Assad and Esav Will Be Forgotten — Only the Righteous Will Be Remembered

It’s a sight that the world has seen time and again  — but somehow, it is a shock each time it happens. A vicious tyrant brought low, his carefully constructed empire crumbling and collapsing under the weight of its own brutality. This week, it happened — and it unfolded before our eyes in real-time.

Bashar al-Assad, the once-dominant ruler of Syria — and son of a father who was the dominant ruler of Syria — appeared untouchable. Despite 13 years of civil war, Assad held onto power, aided and abetted in his authoritarian rule by Iran and Russia, always there to ensure the rebels never seized control.

But history is merciless to those who rule through fear alone.

Like so many despots before him, Assad’s spectacular fall was both inevitable and cautionary, echoing the collapse of countless oppressive regimes in recent history: Ceausescu in Romania, Gaddafi in Libya, and Saddam Hussein in Iraq.

But Assad’s fate not only echoes these modern fallen tyrants; it also follows a far older script. One could compare him to Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, the infamous Fatimid Caliph of Egypt, whose erratic and oppressive rule alienated his people and plunged his reign into chaos, and earned him the title, the “Mad Caliph.”

Ascending the throne in 996 at the tender age of 11, Al-Hakim initially showed promise but quickly descended into a pattern of bizarre and despotic behavior — not unlike Bashar al-Assad, the seemingly gentle and refined ophthalmologist from London who, in 2000, succeeded his father Hafez amid widespread international hope that he would usher in a softer, more progressive era for Syria, only to perpetuate and even amplify his father’s oppressive rule.

Just like Assad, Al-Hakim enforced laws that bewildered and terrorized his subjects. Religious minorities, particularly Christians and Jews, but also Muslims, faced fierce persecution and vicious pogroms, which included the destruction of their places of worship.

Even his own advisors and allies began questioning his sanity as he declared himself a divine figure. In 1021, Al-Hakim mysteriously disappeared, and many believe that he was assassinated by those closest to him.

And what about Al-Musta’sim, the last Abbasid Caliph of Baghdad, whose complacency in the face of danger ended in the catastrophic Mongol destruction of his capital and his own humiliating death in 1258?

Al-Musta’sim presided over a city once the jewel of the Islamic world. But by his time, the Abbasid Caliphate had been reduced to little more than a shadow of its former glory. The caliph, known for his indecisiveness and weak leadership, grossly underestimated the threat posed by the marauding Mongols, led by Hulagu Khan, who were systematically conquering the surrounding regions.

And the similarities to Assad don’t end there. Despite repeated warnings and opportunities to prepare for an inevitable attack, Al-Musta’sim faltered, failing to muster an adequate defense or seek effective alliances. His arrogance and misplaced confidence in Baghdad’s reputation as an invincible cultural and religious hub left the city exposed.

When the Mongols finally laid siege to Baghdad, they met little resistance, and the ensuing massacre was one of the most devastating and violent in medieval history. Hundreds of thousands of residents were slaughtered, the city’s famed libraries — including the House of Wisdom — were burned, and Baghdad was left in ruins.

As for Al-Musta’sim himself, he was captured by Hulagu, who rolled him up in a carpet and had him trampled to death by horses. His demise marked not only the end of the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad but was also a powerful demonstration of the brutal consequences of leadership defined by complacency and miscalculation — not dissimilar to what we saw this week.

But perhaps most evocative of all, in light of what we saw this week, is the story of Boabdil — Abu Abdallah Muhammad XII, the last Muslim Sultan of Granada, who surrendered his kingdom to Spain’s Catholic Monarchs in 1492.

As Boabdil fled into exile, he reportedly stopped on a hillside to look back at his lost realm. Overcome with grief, he began to weep, prompting his mother’s scornful rebuke: “You weep like a woman for what you could not defend as a man.”

One wonders if anyone whispered those words or something similar to Assad as he hightailed it to Moscow this week, leaving his country in tatters. Like Boabdil, Assad’s reign ends not with dignity or resolution, but in disgrace, as he leaves Syria shattered and divided, with much of its territory in the hands of Islamic fanatics whose brutality rivals his own.

History’s judgment of Assad will be as unforgiving as that of Boabdil: a ruler whose failures were both inevitable and avoidable and whose legacy is one of ruin.

And yet, as we reflect on the dramatic fall of Assad and the forgotten legacies of tyrants and losers like Al-Hakim, Al-Musta’sim, and Boabdil, we are reminded of a striking passage in the Torah that provides timeless insight into the nature of power and legacy. In Parshat Vayishlach, the Torah lists the names of Esav’s descendants — one “Aluf” after another (Gen. 36:15-43): “Aluf Teiman, Aluf Omar, Aluf Zepho, Aluf Kenaz…”

The Aluf titles imply chieftains, leaders, mighty figures in their time. But the question is inescapable: Why does the Torah dedicate precious space to these forgotten, seemingly irrelevant people? What purpose does this passage serve, recounting a lineage that has no lasting significance?

The answer lies in the Torah’s subtle but profound message about the nature of power. These were individuals who, in their day, seemed mighty and important, wielding authority and commanding respect. People lived or died at their whim. Armies marched, land was conquered, lives were impacted.

And yet their power was fleeting and shallow, rooted purely in conquest and temporal strength. They left behind no meaningful legacy, no enduring contribution to humanity, and no ethical framework by which the world might remember them. Their names survive only as worthless reminders of how empty their power truly was, and how history has erased them from any narrative of significance.

Contrast this with Jacob and his descendants, whose legacy transcends physical power or political dominance. Jacob’s strength — and the enduring legacy of the Jewish people — lies in the covenant with God, the divine ethical rule they uphold, and the moral compass they provide to the world.

While the Alufim of Esav’s lineage have faded into obscurity, their power nothing more than a historical footnote, Jacob’s descendants continue to endure and thrive, making their positive mark wherever they are. Their influence is not measured in fleeting military victories or in their ability to kill or torture those they control, but in the eternal values they represent.

The juxtaposition is striking and deliberate. Bashar al-Assad, like Esav and his descendants, may have controlled territory and wielded the power to kill hundreds of thousands of people, but in the end — he was and is nothing, and his legacy is nothing.

The power of the Esavs and the Assads, no matter how overwhelming it may be in their day, is hollow when measured against the enduring values of justice, compassion, and faith. Ultimately, it is not the Alufim of the world who are remembered, but those who commit themselves to something far greater than themselves. Such people are recalled forever, and their deeds are remembered and valued for eternity.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.

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