After Israel’s sweeping victories over the Canaanites in the Negev and the Amorites and Bashan east of the Jordan, the Israelites encamped on the borders of Moab. In Parashat Balak, we read that the Moabites, gripped by fear, assumed Israel’s next move would be an attack on them. But instead of preparing for battle, they pursued a different strategy: they hired the seer Balaam to curse Israel, hoping that this would succeed where military force might fail.
To facilitate the curse, Balak led Balaam to various vantage points overlooking the Israelite camp. According to ancient belief, for a curse to be effective, the object must be visible. And yet, paradoxically, the Torah tells us that Balaam was only shown “a portion of the people” (Numbers 22:41), and later, merely “the edge of the people” (23:13). If the curse required full visibility, why didn’t Balak bring Balaam to a place where he could see the entire encampment?
One possibility is technical: perhaps the Israelite camp was so vast and sprawling that no single viewpoint afforded a complete perspective. But a more compelling interpretation suggests that Balak deliberately avoided showing Balaam the whole. Why? Because he feared that seeing Israel in its entirety—unified, orderly, and spiritually grounded—would weaken or even nullify the curse.
Balak may have understood that a people standing together in moral and communal harmony is nearly impossible to curse. If Balaam were to behold the full encampment—each tribe in its place, tents arranged with modesty, the divine presence dwelling in their midst—he might lose the will or the spiritual capacity to curse at all. Instead, Balak cropped the picture, exposing only fragments: a vulnerable flank, a moment of fatigue, glimpses of internal friction. He hoped that by narrowing the lens, he could magnify their flaws.
But Balak miscalculated. What he intended as curses emerged as blessings—three times over. He learned a timeless truth: the People of Israel may sometimes be divided, but when their survival is on the line, they know how to come together.
What Balak discovered in ancient times, Hamas learned—tragically and painfully—in ours.
In the months leading up to October 7, Israel appeared consumed by internal conflict. The debate over judicial reform unleashed a wave of mass protests, fierce rhetoric, and even refusals of reserve duty by some soldiers. Israelis were turning on one another in the streets and online. Political discourse became toxic, trust eroded, and the image of a fractured society took hold—not just internally, but in the eyes of our enemies.
As former Mossad director Tamir Pardo observed, “We broadcast to our enemies that we were in disarray—and they listened.” Hamas saw what it wanted to see: a house divided, a society distracted, an army whose unity was in doubt. And so, on that terrible morning, they struck—believing they had found the moment of weakness they had long awaited.
But once again, the enemy underestimated us.
Within hours, more than 360,000 reservists reported for duty—the largest call-up in Israel’s history. Many came before they were even summoned. Soldiers who had once protested or suspended their service dropped everything and ran to the front. Religious and secular, right-wing and left-wing, sabras and olim, young and old—they stood shoulder to shoulder. Israelis living abroad boarded planes to return. What had been called a “divided army” just days before became a symbol of unmatched unity and national purpose.
While the state stumbled in the chaos of those first hours, Israeli civil society rose like a tide. Volunteers streamed to the south with food, clothing, medical supplies, and moral support. Hotels and private homes opened to tens of thousands of evacuees. Tech companies, teachers, therapists, farmers, and artists reorganized their lives overnight to serve their fellow citizens. Blood drives filled in minutes. What emerged wasn’t just logistics or charity—it was a collective expression of love, sacrifice, and solidarity.
And then, something even deeper began to happen. Israelis who had spent months speaking about “them” began to speak once more of “us.” Not “they failed,” but “we must rebuild.”
Not “who’s to blame,” but “what can I do to help?”
In that moment of clarity, we rediscovered a truth we had nearly forgotten: our greatest strength is not in our weapons or our politics, but in our unity.
The enemy believed our divisions reflected weakness. They didn’t understand that beneath our arguments lies a bond forged by covenant and history, faith and destiny.
Yes, we argue—loudly. But when the moment demands it, we unite—fully.
Now, the task before us is not only to defeat those who seek our destruction, but to rebuild our society from within. To create a nation that can disagree without breaking apart. That can debate without demonizing. That understands that national resilience begins with national solidarity.
Shabbat Shalom.
