In September of 2000, in the wake of what has become known as the second intifada, my unit was called up as part of the massive call up of reserves that occurred as fighting broke out all over the country. We had no idea how long we would be in for, which of course made the experience all the more difficult.
Our unit was given the task of patrolling the ‘border’ between Efrat, where I live, and Beit- Lechem (Bethlehem) and its environs, which lay a short ten-minute, walk to the North.
One afternoon, I got an urgent call from one of our lookouts that there seemed to be a large crowd gathering in one of the Arab villages near Efrat, and that it seemed they were surrounding a Jewish man with a gun.
Given the context of those days, a Jew caught in an Arab village amidst a mob, was certainly a life and death situation so we pulled out all the stops to get to the other side of Efrat and see what was going on.
Sure enough, as we approached we could see from a distance a rather large crowd of Arab villagers gathered around someone who was clearly a Jew, with a Kippah (Yarmulke) on his head, and as there was obviously no time to wait for any backup vehicles and units to arrive I headed into the village with the two other men in my jeep now hurriedly putting on their flak helmets and checking their weapons and ammo.
As it turned out, the fellow caught in the middle of this crowd was someone I knew very well as he was the civilian deputy in charge of security for Efrat, who worked with the local council to ensure the security needs of the city.
It transpired that the Arabs in this local village had seen that the council of Efrat was putting up street lights, in between Efrat and the Arab village, along the dirt road that led to Beit-Lechem. This was being done to prevent terrorists from sneaking in to the village at night and opening fire on Efrat, which of course would cause our men to fire back and enflame the area….
The local Arab villagers, seeing a bulldozer and some engineers taking measurements, had become convinced that we were somehow trying to usurp their land, or perhaps fence them in (separating them from their vineyards that lie between Efrat and their village). So this deputy of security went in on his own to calm everybody down. (In normal times, he was often in and out of this village because of the close relationship they had with Efrat.)
When we calmed everybody down, and got this fellow out of there, I really let him have it. He had endangered me as well as my men, not to mention himself, and these were not the times to be walking into an Arab village alone with a gun, even if we had previously shared good relationships with these particular villagers.
But his response took the edge off the whole situation:
“You think I went in there because I care so much about those villagers? The reason I went in there was because I care so much about what this whole situation is doing to us. When we wake up in the morning, and this has all calmed down, I’m not worried about what we will have done to the Arabs; I am worried about what everything we have to do to the Arabs may do to us. It’s not their bodies I am worried about; it’s our soul.”
And while I still disagree with how he went about it, thinking back, it still makes me proud to be a part of an army and a people that think that way.
The real question, with all that is going on today, is how we protect our souls. When you hear about and see Jewish soldiers offering water to Arab terrorists, or cleaning up their homes after being forced to use them as lookout posts, what they are doing is not about the Arab property; it is about their Jewish souls.
In the upcoming portions, (Tazriah and Metzorah ) the Torah speaks of the Metzorah, a person who is ‘diagnosed’ by the Kohen (priest) as being afflicted by Tzara’at, a spiritual disease akin to (but not identical with) leprosy. This affliction comes, according to our tradition, as the result of the sin (mistake) of speaking lashon hara’, or slander. (See Maimonides Hilchot Tuma’t Tzara’at 16:10) Once it is clear that an individual is in fact suffering from Tzara’at, he must leave not only his home and family, but the camp of Israel as well.
Only after the proscribed period of time, can he begin the process of re-entering society.
Given that the malady in question is clearly viewed by Jewish tradition as a physical consequence of a spiritual mistake, one wonders why the process of mending the error of his ways necessitates being shunned by society and excluded from even physically being a part of the community. Wouldn’t it in fact be more productive to include such a person in the community in order to teach him the value of a positive relationship with those around him? Wouldn’t we be better off showering him with love, rather than punishing him with banishment? Even the wicked son still joins us at the Pesach Seder, so why is this fellow, guilty of slander, banished from the camp?
Maimonides (quoted above) suggests that the penalty of the Metzorah is so severe precisely because of the error in his ways, which we are attempting to correct: Since his sin is so destructive to the fabric of society, let him sit alone and contemplate what he was done. If his tongue (in slandering his fellow human beings) was used for such negative purposes, it is better, for a while, for him to have no one to talk to. Indeed, the Talmud (Erchin 16b) suggests that since he caused husbands to separate from wives, and friends to become separated from each other, let him now experience the same and be separated from everyone.
A closer look at this issue, however, reveals that all is not as it seems. Our general perception is that the problem with slander (Lashon Ha’Ra) is that it causes people to think ill of each other, and distances the listener from those he is hearing slander about, causing rifts in society and separating us one from another. But the first time we find an allusion to leprosy and slander in the Torah would seem to belie this supposition:
Moshe, in the midst of his dialogue with G-d at the burning bush, is suddenly made to experience the pain of Tzara’at, (Shemot 4:6), which Rashi explains comes as a punishment for his slander of the Jewish people. In declaring that the Jewish people would not believe he was indeed sent by G-d (4:1), Moshe is essentially slandering the Jewish people by suggesting they would not believe the messenger of G-d. For this, suggests Rashi, Moshe is punished with a degree of Tzara’at, which, as mentioned is the consequence of slander. But what transgression has actually occurred?
Obviously, it is ludicrous to suggest that hearing the ‘slander’ of Moshe somehow impacts G-d’s perception of the Jewish people! And it is equally absurd to imagine such slander can cause G-d to somehow distance Himself from the Jewish people. And the case of Moshe is not unique, as we find similar occurrences with both Eliyahu (Elijah) (Melachim (Kings) I, 19:10) as well as Yishayahu’ (Isaiah) (6:5), who are both punished for their harsh criticism of the Jewish people, even though they are speaking to no-one else but G-d!
Perhaps the transgression of slander is so severe, not only for its impact on society, but as well (and perhaps even foremost) for its impact on the speaker him or herself.
If a person can speak negatively about his or her fellow human being, then he or she does not really see the image of G-d that is part of every human being, and that has to gradually destroy your soul. If I speak ill of another person, I am not just damaging them (and their reputation), I am actually damaging myself as well.
Which leads us to a crucial idea that Rav Avigdor Nevehnsahl points out in his Sichot Le’Sefer VaYikra, and that is the relationship between where we are spiritually and where we are physically.
On Yom Kippur, as an example, the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) doesn’t just walk straight in to the holy of holies in the Temple. He first has to undergo an extensive process, which prepares him for that moment. He too, like the Metzorah, must leave his home for the seven days prior to Yom Kippur, only he is headed in the opposite direction: he actually lives on the Temple mount for seven days before he is considered ready to enter the temple and the Holy of holies. Apparently, part of the process, which elevates him spiritually, is that he lives in a place of sanctity. And where he is living is actually a part of who he is trying to become.
Conversely, the Metzorah is forced out of the camp precisely because his soul is on a lower level. When he speaks slander, he damages his soul, and the desolation he may cause others, is first and foremost the desolation that affects himself. So he has to spend some time in a place of desolation, as befitting the spiritual state of his own soul.
This, incidentally, is why, when the Jewish people, through their misdeeds, reach a particularly low spiritual level, they are no longer worthy of living as a people, in the land of Israel, and are ultimately forced into exile. And even today, when we are in the midst of the incredible process of the return of the Jewish people to the land of Israel, we are still far from being worthy of a holy united city with a Beit Ha’Mikdash, a home of sanctity, on the Temple mount.
We often assume we are in great shape because after all, we are doing so many wonderful things. We (hopefully) give a lot of tzedakah; we celebrate Shabbat, and eat (some of us) the most kosher meat in town. We have only to look around, suggests the Torah, and see where we are, to realize, to some extent, who we are.
The problem with slander is that it destroys my perception of those around me, and that destroys my soul. Which is why such a person is separated from society, and sent off to be alone. Because he needs time to do some serious thinking, or, quite literally, soul-searching.
And when we yearn for the people and places we miss and see how beautiful they truly are, then we are and will be at last ready, to come home.
Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem,
Binny Freedman