As we enter the month of Iyar - a time traditionally associated with the spiritual and physical healing of the Jewish nation - we turn our attention to the deeper responsibilities that come with power, privilege, and prosperity. In a moment when global humanitarian aid is being reconsidered and, in some cases, drastically reduced, we asked Maharat Ruth Balinksy Friedman to reflect on what the Torah can teach us about vulnerability, justice, and our obligations to others - both near and far.

Q: You have written very powerfully about how the Torah reminds us not to take anything for granted. In this moment of a drastic shift in policy around humanitarian aid, what lesson can we take from the Torah about our responsibility to others?

Ruth: While the Torah doesn’t offer policy recommendations for our thought processes, it does offer profound insight into the human condition — especially around power, privilege, and vulnerability. One of the Torah’s enduring lessons is that the difference between being a “have” and a “have not” is often arbitrary and always temporary.

That understanding underpins the idea that the countries that are the “haves” have a moral and ethical responsibility to help the “have nots.” Many of the societal laws contained in Deuteronomy share this underlying ethic, for they command a nation on the eve of its autonomy to construct its social structures in a way that protects the most vulnerable members of its society. Assuming that the nation follows in God’s ways, most individuals will flourish, and those who do have an obligation to protect and support the members of their community who were unable to reach economic prosperity. Put simply, in a thriving society, the “haves” must protect the “have nots.”

The second Torah argument builds on this idea, but takes it one radical step further. One of the things I find most meaningful about the Torah is the simple but profound realization that nothing we have should be taken for granted, because the world is simply a cycle of the "haves" and "have nots." The shemittah cycle is emblematic of this idea. We are given six years for our society to develop on its own trajectory, which inevitably leads some people to acquire wealth, and others to lose it. Such is the natural way of the world. However, the Torah’s response to this reality is not simply to mandate that the wealthy support the poor, but rather to invite a total recalibration. In the 7th year, the shemittah year, the six years of growth and loss come to a screeching halt. The wealthy are stymied, as they are not permitted to harvest their fields and sell their goods. The poor are given a lifeline, as their debts are canceled. In the 8th year the cycle begins again, and we do not know who will succeed this cycle, and who will suffer.

The shemittah year shakes the wealthy out of their material comfort, and elevates the poor from the depths of their economic despair. It reminds us that the difference between being a “have” and a “have not” is both arbitrary, and temporary. Therefore, the nations that “have” should engage in humanitarian aid not just because it is the right thing to do, but also because we will want others to do the same for us when we become the “have nots.

Q: You spent a year in Kenya with your family. How did this experience shape your perspective of the role Jews should be playing in the broader world? 

Ruth: My family and I enjoyed a magical year living in Nairobi, Kenya. I loved it tremendously, and my heart aches to go back (I occasionally dream at night that it is July of 2024, when my family was preparing to return to the US, and I am sobbing uncontrollably that I have to leave.) 

One of the reasons that it was so painful to leave Nairobi was that we left during a time of civil unrest across the country. The government kept raising taxes, and struggling Kenyans could not afford to pay. Many families had to cut back to one meal a day in order to survive, and they were pushed to the brink. Protests erupted, and violence ensued. I could not stop crying as I watched all of these truly wonderful people who had welcomed me into their country fight for their basic dignity and survival. 

Witnessing these protests gave me such an appreciation of the fact that I am a citizen of a country that has structures to help support the poor, and a religion that mandates this of us. I don’t think I could truly understand the scope of vulnerability until I lived in a country whose government is unable to provide these systems of support. It renewed my gratitude to the US, and to Judaism, and reminded me of our collective obligation to support the most vulnerable people in the world, even if they live halfway across the world from us.