Decades had passed since Joseph was sold into slavery, and now he stood as a powerful figure, face-to-face with his youngest brother. It's a powerful moment ripe with unspoken emotion.
But the conversation, as the Legends of the Jews (Ginzberg) recounts it, starts quite practically. Joseph, still testing the waters, the loyalties of his brothers, begins with simple questions. He asks Benjamin if he has a brother from the same mother. Benjamin replies, sadly, "I had one, but I do not know what hath become of him." The weight of that unknown hangs heavy in the air. Can you imagine the pain and the years of searching implied in those words?
Then Joseph asks about Benjamin's family. "Hast thou a wife?" he inquires.
Benjamin replies by listing his sons, each name a tiny, poignant memorial: "Bela, and Becher, and Ashbel, Gera, and Naaman, Ehi, and Rosh, Muppim, and Huppim, and Ard."
Joseph, ever observant, is struck by the unusual names. "Why didst thou give them such peculiar names?" he asks.
And here, the dam of unspoken grief and longing begins to break. Benjamin explains, each name a whispered prayer, a lament for the lost brother, Joseph.
"Bela," Benjamin explains, "because my brother disappeared among the peoples." Bela hints at swallowing up or disappearance. Can you feel the sorrow, the feeling of Joseph being lost in the vastness of the world?
"Becher," he continues, "he was the first-born son of my mother." Becher means first-born, a constant reminder of the place Joseph held in their mother Rachel’s heart.
"Ashbel," he adds, "he was taken away from my father." Ashbel suggests captivity, the pain of separation etched into his very being.
"Gera," Benjamin says, "he dwells a stranger in a strange land." Gera means sojourner or stranger, a reflection of Joseph’s exile.
"Naaman," he murmurs, "he was exceedingly lovely." Naaman speaks of pleasantness and beauty, a memory of Joseph's inherent goodness.
"Ehi," Benjamin reveals, "he was my only brother by my father and my mother together." Ehi means "my brother," a simple declaration of their close bond.
"Rosh," he continues, "he was at the head of his brethren." Rosh signifies head or chief, recalling Joseph's natural leadership qualities.
"Muppim," Benjamin says, "he was beautiful in every respect." Muppim suggests brightness or beauty.
"Huppim," he whispers, "he was slandered." Huppim implies covered or protected, perhaps alluding to the false accusations Joseph faced.
And finally, "Ard, because he was as beautiful as a rose." Ard means to descend, to blossom, capturing Joseph's radiant spirit.
Each name is a brushstroke, painting a portrait of a lost brother, a testament to enduring love and the indelible mark he left on Benjamin's heart. It’s a powerful reminder that even in the face of unimaginable loss, memory and love can bloom in the most unexpected ways. These names are not just labels; they are whispered stories, echoes of a life deeply missed, a life that, unbeknownst to Benjamin, stood right before him. It makes you wonder, doesn't it, about all the unspoken stories carried within the names we give, the names we remember.