“Someone you hate.” Jews are not supposed to hate. V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha; “Love your fellow as yourself” is a cornerstone of our faith. Obviously, this is not the common hatred based on envy and other social flaws. This must be a hate that falls under the rubric of permissibility, such as a fellow Jew who persistently commits sinful behavior – despite being warned and admonished repeatedly to desist from his spiritually egregious activities. Until that time that he listens and repents, he may be the focus of our disdain and even loathing. Such a person harms not only himself, but is considered a threat to the spiritual/moral fiber of Klal Yisrael.
If this person has overloaded his donkey or if the load the donkey is carrying is just too much for it, can one look away and ignore the animal’s pain and its owner’s distress? Surely, he will/should help him, despite his personal feelings toward him. By going against the prodding of our yetzer hora, evil inclination, to ignore our enemy, we become better human beings. Chazal (Bava Metzia 32) further this concept, presenting a case whereby one is confronted with two situations which require his assistance. In one case, it is a friend whose donkey needs to be unloaded, while, in the other case, it is his enemy whose donkey needs to be loaded. Surely, helping his friend unload is less of a challenge than helping his enemy load. Yet, Chazal teach that the more difficult physical demand, coupled with the person for whom there was no love lost, takes precedence over the much easier challenge. The Alter, zl, m’Slabodka explains that this reinforces the idea that Hashem created mitzvos for the specific purpose of refining our character, thereby making us better. We must do what is best for our character development. The easy way is not always the best way.
The Torah uses the expression: “Would you refrain from helping him?” Horav Yechiel Michel Feinstein, zl, observes that this is the only place in the Torah that Torah turns to the reader with a question: The Torah is incredulous that a Jew would see his fellow in need of assistance and not help him. If he shirks from his duty, what chinuch did he receive from the Torah? Even if the person in need is an enemy, Hashem demands that we step up to our personal tzelem Elokim, creation in the Image of G-d, and do what is correct. How can a Jew not empathize with the pain which his fellow is experiencing? That is a question for which we really have no rational answer.
The Torah does not seem to ask who is at fault: Did the person put too much on the animal’s back? Is he trying to load more than he should? Fault does not play a role. Pain does. If the animal or person is experiencing pain, then one must intervene.
Our responsibility is not simply a result of the animal’s pain. Quite possibly, its master is in pain because he is unable to do alone what is necessary to help. We can derive an obvious lesson herein: If relieving the pain experienced by an animal is a mitzvah, then how much more so is it crucial that we relieve, help, “unburden” a Jew, who is undergoing emotional, spiritual, or psychological pain? It is not merely an act of kindness, but rather, a sacred responsibility.
We have brothers and sisters who are buckling under invisible loads of duress, anxiety, loneliness, identity crisis, failure, guilt and disappointment – in themselves and others. Their struggle is real: in some cases, self-inflicted; in others, by circumstance. The pain is the same. The origin of the burden does not mitigate our obligation to help.
A student cried at night over his personal failure. He felt that his sorrow was his own fault. The Rosh Yeshivah went over to his student and cried with him. He did not point fingers, lay blame, or give lame excuses. He understood that sometimes the only way to ease the burden is not with answers or excuses, but with presence and empathy. We are forbidden to observe and stand idly by as a donkey collapses beneath its load. How much more so may we never allow a Jew to collapse under his load of sorrow. Our job is not to determine if and how much he is hurting, but to ensure that he is not hurting alone.
Horav Moshe Rozenstein, zl (Mashgiach of Yeshivas Lomza), had a small pharmacy, which, during his youth, he managed as a source of income to support his family. After a while, he turned the running of the store over to his wife and children when he went to study in the cheder of Kelm. He grew spiritually and intellectually during his tenure in Kelm. When he returned, he once again assumed the job of managing the pharmacy. He was actually stuck between the proverbial “rock and a hard place.” On the one hand, he realized that his business served a vital need in helping heal his customers. On the other hand, no businessman has established a business just for the fun of it. He must pray that he succeeds in his venture. Success in the pharmacy meant more people would require drugs for their health. By extension, this intimated that he would have to pray that more people become sick and need his services. He was unable to reconcile himself to this. He chose to close the pharmacy whose success was dependent on the ill health of its customers. It was such unique consideration for others that catapulted him to be the revered and beloved Mashgiach that he was.
At times, the first act of perikah, unloading, is not heroic, but a simple greeting to make the other person feel relevant, as if they matter to someone. A resounding, “Good morning! How are you today?” spoken with eye contact, genuine feeling and warmth can remove one’s feeling of isolation. For a person carrying silent pain, that greeting is much more than human decency and etiquette – it is his lifeline. A warm greeting will not change his life; it will, however, change his perspective on life.
A simple, “Good morning,” is a small act of kindness, but, as we will see from the following well-known story (which has variations), it can be life-saving. In a small Polish town on the outskirts of Danzig (Gdansk), a distinguished Chassidic Rav (Rav Yisrael Shapiro), lived. He was well-dressed, with a top hat and a silver cane. For health reasons, his doctor encouraged him to take daily walks. These walks took him through town, and he would continue on to the countryside. He was usually accompanied by his son-in-law. Wherever he went, he would greet whomever he met – men, women and children with a warm, “Good morning!” Everyone returned his greeting, except for a crude farmer who had a small field on the edge of town. Being a Volksdeutsche, worker of ethnic descent, privy to all the derogatory descriptions of Jews, he lost no love for our people. The Rav would see him every day and he addressed him by name, “Gutt morgen, Herr Mueller,” to which he received no response, but he continued his daily greeting until he finally received a response. The first Gutten morgen, Herr Rabbiner, was the beginning of a relationship between the scholarly Rabbi and the crude German farmer. This continued for three years, until the Nazi war machine took over Poland, sending its Jewish population to labor and extermination camps.
The Rav’s walks stopped. Herr Mueller, like a “good” German, joined the SS and now wore the dreaded uniform of the murderous Nazis. The Rav’s family was taken from him and sent to Treblinka, where they, with countless others, were all murdered. The Rav was deported to Auschwitz which was known for its dreaded Selektzia, selection, where prisoners were quickly looked over. The infirm and aged were sent to the “left” to be murdered, while those who had some physical potential were sent to the “right” to join work crews, which often ended in a slow, painful death.
This was all done by the wave of a baton: “Right, left,” the baton determining how long one would live. The Rav was sent to the lineup where he was certain that, due to his age and physical weakness, he had little chance of surviving the selection. Then, suddenly, he heard the unmistakable voice of the farmer whom he had befriended. He was the commandant in charge of the selection. His turn in line came, and, before the Nazi could wave his baton to the left, the Rav looked deep into the Nazi’s eyes and said, Gutten morgen, Herr Mueller. The Nazi was flabbergasted and immediately replied, Gutten morgen, Herr Rabbiner. Mueller, the callous murderer who had sent so many Jews to their death, remembered the Rav who had treated him with deference. He immediately signaled him to the “right,” which resulted in his being moved to a “safer” camp. A simple greeting acknowledging that before him stood a human being made the difference between life and death.
