We Dare Not Close Our Eyes
In Parashat Korach, the Torah tells of a plague that broke out among Bnei Yisrael, claiming the lives of 14,700 human beings. A number like that is hard for the human mind to grasp. When a tragedy reaches such proportions, the heart tends to protect itself by turning the pain into a statistic: names blur, faces disappear, and what ought to shock us to our core can slowly become just another report, another headline, another number.
We are living through this very struggle right now. As the war drags on and the news brings one painful update after another, we face a grave danger: the longer a crisis lasts, the easier it is to get used to it. The Kedoshim can become a statistic. The wounded, just numbers. The pain remains real, but our sensitivity to it can begin to dull.
The Torah understands this flaw in human nature all too well and teaches us how to fight it. One of the clearest examples appears in Sefer Devarim. The Torah dedicates an entire section to the laws of warfare: how the army prepares for battle, who is exempt from military service, and how to conduct a siege. Yet immediately following these national laws, the Torah suddenly turns to a completely different matter: Egla Arufa.
A Jewish casualty is found in an open field, between two cities. The zekenim of the nearest city must leave their usual places, measure the distances, and hold a public ceremony. They declare: “Our hands did not spill this blood, and our eyes did not see it.” Chazal ask: Did it ever cross our minds that the zekenim of the Beit Din were murderers? The answer is that the Torah is teaching something much deeper here. The zekenim are not just testifying that they did not kill him. They are testifying that they did not let him leave without care, without an escort, and without anyone looking out for him. They did not ignore his needs. They did not allow another Jew to slip out of sight and out of mind.
Why does the Torah place this section right next to the laws of war? Perhaps because war has a way of making life look cheap. When a nation is under pressure, people start thinking in terms of strategy, territory, maneuvers, and numbers. The Torah interrupts this line of thought and forces us to stop in front of a single, solitary body in a field. The message is clear: even in times of war, the life of a single Jew is not a marginal detail. One soul is not a statistic. A single loss is an entire world. This idea lies at the heart of the Mishnah’s famous teaching: whoever destroys a single life, it is as if they destroyed an entire world; and whoever saves a single life, it is as if they saved an entire world.
The same truth emerges in our parasha. When the plague struck the people, Aaron the Kohen Gadol took the ketoret and stood “between the dead and the living,” and the plague stopped. Rashi explains that he stood right on the boundary line where death ended and life continued. Chazal add and describe how Aaron actually grabbed the Malach HaMavet and stopped him by force from carrying out his mission, placing himself as a protective barrier over the people. Aaron’s act was more than just physical bravery. It was the highest form of nosay b’ol—sharing the burden—with the tzibur. He did not stand at a safe distance. He stepped right into the suffering of Clal Yisrael. He stood in the place of pain. He placed himself right where the danger was greatest and pleaded for the people until the plague was halted.
This is no easy task for a person. Our natural instinct is to look away from pain, especially when that pain is massive and repetitive. After too much sorrow, the heart tries to protect itself through emotional numbness. It is easier not to look, not to feel, and not to let the news sink in too deeply. Aaron stood between the dead and the living, and he refused to back away from his people’s suffering. This choice, which lies in our hands, is the exact lesson our generation needs so badly.
We cannot fight the war ourselves, but we can decide whether the war will harden our hearts or deepen them. We can choose whether we will allow tragedy to become background noise, or whether we will keep seeing the human being behind every report. When a casualty notice is published, we must not read it as if it were a scoreboard. We must stop long enough to learn the name, see the face, and remember that an entire world was just lost. Even a single minute of attention changes the way the heart carries the loss. It reminds us that the fallen were not numbers on a screen, but sons, husbands, fathers, friends, and brothers.
When we turn to prayer, trying to “carry the entire Jewish people” all at once—to hold the full scale of the national pain in a single heart—can be too overwhelming, and ultimately it can become an abstract concept devoid of real meaning. The mind cannot feel everything at once, and instead of deepening, it can shut down. Therefore, the way to carry the collective is specifically through focusing on the individual: we need to choose one single name—one wounded soldier, one hostage, one person in need of a complete recovery. Keep that name in mind, and keep it inside your Siddur and Tehilim. Carry that single person in tefillot before Hashem with genuine emotion. When the heart connects concretely to one living Jew, the collective pain of the nation finds a real home in our soul and becomes personal, moving, and a catalyst for action.
And when news of a tragedy reaches us, it should drive us to acts of chesed: calling a family that is bearing the burden, helping someone who is alone, saying a word of chizuk, being more patient with our spouse and children, and being more attentive to the people around us. Pain that stays only in the mind can turn into heaviness and distress. Pain that turns into action turns into kedusha. This is our duty; this is how we stand between the dead and the living.
We are obligated to keep living, building, studying Torah, working, and taking care of our families. This is our duty to the living. But we must not close our eyes to those who have fallen. Every name is a world. Every wounded soldier is a world. Every hostage is a world. Every loss is the loss of an entire world.
The Torah does not ask us to carry the burden of all Clal Yisrael all at once. No human being can do that. But it demands that we never become indifferent. We must learn one name, carry one burden, pray for one person, and do one act of chesed in response. That is how the heart stays alive. That is how the numbers do not erase the people. And that is how we walk in the path of Aaron the Kohen Gadol, who stood between the dead and the living and stopped the plague.