inscribed in a supernatural dimension from the moment the people sought to restore this inspiration — this divine presence — in human thought, in man’s way of progressing, of decoding the way, the word of G-d.

Well, that is ve-tim’u kol ha-shemanim: all those lights that could have come forth from opaque matter and helped to illuminate the world — left in a raw state. Tum’ah, impurity, is when matter does not yield its energy, when it does not develop its potential, when it does not reach its ends. But the shoshanim — those roses with thirteen petals, as the Zohar says, which are Knesset Yisrael, the assembly of Israel — like the rose among the thorns and brambles, rise with head held high from the remnant of the flasks. U-mi-notar kankanim, the remnant of the flasks: that is what they found, enough to light for one day. There one had to be exacting about purity — that is, about the force of energy one can draw from the oil itself, from raw matter — and this applies to all the elements of creation, from their very root. Na’aseh nes la-shoshanim: then there was a miracle.

How can we say there was a miracle? Not the miracle of eight days. You know, this miracle of eight days was in reality only seven days; it is a well-known question. So we ought not to have said that the miracle lasted eight days, since it lasted seven. But when the natural meets the supernatural — since we hold that even the natural is a nes nistar, a hidden miracle — one must know its message; and in everything that seems to us to belong to pure reason, there is still an element that escapes our understanding and itself belongs to the miraculous. Only the benei vinah, those who understand, who have this intelligence, who know how to discern it, absorb the natural into the supernatural. And because they reached this level — absorbing the natural into the supernatural, seeing the hand of G-d showing itself through events — kav’u shir u-renanim, they instituted songs and praises. Now these songs and praises were indeed condemned, I would say, to lose momentum after two hundred years, because the Hasmoneans, those who had defended the original project, did not remain faithful to their struggle; little by little they too took up that Hellenist current, like many of their brothers, and there came a certain division within the Jewish people. From then on our sages abolished all the institutions, all the decrees, all the laws put forward by the Hasmoneans, and kept only this one. That is why the kindling of the lights — secondary compared with the victory won by the Hasmoneans, for that victory was about restoring Israel’s dignity in its own land — is what we have kept throughout the exile: this small light which, in our eyes, represents the struggle that continues at the threshold of our door, facing the darkness that envelops the world. It is only a small light, but whoever commits to keeping it alive will, in turn, come to transcend the natural order and settle in the supernatural. That is the very nerve of Hanukkah, its principal origin.

When the Greeks forbade the practice of milah, there was a mahteret — an underground, a resistance. But how did they let people know that in this house a boy had been born and that his milah would be on such-and-such a day? On the first day they lit a small light in the window; on the second day they lit a second light — meaning that in six days there would be a circumcision. And that is where we took, in a way, the secret of these eight days — the eight days of the milah forbidden by the Greeks — which joined the miracle of the flask of oil, which surpassed its own limits. We know well where this light is placed: at the threshold of our doors, as I said, for the mezuzah is on one side, and the light opposite it.

Mezuzah — from the verb zuz, to move. We must move, that is certain; we are not going to shut ourselves up in our homes, in our way of thinking. We must be able to share — that is a fact — but it must be done through a light, little by little, and not by the reverse movement advocated by Beit Shammai, namely decreasing the light. For in decreasing this light, Beit Shammai aspires to peace; he would want at all costs to diminish the fire. But it is not fire that we see in these lights; it is the possibility of sharing divine thought, transcendent thought, with the rest of humanity. And we hope to arrive with it at messianic times, which constitute the third festival, completing the path of Sukkot — since Sukkot is eight days and Hanukkah is eight days.

On Sukkot we complete the Hallel, we recite it in full; on Hanukkah too we recite the full Hallel. The difference is that Hanukkah has no festival day as such: we remain in everyday life, we live as usual; there is nothing special. It is simply a matter of taking care to kindle this light at nightfall, when darkness covers the world — until what is habitual, the tendency to lapse into routine and custom, is swept away. At that moment people will recognize what the people of Israel has brought to humanity. There — I will stop here; I think I have gone over my time. If there are questions, with pleasure.

— May I ask a question? — Yes. — I have not read the book called The Thirteen-Petalled Rose, but I was wondering whether there is a connection between these thirteen petals and the thirteen walls. — Yes. — So it is a comparison? — Yes, of course. This thirteen-petalled rose is the assembly of Israel. And this assembly of Israel indeed had to respect the rules of entry into the Sanctuary’s precinct: one could not enter in a state of impurity — and I linked that state of impurity to a confined mind. A fitting thing to say these days. — You spoke of the connection with the thirteen attributes of kindness. What are the thirteen attributes of kindness? Could you try to explain?

— Hashem, Hashem, El rahum ve-hanun: Hashem before the sin — and He has a way of behaving toward man after the sin. He tries to win him back, He unfolds His mercy, He shows favor to man. At times He sets strict truth aside to allow man — He lowers Himself to man’s truth — to make amends a little. All these attributes of kindness are a way for G-d to attune Himself to man. They are G-d’s attributes of kindness. — So they are not attributes of kindness that man must possess? — No — they are ones from which man draws inspiration. — Ah, from which man draws inspiration. — Yes. — Another question. I would like to come back to something. You say we will always be an example for the whole world and so on, but in the meantime, people hate us. — You know, you need only look at the popularity of this festival of Hanukkah, not only among the religious but among everyone. I believe Hanukkah is celebrated by the non-religious world more than Kippur, isn’t it? People have made Hanukkah more of a national festival […]; it looks, unfortunately, as though they are lighting Christmas lights at Hanukkah. And it is not for nothing that this whole story of Yosef and his brothers coincides with the Hanukkah season, and coincides with the tekufah of Tevet (the winter solstice). For our sages said that the eight days we celebrate also go back to man after his sin — because this temptation to transgress the divine word at its origin and to reduce it to one’s own human thought, to human knowledge, Adam committed through the Etz ha-Da’at, the Tree of Knowledge. He saw — so it is said — that the days were growing shorter and that darkness was enveloping the world little by little.

Then came the tekufah of Tevet — and we are there now. When he saw that the days were beginning to lengthen — and we will soon mark this lengthening of the days — he took heart again. He said: the world is not lost; there is a possibility of recovery, of teshuvah (return, repentance). And there he paid homage to G-d for the possibility he had been given to recover by himself — after leaving the Garden of Eden, of course. Now, the twenty-fifth […]: just as there is a morphology of the human being, there is a morphology of time, a morphology of space. Some lands are far more […] than others; some lands are far more communicative than others. Some times are far more favorable to certain events than others. That is why our sages say that as one approaches Tisha b’Av, festivities should be limited — because these are moments in the course of time that do not offer man the possibility of flourishing more than is fitting.

Whereas there are also lands that obstruct man’s vision, which is not the case with certain others. So this morphology of time, this morphology of space means that today we say that wherever Avraham set foot, he already knew, he had already seen, already perceived what would happen later. It is the same in time: ma’aseh avot siman la-banim, the deeds of the fathers are a sign for the children. A very simple example: Shabbat was instituted in the order of creation, but the observance of Shabbat was imposed only much later — yet it was sanctified long before. Pesach, say our sages, was celebrated by Lot when he welcomed the angels.

Yom Kippur is the day of the binding of Yitzchak, but Kippur was instituted only much later. So there are moments in time that carry a reality which will arrive decades — even hundreds of years — later. In embryonic form, these events exist in time; in embryonic form, they exist in space; and they are also carried in embryonic form by man, as they were carried by the avot, the patriarchs. And we are their carriers. But the moment of revelation has not yet come; it has not yet arrived. — Okay. — There we are. — Well then, thank you very much. — Thank you. — Well, if there are no other questions, I bid you farewell. — Thank you very much, Rav Benizri, and thank you for today’s shiur (lesson).

— So, about next week: I wanted to tell you that next week there is no shiur, no class. — Yes. All right. — There is no class because it falls on the fourth candle of Hanukkah, on Sunday. So the next class is in two weeks, on February 20th, and we resume the Midrash Rabbah. There. Thank you very much, and goodbye. — Thank you very much. — Hello, Julie. — […] within the natural — in any case, light for each of us. — Exactly. In these difficult times. — There we go, goodbye. — Thank you very much. — Thank you, Luc and Emmanuel. — Thank you very much. — Hello, Marc. — Hi, Nannel. — Hi, Nannel. Hi, sweetheart. — This is all very nice. It’s interesting.