Where Dignity Comes First

In a Country That Moves Fast, Dignity Makes Us Slow Down.

I was sitting in a mall, watching something small unfold that I can’t seem to forget.

An older man was trying to get the attention of one of the busboys. He called out softly, but no one seemed to notice. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if they were avoiding him or simply hadn’t heard.

So I raised my voice and said, “סליחה—he’s trying to get your attention.”

They both turned. One of them immediately went over to him.

I didn’t hear what the man asked for, but within moments, the busboy returned with a glass of water and placed it gently in front of him.

And then something even quieter, but more powerful, happened.

The older man began to bless him—again and again, with such sincerity and gratitude that it felt like more than a simple thank you.

It stayed with me.

Because it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t extraordinary. But it said everything.

There is a quiet, unspoken language here—one of patience, dignity, and care. You see it in the smallest moments, the ones that could easily go unnoticed if you’re not paying attention.

On buses, in lines, on the street—it reveals itself.

I’ve watched people instinctively stand up to offer their seat to an older person, without hesitation. I’ve seen strangers step in to help someone with a walker board a bus, not waiting to be asked, not making a scene—just doing what needs to be done.

And at one point, I found myself on the other side of that moment. As someone who lives with a slight disability myself, I was the one helping a woman with her walker get onto the bus. There was something deeply meaningful in that—realizing that even with our own limitations, we are still able to show up for someone else.

There was no sense of “giver” and “receiver”—just two people, each navigating their own challenges, meeting in a moment of shared humanity.

One of my earliest moments on a bus in Israel has stayed with me. A teenager was sitting with his feet up across the seat. An older woman got on, looked at him, and simply told him—in Hebrew—to take his feet off. There was no hesitation, no attitude, no back-and-forth. He just did it.

And what struck me wasn’t the correction—it was the response. There was no resistance, no eye roll, no need to assert himself. Just a quiet understanding: this is how we behave. This is what respect looks like.

I couldn’t help but think—would this have gone the same way in North America? Maybe. But maybe not. Here, it felt instinctive. Almost like a shared agreement that the older generation holds a certain place, one that isn’t questioned in these small, everyday moments.

But it’s not only in these human interactions. It’s built into the system itself.

There’s an awareness here—not just among people, but within the structure of daily life—that those living with disabilities deserve more than patience. They deserve ease. Whether it’s shorter wait times at pharmacies, priority in government offices, or accessibility woven into everyday spaces, there’s a quiet but consistent effort to remove friction from their lives.

And what makes it so striking is that it doesn’t feel like charity. It feels like dignity. Like an understanding that if someone is already navigating physical challenges, the least a society can do is not add more weight to carry.

At the same time, Israel is not a slow place. Life here moves quickly—traffic, honking, constant motion, a kind of intensity that fills the air. People are busy, often juggling more than one thing at once, moving from place to place with urgency.

And yet, amidst all of that, something remarkable happens.

People slow down.

They make space.

They pause.

They notice.

Even in the rush, there is a priority given to the elderly and to those with disabilities. There is an understanding—spoken or unspoken—that not everyone moves at the same pace, and that those who cannot move as quickly deserve not just patience, but consideration.

There is something deeply beautiful in that balance—the coexistence of a fast-moving society with a willingness to slow down for those who need it. A recognition that while life may demand speed, dignity requires pause.

It doesn’t ask who you are—Jew, Arab, or otherwise. It simply responds to what you need.

Just today, I watched an Arab man immediately stand up on a bus to offer his seat to an older person. There was no hesitation, no performance in it. Just instinctive respect. And in that moment, it struck me again that this quiet culture of dignity seems to transcend background, language, and identity.

And I can’t help but feel that this all stems from something deeper—something rooted in our Torah. There is a teaching: derech eretz kadma laTorah. Before Torah comes derech eretz—basic human decency, dignity, respect for others.

It’s not just something we learn. It’s something meant to be lived.

Here, I see it in practice. In the way people speak to the elderly. In how they step in for someone struggling. In the systems that make space for those with disabilities—not as an afterthought, but as a priority.

It’s as if that value—so foundational, so ingrained—has moved beyond the pages of a text and into the rhythm of daily life.

Maybe that’s what I’m really seeing here—not perfection, not always, but an effort.

An effort to live in a way where dignity comes first.Where respect isn’t reserved for the exceptional, but extended to the everyday.

Where derech eretz isn’t just taught—it’s practiced.