A Short Exercise in Reading Comprehension: What Is Diversity? – Continued (Column 536)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

In the previous column I posted a piece by Livnat Ben-Hamo as an exercise in reading comprehension. As I wrote in the comments, the responses prove that the exercise is very necessary on the one hand, but on the other hand, in my view they clearly show that it failed. My sense is that most of the commenters failed in reading comprehension even when reading the exercise itself. So I decided to continue, in order to focus the discussion on reading comprehension and what it means. My main goal is to lay out the contours of critical reading and reading comprehension. I will not offer here a detailed, orderly analysis of her article or of my column, because that seems excessive, and applying such an analysis is fairly self-evident anyway. So, apologies for the disproportionate digression; I probably won’t continue with this further, but at least allow me to pull from the fire the chestnuts that are already in it.

The first three steps: the author’s position

1. When we come to discuss any article—at least in the realm of op-ed writing—the first question we should ask is: What is its main claim (if it has one)? What is it trying to say? An encyclopedia entry does not always advance a specific claim; neither does a literary work or a poem. But an op-ed usually does. That doesn’t mean there aren’t additional claims, various arguments, asides, and so on—but the most important question for reading comprehension is: What is the article’s main claim?

It’s important to understand that the main claim is not always clear from what is written, and of course interpretive disagreements may arise about what it is. It doesn’t always appear at the beginning or the end, and sometimes it isn’t explicitly stated at all. This depends on the quality of the writing or the writer’s decisions about how to present the material. There is no exact science for determining it. But in most cases, a discerning reader who devotes effort to locating the main claim will arrive at the same interpretation. Disputes or mistakes are sometimes the result of inattention, a lack of skill in reading comprehension, or bias and gut reaction (the reader chooses to focus on what angers or excites them and treats that as central, even if it isn’t the main claim of the article).

The article’s headline can be a decent hint about its main claim, but it’s important to keep in mind that in newspapers and various websites, headlines are written by the editorial desk, not by the author. This can lead to the possibility that the desk itself misunderstood the piece, or—more commonly—that it chose a headline for ratings or for some literary consideration, rather than because it truly reflects the article’s main claim. Therefore, using the headline should be done with caution.

Finally, to sharpen the main claim, it’s important to set it against the alternative it opposes. For example, if the article’s main claim argues for consequentialist ethics, the critical reader who formulates the article’s main claim should also explain the alternatives this claim seeks to reject.

2. After identifying the main claim and what it rejects, we can examine what else is going on in the article. At this stage, we should distinguish between two types of components:

• Arguments in favor of the main claim. These too do not always appear clearly, and are not always presented as arguments—certainly not as such with a stated purpose. But intelligent reading will usually be able to locate these relevant arguments (if there are any), and if not—point to their absence.
• Beyond the two previous components (1 and 2a), additional, more peripheral content may appear. We should try to understand the role of each such component (does it strengthen the main thesis, is it merely an aside, a counter-argument, an example, a purely literary flourish, etc.).

3. In the third stage, we must identify the concepts involved in these claims and arguments and determine whether the author defined them; if not—formulate the definition the author presupposes.

In principle, all these stages should be done without criticism. Before we formulate and present criticism, we must present the author’s position in the most charitable and reasonable way possible. This is the principle of charity (see on this in column 440). One should present the arguments fully, including all the underlying assumptions, even if the author did not bother to do so. We must do the work in their place.

Formulating and presenting the critique

Once we have cleared these three hurdles, we have a thesis in hand, and now comes the time for critique. For simplicity, I will focus the discussion on criticizing the main claim. At this stage, the claim involves concepts that should be properly and accurately defined, propositions (premises, conclusions, and alternative conclusions), and arguments. Therefore, at the critique stage one may contend that the concepts are not well defined, that the propositions (that is, the premises and/or the conclusion) are not true or do not assert anything sharp. One may argue that their basis is flawed, that the arguments for the main claim are invalid (the conclusion does not follow from the premises) or that they rest on false assumptions. Only after that may the critic present their own critical conclusion.

Critique of a critique

It goes without saying that when critiquing a critical article, one must perform all these stages for both the article under review and the critic’s article, and only then present one’s critical conclusion. In our case, anyone who wishes to critique my previous column ought to analyze Ben-Hamo’s article according to the foregoing schema, then do all of this for my critical column as well, and only then present their own claim: determine whether I am right or wrong, and whether she is right or wrong.

Most of the comments on the previous column did not do this for her article nor for mine (if one doesn’t do this for her article, it is very hard to do it for mine, since the second is derived from the first), and therefore they failed to understand both her article and mine.

Between theory and practice

I assume that upon reading this, some readers may feel I’m exaggerating. After all, some writer decided to post a Facebook post about a point that came to mind. What do I want from their life?! This is not a piece in philosophy or science (and even there, of course, it’s not always done), and not a polished logical or mathematical argument. We can and should cut such a writer some slack. But that is a mistake. A Facebook column may be granted leeway in style and precision. But if it advances a claim, that claim itself must hold water. It must be presented in a way that allows the reader at least to fill in what’s missing—that is, the omissions point to brevity inherent in popular writing, not to a flaw in the argument. Therefore we may grant an op-ed writer concessions about form and presentation, not about the quality of the argument.

Clearly, everything I’ve outlined so far is a theory of critical reading. In practice, we don’t always go through all the stages. An op-ed writer does not always take care to lay out all definitions, sharpen the claims, explicitly present all the premises, and formulate all arguments in a well-structured way. None of this is necessarily a failing, since writing—certainly op-ed writing—is more complex and less mathematical than a logical analysis of an argument, and rightly so. Such articles are meant to be read, and therefore literary considerations also come into play: what to present and how, and what not to. Some things are self-evident and there is no reason to state them explicitly. For this reason there is a stage in the literature called “completing enthymemes,” namely, filling in premises and claims the author did not present (according to the principle of charity), thereby turning the text into a complete, well-formulated logical argument. In many cases we don’t actually do this, but it should nonetheless be inferable from the text. An op-ed argument need not be fully explicit, but it must be such that the necessary completions can be made. There can be justification for not stating them explicitly if they are obvious and the author merely shortened or sketched due to various considerations. But sometimes this isn’t done because there truly is a problem, and then one should indeed sink one’s critical teeth into that point, and it is not correct to grant the op-ed writer a pass.

Claims that we ought to be generous toward popular writers and not badger readers with logical critiques of some random online column render our discussions valueless. This is not literature, which I read by criteria of enjoyment. This is op-ed writing that comes to advance something, and arguments are assessed for truth and validity. Therefore, if the argument doesn’t hold water, it should not be accepted—even if the writer is an op-ed writer or just an ordinary person and not a philosopher. We accept an argument if it is true; if not—then we should not accept it. As it is said, “You shall not favor the poor in his dispute”: if someone is wrong, they are wrong, even if they are under-resourced. Whether to blame the writer for that is a matter for a court of law—that’s not my concern here. But if we care about the argument, we should treat it seriously and respectfully, just as we would a philosophy book. An argument must be examined seriously and must withstand such examination. Those who want a pass should not write arguments but rather stories or poems (even there I wouldn’t grant a pass, but not on the logic of the argument—rather on literary-poetic planes).

I now return to the previous column and do this briefly, mainly to give feedback on the comments that were posted there.

My critique of Livnat Ben-Hamo’s article

When I read her article, the general tenor led me to think she wanted to attack the Hardal (Haredi-national-religious) education for lacking sufficient diversity and perhaps sufficient openness—or simply because it doesn’t suit her diversified temperament. The absence of the “normal religious person” seems like a metaphor meant to say there are fifty shades of religiosity, and Hardalism has no monopoly (and perhaps Hardalism is even something pathological, not “normal”). She is looking for a school that will encompass these fifty shades and that will not reject everything and everyone who doesn’t look like us. That is indeed in the background, and it joins many posts of this sort that come from the “religious-lite” direction (and not only from there). This thesis is supported by several statements about the importance of integration and diversity, and the desire to see all this in her children’s school.

But this immediately raises the question: What’s wrong with the Mamad (the state-religious school system)? That is precisely its agenda. My attention therefore focused on the sentences in which she rejects the Mamad because it includes traditional and secular families. Yet these sentences placed me before a shattered interpretive trough: Does she want to broaden the circle or narrow it? Apparently both—broaden relative to Hardal, but narrow relative to the Mamad. In effect, she wants diversity at an intermediate level: not as narrow as Hardal, but not as broad as Mamad. But the practical meaning is that her main aim is to narrow.

Perhaps she had some intermediate model in mind, but I cannot understand what it is. If she is willing to forgo clear halachic elements like head-covering, then which elements, in her view, are non-negotiable? And why does she think these are agreed upon by all “normal religious people”? Everyone has their own taste, and if halacha isn’t the deciding factor, I don’t know what is. Seemingly this is just a desire to be surrounded by those similar to me—which is why I wrote that this is less legitimate than the filtering practiced by Hardal, which is done for substantive educational reasons.

My conclusion was that she doesn’t want Hardal simply because that’s not her direction, not because it’s too narrow. The kind of diversity she proposes exists there too—just in other directions. I’m sure they have no problem with those who focus on Emunat Iteinu, Part I, along with those who prefer Part II, or Part קיט, or The Redeeming Torah of Rav Tzvi Yehuda. They too are entirely “diverse” and “flexible” in her sense. Is the problem that they disqualify others outside their “diversity”? She does that as well. She is open to diversity around women wearing pants, blessings before or after food (perhaps), and the like. But she is not open to the diversity practiced in the Mamad (though in my opinion it is very similar to what emerges from her words). She also seems to seek a very specific model for the age at which to separate boys and girls (not before elementary school and not after it). I therefore don’t see the difference. Why is separation in elementary school more “diverse” than separation before elementary school? This is one narrow thesis versus another. She seeks a different direction that suits her more—and that is entirely legitimate—but that too is bound to be narrow, just in a different direction.

The comments

My conclusion was that her words do not come to defend a particular religious stance (an alternative to Hardal), but to demand greater diversity. Therefore I did not come to critique her religious direction, nor her fidelity to halacha. Hence there is no point arguing with me about whether not covering one’s hair or singing before men is legitimate. I didn’t even speak about the problematic nature of the narrow school she seeks. It is legitimate to want a narrow school (though, as I noted, it is preferable that this be for substantive educational reasons and not merely a desire to be surrounded by people like me—especially when it is presented as a desire for diversity. But that was only a side comment on my part).

Note that in my headline (which I myself gave, not an editor—it was not a desk or staff that misunderstood my intent) I pointed to a problem that may arise in reading comprehension of her words, and I wrote that my remarks address that. I argued that ostensibly her aim is to critique Hardal narrowness and to call for expanding the range, whereas reading her words shows that this is not so. She seeks a different, narrow direction—and that’s all. After I sharpened this, some commenters proposed an interpretation whereby there really is such a middle-range width—broader than Hardal, but less than Mamad.

For some reason, they chose to ignore the fact that I myself wrote in the column that if I were to ask her, she would likely say that this is indeed her position. That seems fairly plausible to me in light of the overall context of her words. The question I dealt with was how this relates to what she actually wrote, and why she thinks this counts as diversity. I noted the difference between the breeze that wafts over the superficial reader and the actual content that emerges from a more careful reading of her words.

In the comments, some understood me as criticizing her direction or her fidelity to halacha. But that is a mistake in reading comprehension of my column (I explicitly wrote that this was not my intention. I wrote that her proposal is semi-legitimate, even if, in my opinion, less so than the Hardal model that filters on a substantive educational basis rather than the subjective personal taste she proposes). There were those who offered a different reading of her words, according to which she does propose a broader direction, albeit not unlimited in breadth. But here, in my view, there is a problem in reading comprehension of her own words. According to these suggestions, there exists a mid-range breadth model to which she refers.

But there are two main problems with this: (1) There is no support for it in her words (she mentions no criterion, and nothing can be inferred from that). (2) It is unclear in what sense this is broader than what is common in Hardal education. If this were the article’s aim, I would expect her to devote a few sentences clarifying exactly what falls under her definition of diversity and what remains outside it. She left that to the reader. For example, I wrote to one commenter that MK Michael Biton is traditional, yet she wants him within her model—even as what bothers her about the Mamad is that it includes traditional families. Michael Biton advocates the Mamad as it is (in the broadest sense, including far more secular participation than is usual).

One can say this is an excessive use of the principle of charity. Clearly, any article can be rescued from any critique by importing content that isn’t there and positing that this is probably what the author meant, and therefore the critique doesn’t stand. But that way you leave not a single critic—even for Abraham our forefather. With charity so lavish, no thesis on earth can be criticized anymore. The article’s main claim should emerge from it in some way, not by such a wild deconstruction born of the reader’s imagination. Even if the reader is right that this is what the author intended (and I think that is the case here, as I also wrote in the previous column), the critique of the article still stands. An article is not supposed to convey its central message by the reader’s educated guesswork. It is supposed to explain it to the reader.

Conclusion

In short, my critique can also be phrased as focused on the vagueness of her words: it is not clear what exactly her main claim is (this may be coherent and defensible, but in any case it emerges only from the reader’s inference and is not stated in the article). There are contradictions and built-in ambiguity, and given that this concerns her main claim, that is a problem. The root of the problem, in my estimation, lies in the concept of a “normal religious person,” which in fact does not express a defined idea other than “a religious person who looks like me.” Hence, the sense of diversity and breadth she feels with respect to her model is subjective. The ordinary Mamad that I know fits precisely the model of those who want a religious education without making too much of a fuss about this or that detail. But she does want to make a fuss about certain details and not about others. If that is what she means, then as I wrote, there are 2¹⁰⁰⁰ such (narrow) models.

My sense is that some of her defenders wrote out of identification with her religious stance, and perhaps out of opposition to the “religiosity” that they thought I represented. These agendas led them to misread the dispute—both on her side and on mine. In my view, a clean reading shows that there is an ambiguity here that rises to the level of contradiction, and my main message was that there is a very large difference—indeed an inversion—between the initial impression her words create and what is actually written there. That was the central point of my column. The rest (such as my remark about the semi-legitimacy of separating on the basis of outward similarity rather than on an educational-substantive basis) were side notes.