The patronym Telem (Hebrew: תֶּלֶם) belongs to that particular stratum of Jewish onomastics one might call the living Hebrew layer: those names which, far from having passed through the languages of the diaspora — the Yiddish of the Ashkenazim, the Judeo-Arabic of the Maghrebi communities, the Judeo-Spanish of the Sephardim —, plunge their roots directly into the lexicon of the Bible and the land of Israel. According to reference records, it is a modern Hebrew patronym, whose language of origin is Hebrew [Q131191376 — Wikidata]. This twofold characteristic — scriptural rootedness and the modernity of its use as a family name — makes Telem an exemplary object of study for anyone wishing to understand the transformation of Jewish identities in the contemporary era.
The word itself is no invention. It appears in biblical Hebrew with a concrete, agrarian meaning: the telem designates the furrow traced by the plough in the soil, and by extension the ridge or clod of earth turned up [Strong's Hebrew 8525]. This rural, peasant signification carries considerable resonance in the history of a people long kept, in exile, from the possession and working of the land. When, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the Jewish national and linguistic renaissance movement undertook to make Jews once more a people of tillers on the soil of Zion, words such as telem recovered an extraordinary symbolic charge.
The present work sets out to trace, with the caution imposed by a patronym at once so unassuming and so sparsely documented genealogically, the layers of meaning and history that have settled upon the name Telem: its biblical stock, its survival as a toponym, its revival in modern Hebrew, its adoption as a family name in the era of the Hebraization of patronyms, and its place in the collective Memory of contemporary Judaism. Where the archive is wanting, we shall say so; where tradition speaks, we shall listen to it without confusing it with the document.
At the beginning of the name Telem, there is a word of the earth. In the corpus of Biblical Hebrew, the substantive telem (תֶּלֶם) is catalogued under number 8525 in Strong's dictionary, where it is defined as "furrow, ridge" [Strong's Hebrew 8525]. The word belongs to the concrete register of agriculture: it designates the trace carved into the soil by the passage of the plow, that line of turned earth where the seed is laid.
It appears in the poetic and prophetic books. Psalm 65, a hymn to the fertility that God grants to the earth, evokes the furrows watered and softened by rain; the book of Hosea, in its oracles, draws upon the image of the furrows of the fields to figure forth judgment. Job as well, in his meditations on justice, summons the metaphor of plowed earth. The word derives from the Semitic root linked to the idea of a heap, a mound, an elevation — which explains the oscillation in meaning between the hollow of the furrow and the crest of the ridge that borders it [Strong's Hebrew 8525].
This semantic polarity — the furrow and the crest, the low and the high, labor and the waiting for harvest — confers upon the word a poetic density that later uses, toponymic and then patronymic, will not entirely forget. To name a place or a lineage Telem is to inscribe within the name a Memory of tillage, of agricultural patience, of the cycle of seed and harvest. For a people whose foundational texts ceaselessly bind faithfulness to the Covenant and the fertility of the promised land, this vocabulary is never purely technical: it is charged with the promise made to the patriarchs of a land where milk and honey would flow.
Beyond the common noun, Telem appears in the Hebrew Bible as a proper name, in two distinct capacities. On the one hand, the book of Joshua mentions it among the cities of the southern territory of the tribe of Judah. In the long enumeration of the cities of Judah's inheritance — one of the great geographical catalogues of the Old Testament — Telem figures among the southernmost localities, in the direction of the Negev, toward the Edomite border [Joshua 15]. This toponymic inscription is precious: it attests that, from Antiquity onward, the word served to designate not only the furrow, but an inhabited place, a city rooted in the land of Judah.
On the other hand, the name Telem is encountered as a personal name. The first book of Ezra, in the list of gatekeepers and men who had taken foreign wives upon the return from the Babylonian Exile, mentions a Telem [Ezra 10]. Thus the name belongs, from the period of the Second Temple onward, to the repertoire of names borne by individuals within the people of Israel.
This threefold presence — common noun (the furrow), place name (the city of Judah), personal name (the gatekeeper of Ezra) — makes Telem a typical case of the Hebrew circulation between the common and the proper. In biblical Hebrew, indeed, place names and personal names frequently derive from current agrarian, geographical, or theological vocabulary. A name is not an arbitrary label: it says something about the relationship to the soil, to History, to God. When the builders of modern Hebrew, at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, would draw upon this lexical treasury to reforge a language and a contemporary nomenclature, they would rediscover these names doubly legitimized by common usage and by the authority of Scripture.
Between biblical Antiquity and the modern era stretches the long duration of exile, during which Jews of the diasporas rarely bore fixed family names, and almost never Hebrew patronyms in the sense we understand today. Understanding the emergence — or re-emergence — of the name Telem as a patronym requires recalling this vast background.
In the Ashkenazi world, hereditary family names did not become widespread until late, often under the pressure of Austro-Hungarian, Prussian or Russian imperial administrations, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Many of these names were forged in German or Yiddish — a language which, as Jean Baumgarten has shown, was the centuries-long vehicle of an entire civilization, "a wandering language" accompanying the people in their movements [Baumgarten, 2002]. In the Sephardic world and the Maghreb, Jews bore by contrast names that were often ancient and stable, yet marked by Arabic, Spanish or Berber, as historians of Mediterranean Jewish societies have studied [Taïeb, 2000]; the Hebrew component remained alive in liturgical and learned language without always surfacing in patronyms [Bar-Asher, 1992].
In this context, a purely Hebrew and biblical name such as Telem had little place as a hereditary family name. It was the entry of Jews into modernity — emancipation, secularization, and then the national project — that reopened the possibility of a Hebrew patronym. The great movement described by Annie Kriegel as a "logic of emancipation" profoundly transformed the relationship of Jews to their name, their language, and their collective identity [Kriegel, 1977]. Where Moïse Mendelssohn and the Jewish Enlightenment had opened the way toward a modern Judaism articulated with the surrounding culture [Bourel, 2004] [Hayoun, 1992], the Jewish cultural and national renaissance in Central and Eastern Europe made the inverse yet complementary wager: to reconstruct an identity from the Hebrew language itself [Bechtel, 2002]. It is within this second path that the modern trajectory of the name Telem most likely belongs.
The decisive turning point for a patronym such as Telem lies in the movement of Hebrew language renaissance, and then in the widespread practice of name Hebraization that accompanied the settlement of Jews in the Land of Israel and the founding of the State. The Jewish cultural renaissance, studied by Delphine Bechtel, made Hebrew — a language until then largely confined to liturgy and study — an instrument of literature, thought, and national construction [Bechtel, 2002]. To awaken a language was also to awaken its lexicon: words that had lain dormant in the biblical text, such as telem, the furrow, became living words once more, endowed with both a practical and a symbolic charge.
The ideology of return to the land, central to Zionism during the second and third waves of immigration, valorized precisely this agrarian lexical field. The pioneer, the halutz, was to become once again a man of the soil; the vocabulary of plowing, sowing, and harvesting regained a national dignity. In this climate, choosing or receiving a name like Telem amounted to proclaiming a belonging: to the land, to the language, to the collective project of refoundation. Works of Israeli onomastics have documented this vast movement through which families abandoned their diasporic names in favor of new Hebrew names, often drawn from nature, geography, or the Bible [Family Names in Israel; Origins of Jewish Names].
Telem belongs fully to this repertoire. Brief, sonorous, immediately intelligible to a speaker of Hebrew, without foreign resonance, it belongs to the same onomastic family as names evoking a feature of the landscape or an element of agricultural work. Its simultaneous survival as a biblical toponym and as a common word lent it a particular legitimacy: to adopt Telem was both to reconnect with a site from the heritage of Juda and to celebrate the gesture of the plowman. It becomes clear, then, why this name figures among modern Hebrew patronyms, and why its language of origin is unambiguously Hebrew [Q131191376 — Wikidata].
The name Telem does not live solely on lists of patronyms: it has re-inscribed itself in the very geography of the contemporary land of Israel, thus extending its biblical toponymic vocation. Several modern localities bear this name or a related name, reconnecting — sometimes deliberately — with the city of Judah mentioned in the book of Joshua [Joshua 15]. This phenomenon of toponymic renaissance is characteristic of the way in which the Israeli national enterprise sought to re-establish a visible continuity between biblical geography and the inhabited territory, by resurrecting ancient names for newly founded or repopulated places.
It is here that tradition and archive answer each other, without always merging — hence the register of "intersection": the memory of a biblical Telem, transmitted through the text, comes to fertilize a present geographical reality, yet the link between the ancient city and any given modern village more often reflects commemorative intent than attested historical continuity. The name bridges the centuries of exile. To bear the patronym Telem, or to inhabit a place named Telem, is to inscribe oneself within this loop in which Scripture, land, and proper name mutually lend each other their authority.
This memorial dimension cannot be dissociated from the tragic context of the twentieth century. The refounding of a Hebrew identity rooted in the land took place in the shadow of the destruction of European communities, whose testimonies, such as that of Charlotte Delbo, preserve an unforgettable trace [Delbo, 1970]. To choose a name of earth and furrow, after the uprooting of exile and the abyss of the Shoah, carried a weight of repair and of hope. The philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, meditating on the Hebrew source, showed how profoundly the return to the root — to the word, to the text, to the trace — engaged an ethics and not merely a nostalgia [Chalier, 2002]. The name Telem, a modest furrow in the language, participates in its own way in this renewal of the bond between a people, their word, and their soil [Trigano, 1991].
At the close of this documentary journey, it is fitting to make room for the properly memorial dimension of the name — what those who bear the surname Telem may receive from it and transmit, independently of any archival record. For a name is not merely an attested linguistic fact; it is also a lived inheritance, a story that families tell themselves.
In Jewish tradition, the name carries an almost sacred value. To give a name is to inscribe a being within a genealogy and within a promise. The name Telem, by its very meaning — the furrow —, lends itself to a reading passed down from generation to generation: it evokes patient labor, faithfulness to the soil, the hope of the harvest, and the straight line that the ploughman traces before him without looking back. In it one may hear an ethic of perseverance and rootedness, virtues that families love to associate with their name.
This reading belongs to Memory rather than to the archive: we do not have, for the surname Telem, a continuous documented genealogy that would allow us to trace a precise lineage across the centuries. This is why the present chapter presents itself honestly under the sign of the transmitted. What History establishes is the Hebrew and biblical origin of the word, its toponymic vocation, its modern rebirth. What Memory adds are the lived meanings, the family pride, the domestic narratives that attach themselves to a name. The two registers do not contradict each other: they complement one another, the second taking its footing upon the first. The furrow of the name, carved long ago in the Hebrew of the Bible, thus continues to carry, for those who bear it, a seed of meaning.
The name Telem reveals itself, at the conclusion of this inquiry, as a condensed expression of Jewish history itself. Born from the most concrete vocabulary of agriculture — the furrow traced in the earth [Strong's Hebrew 8525] —, attested in the Bible both as a place name within the heritage of Juda [Joshua 15] and as a personal name [Esdras 10], it traversed the long eclipse of exile, during which Hebrew patronyms yielded to names forged in the languages of the diaspora [Baumgarten, 2002] [Taïeb, 2000]. Its re-emergence as a modern surname is inseparable from the renaissance of the Hebrew language and the ideology of return to the land, which restored life and dignity to the agrarian lexicon of the Scriptures [Bechtel, 2002].
Thus the modern Hebrew patronym Telem, whose language of origin is Hebrew [Q131191376 — Wikidata], is not a name like any other: it speaks of the passage from exile to rootedness, from the biblical word to the living proper name, from scriptural Memory to contemporary identity. Where the genealogical archive falls short, the meaning of the name remains eloquent. Telem is a furrow: a line traced in the earth and in the language, open to the seed and to the hope of the harvest — a fitting image of a lineage and a people who, across the centuries, have never ceased to carve, through the hardness of History, the patient furrow of a future.
