During the summer, I asked a question: Do you remember where you were when you heard Osama bin Laden was killed by Seal Team 6? It was in response to the assassination of Ismail Haniyeh, Yimach Shemo, in Tehran. But in a short time, the list of targeted enemies grew—Mohammed Deif, Nasrallah, and finally Yahya Sinwar. For many, the death of Sinwar represents to Israel what the death of Osama Bin Laden did for America.
I recall where I was when we heard about Sinwar’s death—I was in shul. One of our congregants stood up after my sermon and made the announcement. There was silence; we didn’t quite know how to respond. I broke the silence with a bit of humor, saying, “Well, we’ve already said Hallel, so let’s continue the service.” Yet, the question lingered: Should we celebrate the death of our enemies?
Looking back at the death of Osama bin Laden, we saw impromptu celebrations erupt near the White House and at Ground Zero in New York. People were chanting, waving flags, and drinking. But a young woman interviewed at Ground Zero expressed a sentiment that encapsulated the ambivalence many of us feel: “It’s weird to celebrate someone’s death. It’s not exactly what we’re here to celebrate, but it’s wonderful that people are happy.” Her words reveal a profound tension: while there is relief that a mastermind of terror has been removed from the world, is it appropriate to celebrate death, even the death of an evil person?
The question is not new, and it comes back to us again with the death of Sinwar. Do we sing Hallel? Do we recite a special Kaddish for the enemy? Are we, as Jews, allowed to celebrate the death of an evil person?
Let’s answer that question, with the help of this week’s parashah, Bereshit, specifically, our reading for today, chapter 5, and other insights from our tradition.
Genesis Chapter 5 begins with the verse: “This is the record of Adam’s line. When God created humankind, it was made in the likeness of God” (Genesis 5:1). This seemingly simple verse has profound implications.
In Avot DeRabbi Natan 13, Rabbi Nehemiah explains that every human being is as important as the entire creation. Why? Because when the Torah introduces humanity, it parallels the creation of the heavens and the earth (Genesis 2:4). Just as the heavens and the earth were a majestic work of creation, so too is each human being. Rabbi Nehemiah teaches that God showed Adam all future generations, as if they were rising before him—righteous and wicked alike. Every life holds potential and represents a unique piece of God’s creation.
Divine Image and Our Ethical Dilemma
This chapter is also cited in the Jerusalem Talmud in a debate between Rabbi Akiva and Ben Azaai over what line should be the basis of the Torah.
Rabbi Akiva famously taught that “Love your fellow as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) is the foundational principle of the Torah. This commandment guides us to treat others, particularly fellow Jews, with love and respect. But Rabbi Akiva’s colleague, Ben Azzai, offers a broader principle that speaks to our dilemma: “This is the record of Adam’s line”—When God created humankind, it was made in the likeness of God (Genesis 5:1).
For Ben Azzai, this verse represents an even greater foundation for the Torah than “Love your fellow as yourself.” Why? Because it teaches us that all human beings, not just fellow Jews, were created in the image of God. Even those we dislike. Even those who are our sworn enemies.
Ben Azzai’s insight reminds us that, though we may feel relief at the death of a terrorist like Sinwar, we must temper our celebration with the recognition that he, too, was made in God’s image.
As I looked at the pathetic face of the dead Sinwar, killed by a group of trainees, not a special forces Mossad battalion.
I felt both a sense of relief, a sense of complicated joy, but also pity.
Sinwar committed unspeakable evil, but he too was once a part of the Divine creation. Imagine if he used his leadership skills and ingenuity for good, instead of using his skills to earn his nickname, the Butcher of Khan Yunis, for butchering Palestinians before he butchered Jews. All I could think was: what a waste; this soul once carried the potential to reflect the Divine image, a potential that he tragically wasted at the expense of his life, and thousands upon thousands of others.
I think about that often when it comes to our enemies today. They worship death, like a cult, while we are the opposite, we choose life. It’s our toast to everything, L’Chaim, to life.
I believe that is why we actually have permission to feel a certain type of joy when our enemies are eliminated.
Our tradition teaches us that we are allowed to feel joy that evil has been stopped. As the Talmud teaches in Sanhedrin 39b, when the angels sought to sing praises at the drowning of the Egyptians in the Red Sea, God rebuked them, saying: “My handiwork is drowning in the sea, and you want to sing before me?”
God’s message is clear: I do not rejoice in the downfall of the wicked. But the Talmud continues with a nuanced perspective. Rabbi Yosei bar Ḥanina points out that while God does not rejoice, God allows others to feel joy. The verse in Deuteronomy says: “The Lord will cause rejoicing [yasis] over you to cause you to perish” (Deut. 28:63). It doesn’t say that God will rejoice, but that He will cause others to rejoice.
Contrary to how this text is used, the answer is pretty clear - we learn that while God may not celebrate the death of the wicked, humans are permitted to feel joy when justice is served.
Herein lies the challenge. How do we reconcile our joy at the death of a mass murderer with the Torah’s teaching that every human being carries the tzelem Elohim—the image of God? Ben Azzai would tell us that we must temper our joy with a sense of tragedy, acknowledging that a human life has been lost, even though that life was responsible for so much evil.
But, Ben Azzai does not dismiss the need for justice. The image of God does not protect one from the consequences of their actions. As the text from Avot de-Rabbi Natan teaches us, God showed Adam all the generations to come, including their righteous and wicked figures. Justice is part of the divine plan for the world. The removal of the wicked is necessary for the flourishing of the good. In our tradition, God takes care of the dirty work for us.
After a Jew is murdered, you will often hear the phrase Hashem yikom damam uttered: (ה׳ יִקּוֹם דָּמָם), which means “May God avenge their blood.” It acknowledges the pain and injustice of the murder but places the act of vengeance in God's hands, rather than encouraging human retaliation.
After the Holocaust, survivors and families of those who perished often invoked Hashem yikom damam as a way of expressing faith that God would bring justice for the immense suffering endured.
This phrase carries a sense of grief, a cry for justice, and an acknowledgment that revenge is not our responsibility—it is God's. It aligns with the larger Jewish ethic that while we can pursue justice in this world, true and complete justice is ultimately in God’s hands.
We say this because we recognize that God, in His infinite wisdom, is the ultimate judge. God bears the burden of revenge so that we are not consumed by it. God takes on the psychological and spiritual weight of vengeance so that we can focus on justice.
When Sinwar was killed, it was not about revenge—it was about justice. And justice is something we are allowed to rejoice in. In fact, the Talmud in Sanhedrin gives us permission to feel that joy. We are not angels; we are human beings who have suffered, who have seen the terror that Sinwar has unleashed upon the world. His death brings a sense of safety, relief, and hope. It is a victory for the innocent and a blow to evil.
But as we celebrate, we must remember the teachings of Ben Azzai. Even in moments of justice, we are bound to recognize the complexity of human life, created in the image of God. Our joy must be tempered by humility, by the recognition that life, even the life of a sinner, carries divine significance.
In the end, when we hear of the death of an enemy, we can take a moment to feel relief. We can even feel a sense of joy that justice has been served. But our tradition guides us to temper that joy with solemnity and reflection. We should not revel in the death of even the most wicked person because, as Genesis reminds us, every human being carries the spark of the Divine, no matter how deeply buried it may be.
So, should we have said a second Hallel when we heard about the death of Sinwar? Probably not, but instead, we can acknowledge the moment for what it is—a victory for justice, a moment of relief—and then move forward with humility, always mindful of the sacredness of life, even in the face of evil.
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