At the time of this writing, the Israeli government stands on the brink of collapse over a long-simmering and unresolved crisis: the issue of chok hagiyus (חוק הגיוס)—the draft law. It’s also referred to, depending on one’s perspective, as chok hapetor migiyus (חוק הפטור מגיוס)—the exemption law, or chok hahishtamtut (חוק ההשתמטות)—the evasion law. What lies at the heart of this impasse? And what insight might this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Naso, offer?
In Israel, military service is compulsory for most Jewish men and women upon reaching the age of 18. However, since the early days of the state, Haredi yeshiva students have been granted deferrals—and, over time, de facto exemptions—to allow for full-time Torah study. What began as a limited accommodation has since expanded dramatically, raising deep concerns about equality and the fair distribution of national responsibility. The Israeli High Court has repeatedly ruled that such blanket exemptions are unconstitutional. Yet, despite numerous legislative attempts to create a balanced draft framework, every effort has faltered in the face of political pressure from Haredi parties and chronic coalition discord. The result: a persistent and destabilizing fault line in Israeli politics.
Since the events of October 7, 2023, however, this debate has taken on a new level of urgency. In the aftermath of the Hamas attack, the IDF saw an extraordinary 120% mobilization rate among reservists. Yet over time, participation has waned—largely for three key reasons.
First, many reservists have been serving for extended stretches, far beyond typical reserve duty. The emotional and psychological toll is immense: separation from families, exposure to combat, and the weight of uncertainty. Second, their prolonged absence has placed an enormous burden on their spouses—left to raise children, manage households, and often maintain jobs—all without the support of a partner. The impact on their children, growing up in a time of war without a parent present, is also profound.
But perhaps the deepest source of frustration is the feeling of injustice: that while they are risking their lives and sacrificing their well-being for the country, a large sector of the population remains exempt from sharing in that burden. Increasingly, reservists and a vast majority of Israelis are saying the same thing: everyone must be required laset banetel (לשאת בנטל)—to shoulder the burden of defending the nation.
Yet Haredi leadership has threatened to topple the government if their young men are required to enlist. And so, the nation faces a political and moral crisis.
This week’s parasha, Naso, offers a powerful and timely lens through which to examine the situation. The word laset in “laset banetel” derives from the Hebrew root as the name of the parasha, n-s-a (נ-ש-א), which means, “to lift,” “to carry,” or “to bear,” and it appears repeatedly in various forms throughout the parasha.
At the start of the parasha, God instructs Moses to naso et rosh—”lift the head” or “count” the members of the Gershonite clan. This is not simply an administrative census. The language suggests something deeper: that to count someone is to recognize their significance, to elevate their presence within the collective.
This root also appears in the word nesi’im (נשיאים)—the tribal chieftains—so called because they are “lifted up” from among the people to serve in leadership. It emerges again in the description of the Levites’ role: ve-nase’u masa (וְנָשְׂאוּ מַשָּׂא)—they shall carry the burden of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary. The Kohathites, Gershonites, and Merarites were each charged with transporting sacred parts of the Tabernacle. This was no easy task—hauling heavy structures through the heat of the desert—but the Levites never voiced a complaint. They did not see their task as a burden, but as an honor—a sacred duty that uplifted them as they undertook it.
But in next week’s parasha, Beha’alotecha, the root n-s-a takes on a different tone. The people, wearied by the journey and longing for the food of Egypt, cry out to Moses in dissatisfaction. Although Moses led the people out of Egypt, through the sea, into the desert, then to Mount Sinai, and although he faced numerous challenges along the way, he never regarded his job as a “burden” (מַשָּׂ֖א). But, now, he is overwhelmed and disheartened, and he turns to God in despair: “Why have You treated Your servant so badly… that You lay the burden (masa) of all this people upon me? Did I conceive this people? Did I birth them, that You should say to me, ‘Carry them (sa’eihu) in your bosom as a nurse carries (yisa) an infant’?…” (Numbers 11:11–12)
Here, n-s-a no longer means honor or uplift. It means strain, exhaustion, and imbalance. Moses, once the steadfast leader of a nation, now buckles under the weight of an unbearable task. God, therefore, responds by appointing seventy elders to help him, saying: “They shall share the burden of the people with you, and you shall not bear it alone” (ve-nas’u itecha b’masa ha’am, v’lo tisa atah l’vadekha) (Numbers 11:17).
The meaning is clear: whether n-s-a conveys uplift and elevation, or weight and burden, depends on whether the responsibility is fairly distributed.
The lesson for us today is both profound and urgent. Like the Levites, Israel’s reservists have shown immense courage and dedication. They have shown their willingness laset banetel—to carry the sacred responsibility of defending the Jewish people and the State of Israel. But, like Moses, if the task becomes unfair—if it is borne by some while others are absolved—it ceases to elevate and becomes a crushing weight and a burden too difficult to bear.
God intervened to ease Moses’ burden. We cannot wait for divine intervention to do the same for our reservists. That duty now falls to our elected leaders. The question is, will they rise to the occasion?
