Jews are Reluctant to Say the Word “Enemy.” Judaism Isn’t.

Last week two ISIS gunmen opened fire on civilians on Bondi Beach as the Jewish community celebrated Chanukah. The terrorists killed a rabbi, a ten-year-old girl and more than a dozen others. Our collective and personal grief is real, overwhelming, and justified. And yet, amid this painfully familiar script – mourn, rally, stand together – I find myself haunted by something else beyond the physical violence: our continued hesitation to name what we are facing. Many of us, especially those of us entrenched in the liberal world, are still hesitant to say the word enemy.

Philosophically it makes sense not to fixate on our enemies.  Why give them airtime? Why let them shape us? Why focus on the perpetrators rather than the victims? But, in our effort not to obsess over enemies, we have drifted into something strange and even self-injurious: the pretense that enemies do not exist at all.

In this imagined universe, there are no enemies, only people with whom we have not had enough dialogue.  In this pretend-iverse there are only “competing narratives,” “cycles of violence” and “multiple truths.” In that place of fantasy, there is no evil, there is only unhealed trauma or unmet economic needs or cultural misunderstandings. 

That is a comforting idea. And it is also a false one. Many Jews are hesitant to talk about enemies, but Judaism isn’t. 

Rather, the Talmud states with clarity: “If someone comes to kill you, rise early and kill him first.” This is not rhetoric. When a threat is imminent, self-defense is not optional; it is obligatory. As a midrash teaches: “Whoever is merciful to the cruel will ultimately be cruel to the merciful.” 

These teaching are not a rejection of compassion. They are a warning against misplaced compassion – what some today call “suicidal empathy.” We must fill our hearts with compassion – but not for the wicked among us. 

Our prophets understood this approach clearly. Deborah sang not only of peace, but of victory over her enemy. Similarly, Esther did not shy away from the need to defeat her enemies – the sons of Haman. After having his eyes gouged out by the Philistines and his arms chained to pillars, Samson pulled down the entire building, “so those he killed at his death were more than those he killed in his life.” Judaism does not romanticize the wicked.

And yet, the Torah commands: “Do not hate your brother in your heart” and also “Love your fellow as yourself.” Notice what it does not command: love your enemy.  Judaism does not demand emotional identification with evil. 

So why are we so uncomfortable talking about enemies? 

Maybe we avoid talking about enemies because we have been conditioned into Jewish victimhood – we are used to mourning rather than fighting. 

Maybe America has thankfully dulled our lived experience with evil – we are just so happy and safe here that we’ve forgotten the sting of antagonism. 

Maybe we avoid talking about enemies for emotional reasons – it is terrifying to admit that some people want to harm us – not because of policy disagreements or historical grievances, but because of who we are. 

Or maybe it’s because we tend to cherry-pick Jewish texts, clinging to verses we love while ignoring those that unsettle us. We, the leaders of Reform Jewish communities have blanketed liberal Jews in texts that promote empathy. “Remember the widow, the stranger, the orphan”…“Imagine that you yourself were a slave in Egypt.”  Yes, amen. These teachings are essential components of Jewishness. But they are not a full articulation of how to treat others – especially those who hate us. 

Judaism has no time for avoidance of the reality of hateful others and neither do we.  Last week’s violence demands more than just our grief and sorrow. It demands our honesty. We must honestly confront the enemies in our midst.