Your Brother's Blood Cries Out to Me

By RABBI MICHAEL LATZ

Parashat Emor (Leviticus 21:1 – 24:23)

We can empathize with the utter humiliation and shame of the Iraqi prisoners at the hands of United States’ soldiers. Though we are only learning of it this week, the evidence purports that the abuse that has gone on for several months. Who among us is not repulsed by the photographs of hooded prisoners degraded and humiliated in unspeakable ways? Who among us does not feel embarrassed that the perpetrators of such acts wear our flag—a symbol of freedom and hope—on their uniform?

As Americans, as Jews, as human beings, we are outraged at the treatment of fellow human beings; President Bush claimed that one of the central tenets of the Iraq war was to liberate the Iraqi people from Sadaam Hussein’s torture chambers, mass rape, and violence. The irony here might be humorous if it weren’t so tragic.

I know in my gut that what these soldiers did is abhorrent. In times of moral outrage, we turn to the words of Jewish tradition and our sacred text. And we ask: does Judaism offer wise counsel on the meaning and the response to such human degradation and abuse?

It was not a difficult search. The tradition speaks loudly and one could argue, univocally.

In the narrative text of Torah, when Miriam and Aaron speak lashon hara (gossip) about their brother Moshe, Miriam is punished with tzara'at, a disease that turns one's skin scaly and white. Fascinating punishment for an act that causes embarrassment—in Hebrew: halvanat panim, turning someone's face white. Miriam lost face for shaming Moses.

The Talmud (BM 58b) teaches, “Anyone who shames his fellow in public, it is as if he spilled blood.” Shaming another person in public is akin to murder.

But the text does not stop there. Instead of saying that it is as if he spilled “his blood—dam” the Talmud refers to bloods—dammim—in the plural.

Rabbi Yosef Chaim of Bagdad – 1832-1904 explains that when one shames another person in public, every time the victim remembers his shame or meets someone who was present, he experiences the shame again. So when one shames his fellow in public, he has not merely shamed him once, but he has spilled his blood repeatedly! Given the geo-political context of the war in Iraq, the intense conflict in the Middle East, the rise of fundamentalism throughout the Islamic world, and the world’s growing lack of respect for America, we understand what it means to spill “bloods.”

As we read in the tragic story of Cain and Abel: “kol damei achi-cha tzo-a-kim eilai min-ha-a-damah. Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground!” Indeed, the earth bleeds tears of sorrow at the unjust and despicable treatment of our fellow human beings.

In Leviticus next week, we read the message that resonates profoundly: “You shall not hurt the feelings of one another, because of your reverence for God, for I am Adonai your God.” (Leviticus 25:17)

The central message of the Jewish people is our belief that humanity is created in God’s image. Within each human being burns a spark of Divinity. To damage another—in body or in soul—is an affront to creation and to God.

On this Shabbat, I hope that you join me in praying for those who were shamed, that they find their dignity restored once again; for those who perpetrated such heinous acts, may they come to do sincere and heartfelt repentance; and for our leaders, whose actions will affect all humanity for generations to come.

And I pray that these issues of embarrassment are not merely projected outward; that we would somehow say to ourselves that since we would never do what these soldiers did, we’re somehow immune. But we don’t do the real work of tikkun—healing ourselves, our community and our world—if we don’t look inward at how we ourselves have been agents of embarrassment.

This is public tragedy is a personal call for each of us to look at how—even in the smallest and seemingly most insignificant of ways—we have embarrassed, humiliated, or somehow denied the full humanity of those in our midst. Have we shamed a spouse, a lover, or a child? Do we look away at the homeless person on the street because she smells or because his appearance makes us queasy? Do we look down upon those with less education or less money? Do we treat those with different political viewpoints as pariahs?

There is of course, a continuum of behavior. To abuse and humiliate a prisoner of war is not the same as laughing at what someone is wearing or scolding a child in public, inappropriate as they may be. However, this does not change the reality that as Jews, we are responsible for caring for one another; for protecting the widow, the orphan and the stranger in our midst; for upholding and honoring the dignity of every human being—even those with whom we disagree or like.

The issue of the Iraqi prisoners’ abuse at the hands of American soldiers will not likely disappear anytime soon. We will be confronted daily with the images of human degradation and suffering. Our response—or lack thereof—will shape the destiny of future generations. This is one of the great moral challenges of our generation. How will we respond?