September 15, 2024|י"ב אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ד Palestinians, Patience and Peace: A Torah Perspective on Long-Term Reconciliation By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

When my family was on vacation a few weeks ago in Seattle, we went hiking at Mount Rainier. Like many families, we take countless pictures on hikes—of the same scene, from every possible angle—until our phone batteries are nearly dead. Of course, we rarely look at 98% of those photos again! At one point, Daniel was far ahead, standing in a picturesque spot, and we wanted to take a photo of him, so I called out, “Daniel!”

Now, I was wearing a baseball hat and didn’t look overtly Jewish, but after I called out his name, a man nearby asked if I was from Israel, since I had used a Hebrew name. I replied, “No, I live in New York. It’s a Jewish name.” Trying to be polite, I asked, “Where are you from?” He responded, “Palestine.” At that moment, I froze. Part of me was ready to debate: to explain that there is no official state of Palestine, that Hamas is responsible for the ongoing conflict and the civilian casualties because of their use of human shields. I mentally rehearsed all my points, preparing to engage, when Yael, my wife, interjected, “Hopefully there will be peace between the two countries.” And that was it. We were on vacation, and she had no interest in getting into a debate.

Yet, as we walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder: is peace even possible? Will we ever come to terms with at least some Palestinians?

This situation brought to mind how the two presidential candidates had addressed the Israel-Hamas war in the recent debate. Mr. Trump boldly said, “I will get that settled and fast,” but offered no specifics. Ms. Harris expressed support for Israel and a two-state solution but didn’t outline concrete steps. It left me wondering: does the Torah offer any wisdom on this? Can we derive guidance from our tradition on how to approach peace, particularly with sworn enemies like Hamas or the broader Palestinian leadership?

Interestingly, this week’s parsha provides a surprising commandment: לא תתעב אדומי כי אחיך הוא. “You shall not despise an Edomite, for he is your brother.” לא תתעב מצרי כי גר היית בארצו. “You shall not despise an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (Devarim 23:8). At first glance, this seems puzzling. Why would the Torah instruct us not to despise these nations? The Egyptians enslaved us for centuries and killed our newborn babies, and the Edomites refused us passage through their land, threatening war. Why shouldn’t we despise them after all they did?

The reasoning seems to be that, for the Edomites, despite their harshness, they are still our family—descendants of Esav, the brother of Yaakov. While we might harbor resentment, they are still kin. As for the Egyptians, while their cruelty during our enslavement was extreme, the Torah asks us to remember their early kindness: they offered us refuge during a famine. True, this was motivated by self-interest—they benefitted from Yosef’s leadership and saw economic potential in hosting his family—but nonetheless, the Torah calls for gratitude, even in the face of great harm.

This seems almost unfathomable. How can we be expected to express gratitude for small kindnesses when they are overshadowed by such profound suffering? Imagine applying this to other historical enemies of the Jews—the Greeks, the Romans, the Crusaders, the Nazis. Would we ever say, “Well, they were kind to us once, so let’s not hold onto too much resentment for their later attempts to destroy us”?

The only way to make sense of this command not to despise the Egyptians and Edomites is through the next verse: בָּנִ֛ים אֲשֶׁר־יִוָּלְד֥וּ לָהֶ֖ם דּ֣וֹר שְׁלִישִׁ֑י יָבֹ֥א לָהֶ֖ם בִּקְהַ֥ל יְקֹוָֽק. The Torah allows third-generation descendants of Egyptians and Edomites who convert to Judaism to marry into the Jewish people. In other words, the Torah is not saying we must immediately forgive any Edomite or Egyptian, but rather that if, over time, they and their descendants show genuine repentance, we should not hold onto eternal hatred. The Torah calls for openness to change—even from former enemies—if their transformation is real.

Years ago, we hosted Bernard Wollschlaeger in our community. He is the son of a decorated Nazi officer, and upon learning of his father’s role, he chose to convert to Judaism and even joined the IDF. This story reminds me that even the descendants of our enemies can turn towards us in sincerity. The Torah encourages us to remain cautiously open to these possibilities.

But why wait three generations? Several commentaries suggest that even when someone converts and renounces their past, they are still tied to their family’s values and ideology. It takes time—generations—for a full transformation to take root. This lesson has clear implications for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Real peace cannot be rushed. The wounds of violence and hatred, like those between Israelis and Palestinians, take time to heal—perhaps not just one generation, but two or three.

I’m reminded of Menachem Begin’s skepticism in 1977 when Anwar Sadat visited Israel to discuss peace. Begin feared a trap, imagining Sadat might arrive with an army of terrorists. Yet, over time, Sadat’s intentions proved genuine, and the historic peace treaty between Israel and Egypt was born. This process required patience, trust-building, and a willingness to let go of old animosities.

In today’s political context, while many advocate for a two-state solution as the answer to the Israel-Hamas war and in general the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the Torah’s wisdom reminds us that peace takes time. It’s not simply about signing agreements; it’s about waiting for the deep, generational changes needed for lasting peace. The current rejection of a two-state solution by many Israelis is not a rejection of peace, but a recognition that the conditions for such a solution—trust, reconciliation—are not yet present.

At the same time, the Torah teaches that while we must be cautious, we also need to be willing to let go of personal hatred. The command not to despise the Egyptians, despite their enslavement of our ancestors, reminds us that our goal is not to harbor resentment but to transform our pain into empathy for the vulnerable. The Torah's repeated calls to remember our time in Egypt are meant to instill in us a sense of responsibility toward others, not bitterness.

In our own lives, we often hold onto anger—sometimes due to real harm inflicted on us, other times over perceived slights. The Torah encourages us not to rush into reconciliation, but to remain open to the possibility that people can change. Just as the Torah highlights the good that even our enemies have done, we too can move toward healing by acknowledging the positive qualities of those we’ve been upset with. Perhaps we should spend more time questioning whether our assumptions about others reflect reality.

As we navigate the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, we can heed the Torah’s lessons: be open to peace, but recognize that real, lasting change takes time—perhaps even three generations. And in our personal lives, we can let go of anger by recognizing the potential for good in others. Whether on a national or personal level, we must balance caution with compassion, ensuring that old biases don’t prevent us from embracing a better future.