On Zealots and Journeys: Reading Matot-Masei with a Heavy Whole Heart
Reading this coming week’s Torah portion and the ICJ’s advisory opinion about the Israeli occupation of the West Bank (and Gaza, as the opinion considers Gaza still de facto occupied by Israel) brought up for me feelings of shame, concern, and confusion, and sent me into the kind of internal deliberation that has been an integral part for me of being Jewish and living in Israel – especially now. And especially after hearing Netanyahu’s dismissive and extremist reaction to the opinion: “Jews cannot be occupiers in our own homeland.”
The first of our double Torah portion, Matot, takes place after the story of Pinchas, who kills an Israelite man, Zimri, for having sexual relations with Cozbi, a Midianite woman (whom Pinchas also kills), which ends a divinely ordained plague where the Israelite men who were participating in an idolatrous orgy with Midianite and Moabite women, were dying. God praises Pinchas for his zealotry and appoints him to lead a war of vengeance against the Midianites, where the Israelites are to kill every Midianite, including women and children. And when women and children are spared, God instructs the Israelites to kill the male children, and all the females except those who are not old enough to have had sexual relations; those, they are to “keep for themselves.”
Steven Pinker, in his book, The Better Angels of our Nature, writes about this war and others in the Bible, as examples of how brutally violent the ancient world was – not because these stories are necessarily historically accurate, but because they were written as examples of how one should behave. He then posits that today we do not use the Bible as our moral compass, but, rather, “religious people today compartmentalize their attitude to the Bible. They pay it lip service as a symbol of morality, while getting their actual morality from more modern principles.”
Pinker’s thesis is that society has progressed since ancient times and has become much less violent and barbaric. And when such barbarism – like rape as a weapon of war – is meted out today, it is condemned. This book was written in 2012. I wonder what Pinker would say today.
I wish Pinker’s statement about “religious people today” was true. But the zealotry of Pinchas that is praised in the Bible is still not only alive and well in our culture today, but it seems to be in charge at the moment in our region and in many other parts of the world. While I cannot affect this phenomenon in other countries, not even among my Palestinian neighbors, I do feel culpable when it is happening here in my own country (or at least in the territory we occupy) – even if I am out on the streets demonstrating against it.
This leads me to the second Torah portion this week, Masei, as we have a double one (Matot-Masei). This portion is about journeys. For years, but especially over the past year-and-a-half, I have been asking myself the question of what my red line is; how bad would the situation have to get here for me to decide I cannot stay? I mean this from a moral not a security point of view. I read here not long ago a blog post by Rabbi Mishael Zion about his red line – Ben-Gvir becoming defense minister. My red line has been the annexation of the West Bank without giving Palestinians full citizenship. For me, that would mean I am living in an apartheid state, something that felt morally reprehensible. Back when I was a college student, that is how I felt about the Afrikaners in South Africa. Wouldn’t it be hypocritical for me to stay here under those circumstances?
That is what hit me so hard about the ICJ’s ruling. Although I knew this subconsciously, I suppose, hearing the judge say the West Bank is already de facto being annexed (I recommend watching the opinion being read or reading it and Rabbi Arik Asherman’s blog post about it), filled me with a sense of panic. While I realize the ICJ opinion does not take into consideration Israel’s security needs, the phenomena they describe are true; Israel is creating facts on the ground of annexation even if we have not officially annexed the land, and Palestinians do have a different set of laws than Jews in these territories do.
I asked myself: If my red line has now already been crossed, or is at least very close to being crossed, what does that mean? Do I need to start packing my bags, getting my US passport in order, selling my house?
But what of my children? Five out of seven of them are adults, some with partners who don’t have dual citizenship. And some who may not even want to leave even if they could go. Do I just leave them here? Wasn’t it my decision to move here from the US almost 30 years ago, make a life in this place, and raise my family here? Would leaving them here with that moral dilemma be the moral thing to do? And what of those who are ages 17 and 13? Is it fair to rip them from their lives because of my moral dilemma? Then again, do I want my 17-year-old son serving in occupied land where we are flagrantly and non-remorsefully violating international law? But then again, he will be an adult then; isn’t that his decision to make?
And what about all the other Israelis – Arab and Jewish – who don’t have dual citizenship? Moreover, if I and others who oppose the occupation flee, who does that leave here to run this country? Those same modern-day extremist zealots who want an apartheid state here. If we leave, there is no chance to reverse this process.
I am out on the streets demonstrating now against this government and its policies at least a few times a week. I am also involved in a variety of social action activities and organizations – such as Standing Together, Rabbis for Human Rights, Hand in Hand, Women Wage Peace, Look the Occupation in the Eyes, and others – promoting shared living among Arabs and Jews on this side of the Green Line, especially in the Galilee where I live, and fighting injustice here and on the other side of the Green Line as well.
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The author helping hold up a banner at a recent peace march calling for a hostage agreement, a bilateral ceasefire, and a two-state solution. Photo credit: Ian Chesir-Tiran
Still, after hearing the ICJ’s opinion, I found myself researching practical issues around leaving. I am disabled. I live with a degenerative muscular disease, and I receive disability benefits and payments from the state. While I am still able to work to some degree now, I live with the awareness that this will change, unless a treatment is discovered soon to stop the disease in its tracks. I have been comforted knowing as my disease progresses and my condition deteriorates, I will receive more help from the state. I feel on some level I will be taken care of if I stay here (as long as the economy and health system do not deteriorate significantly or even collapse as a result of dysfunctional, destructive governance).
When I looked online, I discovered, to my surprise, that while many countries have an agreement with Israel that citizens receiving disability from Israel who move to their country can continue to receive these payments, the US does not have such an agreement with Israel. Plus, here in Israel, at least for now, we have a relatively good socialized medical system (although that can change if the brain drain intensifies as things here become more devastating and extreme). In the US, I would need private insurance, which I don’t even know if I could get with my pre-existing medical condition – or at least not at an affordable rate.
In addition, I have not been paying social security payments in the US all these years, even though I have been paying US taxes. I had no plans to move back. Nor, as an independent worker, do I have a pension. Even if I am a citizen of the US, going back there now is not a simple, and may not even be a realistic, option. That gave me pause.
At first, these practical stumbling blocks increased my panic. But after sitting with them, they also helped me settle in. Not only am I emotionally enmeshed in this country and its ongoing story, but I am practically enmeshed as well. In some ways that feels suffocating, but in other ways it is liberating. That knowledge lifts some of the internal conflict, so that I can try to focus on being present in the moment and in where I am and stop planning escape routes or looking at where the grass looks greener (quite literally, this time of year).
What does that mean to be present? It means to continue my activism and try to make this a better place.
Aside from the trend of zealotry in this country (with government backing) regarding the West Bank and Gaza, what is also deeply troubling are the voices using religion not only to promote vengeful and Jewish-supremacist violence, but also to silence those who dare to speak out against it, accusing them of causing division in a time of war. Invoking the Talmudic read of history that it was senseless hatred among Jews that led to the fall of the Israelite empire during the Second Temple Period, rather than zealotry, is a clever tactic to let the zealots keep their power and continue their destructive work of pushing for an all-or-nothing nationalist agenda and more war, death, and destruction.
This is in contrast with those who prioritize another biblical source, Psalm 34: 13-15:
“Who is the one who desires life, loves living, and desires to see good?… Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”
We citizens who do fit Pinker’s description of “religious people today” – especially rabbis who are the religious and spiritual leaders of that population – must speak out against those elements who choose to use these biblical passages as a moral guide, rather than read against the text, as even the talmudic sages often did. Yet, this is a huge commitment, and one I do not take lightly.
I have been an activist for as long as I can remember, but only this past year-and-a-half – and most especially since October 7th – has this activism become almost all consuming. And not just the activism, but the emotional investment. Since October 7th, I have found it extremely challenging to focus on anything unrelated to the situation here. My reading material has been affected, the topics of my writing, how I spend my non-working time or time I am not taking care of other responsibilities. When someone asks how I am, I am unable to answer “good” or even “fine.” I could not even bring myself to leave the country this summer.
If things here keep getting worse and not better, this will be my life, not just a short intense period of it. For I cannot stay here if I am not involved deeply in trying to bring change. That thought is exhausting – especially with my health issues. It is not how I imagined my final life stage; I imagined getting some emotional and physical rest – a chance to look back, reflect, enjoy, and maybe even just be. I imagined moving towards a feeling described by Oliver Sacks in his last memoir, written when he knew he was dying:
“…I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight… I must focus on myself, my work, and my friends. I shall no longer look at the NewsHour every night. I shall no longer pay attention to politics or arguments about global warming. This is not indifference, but detachment – I still care deeply about the Middle East, about global warming, about growing inequality, but these are no longer my business; they belong to the future. I rejoice when I meet gifted young people…I feel the future is in good hands.”
I have always found meaning in social activism, and a sense of moral obligation towards trying to make this world a better place. Perhaps it is naive to think there would ever be a place I could live where I would never feel that moral obligation. But there are degrees of the intensity of that feeling depending on the urgency of the situation in which I find myself. I feel a sense of loss thinking I may not experience Sacks’s sense of contentment with how I am leaving the world, nor his sense of confidence I am leaving it in good hands. But I do have other models to try and emulate; there is Nadine Gordimer, who remained in South Africa, but was an outspoken activist against apartheid, to name one example. Unlike when I was a college student, I now see that leaving was not the only moral option.
I am reminded of one of my favorite quotes from the diary of Etty Hillesum, who was murdered in Auschwitz at age 29. She could have gone into hiding but decided to go to Auschwitz and suffer the fate of her people, as she put it. I don’t judge her, nor anyone who made other choices during the Shoah. There was no clear right answer. Everyone had to follow their own hearts, and most didn’t even have any options.

Etty wrote: “Wherever you happen to find yourself, be there with your whole heart.” I am trying to extend that beyond just place, to time as well. Being in the present means being where I am in the current moment and doing what I can to make a difference here and now, as who knows what the future will bring? And so, here I stay – at least for now – trying to be here and now with my whole heart.
We are told that God makes a “covenant of peace” with Pinchas. Rashi interprets this as a promise to deal favorably with Pinchas and his descendants, in reward for their zealotry. In the spirit of Pinker’s optimistic read of history, I will choose to interpret that “covenant of peace” as a divine promise for a peaceful future ahead, when cycles of violence will not be the way we solve conflicts among peoples. But this future will only come if we speak out against those same forces of zealotry these passages praise.
Pinker may call this paying lip service to the Bible. Others may call it apologetics. I call it reinterpretation with full disclosure and pride, and with open eyes and whole hearts.