Fighting With Our Brothers, Not Against Them

(Numbers 32:6)

Rabbi Noam Raucher, MA.Ed — Executive Director, FJMC

Earlier this week, I posted an article on social media written by Rabbi Jill Jacobs in The Forward, titled, “Gaza is starving. Where are the American Jewish leaders?” It’s a compassionate, thoughtful piece that calls attention to the growing humanitarian crisis in Gaza — especially the horrifying scale of starvation among civilians. In it, Rabbi Jacobs doesn’t blame Israel for the war. She doesn’t deny the trauma of October 7, or the anguish over hostages still in captivity. She simply asks: Why are so many of our Jewish leaders afraid to say that Gazans are suffering?

The reaction to my post was swift. A few people thanked me. Others questioned my motives. And a handful made assumptions — about my politics, my loyalties, even my place within the Jewish community. It was painful. Not because people disagreed, but because they assumed that my compassion for Gazans came at the expense of my love for Israel and my fellow Jews. As if caring about both were a contradiction.

It is not. And this week’s Torah portion (Matot-Masei) reminds us why.

In Parashat Mattot, two tribes — Reuven and Gad — ask Moses for permission to settle in the lands east of the Jordan River, rather than cross into Canaan with the rest of the Israelites. Their reason is practical: the land is good for livestock, and they have a lot of cattle. But Moses hears something deeper — and more dangerous — in their request. “Shall your brothers go to war while you stay here?” (Numbers 32:6)

Sforno, the 16th-century Italian commentator, expands on this verse: “While you are settled here on land that we have already conquered? Surely you did not think for a moment that you could get away with such an arrangement! Your suggestion therefore can only have the effect of undermining the morale of your brethren!”

To Sforno, Moses isn’t just talking about military logistics. He’s talking about morale. About showing up. About what it means to be with your people in a moment of crisis — even when you have your own needs, your own fears, your own way of thinking. He’s warning: your withdrawal, even if well-intentioned, can feel like abandonment. And that’s something we all need to take seriously.

But there’s something else here too. Moses doesn’t kick them out. He doesn’t silence them. He demands a commitment: Will you still fight alongside your brothers? Will you be with them in the struggle, even if your vision of the Promised Land looks a little different?

And this is where we find ourselves today. So many Jews — myself included — wrestle daily with how to hold multiple truths at once. That Israel has a right to defend itself. That Hamas is a terrorist organization that bears responsibility for immense violence. And also that innocent people in Gaza are suffering. Starving. Dying. And that saying this out loud does not mean we are antisemitic. It does not mean we are anti-Israel. It means we are deeply Jewish.

Because to be Jewish is to care about all human suffering. To be Jewish is to wrestle with hard truths, not bury them. To be Jewish is to stay in the fight — for justice, for safety, for dignity — even when we disagree on how that fight should be fought.

It is not a betrayal to cry for the children of Gaza. It is not abandonment to ask questions about how this war is being waged. What is a betrayal is walking away from our fellow Jews because their grief looks different than ours. Because they call for peace while we call for security — or vice versa. Fighting with our brothers does not mean fighting against them. It means fighting alongside them.

It means making room for disagreement without disconnection. It means honoring the pain of others, not as a threat to our own, but as part of our shared humanity.

The tribes of Reuven and Gad ultimately respond to Moses with a compromise: We will go with you. We will fight for our people. And only after that will we return to our homes. They don’t back down from their position — but they also don’t abandon the community.

So let us do the same. Let us not weaponize our pain against one another. Let us not mistake moral courage for disloyalty. Let us make room for disagreement within the tribe, not cast people out of it. And let us remember that unity is not uniformity — but presence, even in difference. Because this isn’t a moment to stay silent or step away. This is a moment to stay in it — together.

Ken yehi ratzon. May it be so.