Parashat Behaalotcha: Miriam, the Cushite Woman, and the Weight of Prejudice

Among the many episodes we encounter in this week's parashah, one of the most intriguing and complex is the crisis that erupts within Moses’ own family. Until this point, the three siblings had appeared as a united leadership team. Miriam had been there from the very beginning of the story: she watched over the basket carrying her baby brother on the waters of the Nile, spoke to Pharaoh’s daughter to ensure that his own mother could nurse him, and after the crossing of the Red Sea, led the women in songs and dances of celebration. Aaron, for his part, became Moses’ voice before Pharaoh, his closest collaborator, and later the High Priest of Israel.

Yet suddenly, the Torah presents us with an unexpected rupture:

"Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman whom he had married, for he had married a Cushite woman." (Numbers 12:1)

The verses that follow make it clear that the real conflict revolves around Moses’ unique relationship with God and, quite possibly, the jealousy that relationship inspired, leading them into gossip and criticism:

"Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has He not spoken through us as well?" (Numbers 12:2)

But the Torah introduces a puzzling element: the reference to the "Cushite woman." The text never explains exactly what the issue was or why she suddenly appears in the middle of this dispute. That silence has been filled for centuries by commentators and traditions of every kind.

Rashi understands "Cushite" as a euphemism for extraordinary beauty. According to him, the reference is to Tzipporah, Moses’ wife, and the comparison highlights not only her physical attractiveness but also the nobility of her character. Ibn Ezra offers a different approach. He also identifies the woman as Tzipporah but explains that her darker complexion reflected her Midianite origins and the climate of the region.

Other traditions go even further. Josephus recounts the story of an Ethiopian princess named Tharbis who fell in love with Moses while he was leading a military campaign in Cush, Ethiopia.

The interpretations are endless. Some portray her as a princess; others as a foreigner. Some emphasize her beauty; others suggest that her origins were the source of criticism. The Netziv—Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, one of the most influential Torah commentators of the nineteenth century and a central figure in Lithuanian Judaism—even suggests that Miriam and Aaron were criticizing Moses for having separated from Tzipporah, viewing it as an injustice toward a woman who had been a loyal and devoted wife.

Yet there is something striking about all of these explanations: everyone talks about her.

She is described as beautiful or unattractive, noble or foreign, a princess or a servant, Black or simply sun-darkened. Everyone analyzes her. Everyone judges her. Everyone projects onto her their own assumptions, anxieties, and prejudices. Yet she herself never utters a single word. Her voice is entirely absent.

In this way, the Cushite woman becomes a symbol of something that has echoed throughout much of human history: women are often the subject of discussion rather than the speakers themselves. Men talk about them. Institutions talk about them. Commentators talk about them. Yet all too rarely are they asked what they themselves have to say.

Nor is it accidental that the criticism of Moses is expressed through his wife. When Miriam and Aaron seek to challenge their brother, they do not attack his leadership directly. They do not question his policies or his decisions. Instead, they point to the woman he chose. As has happened so often throughout history, a woman becomes the argument, the excuse, the vehicle through which tensions that truly belong elsewhere are expressed.

Yet the most difficult question emerges at the end of the story.

God intervenes to defend Moses, and after the encounter, only Miriam is stricken with tzara’at. Aaron participated in the criticism. Aaron spoke the same words. Aaron shared the same attitude. Yet the punishment falls solely upon her.

The Torah offers no definitive explanation, and perhaps that is precisely why this episode has generated questions for generations.

It is hard not to recognize here a pattern that has repeated itself far too often in human experience: when men and women participate in the same action, responsibility frequently falls more heavily upon the woman. Male behavior is excused, minimized, or contextualized; female behavior is scrutinized with far greater severity. Aaron retains his position as High Priest. Miriam bears the visible consequences.

Paradoxically, it is Aaron who acknowledges the wrongdoing and pleads with Moses:

"Please, my lord, do not hold against us the sin we have so foolishly committed." (Numbers 12:11)

And then comes one of the shortest and most moving prayers in the entire Torah:

"El na refa na la."

"O God, please heal her now." (Numbers 12:13)

Just five words. No elaborate speech. No theological argument. Only the cry of a brother who does not want to lose his sister.

I have always been moved by the simplicity of this prayer. Its brevity does not reflect indifference but love. It is a plea born out of pain and urgency. That is why it has endured through the centuries and continues to be recited today in moments of illness and need.

In my work as a chaplain in correctional facilities, I encounter a disproportionate number of people of color and Latino inmates. Even within the prison system itself, those same communities are disproportionately represented in restrictive housing and confinement. I often find myself wondering whether all of these incarcerations are truly just, or whether prejudice, conscious or unconscious, still shapes outcomes in ways we are reluctant to acknowledge.

Perhaps the deepest lesson of this episode is not merely the danger of jealousy or prejudice. Perhaps it is also a warning about our tendency to speak about others without listening to them, to reduce complex human beings to simple labels, and to turn those who are different into objects of suspicion or judgment.

The silence of the Cushite woman challenges us. It forces us to ask how often we continue speaking about others without allowing them to speak for themselves, how often our judgments are shaped by prejudice, and how often social structures continue to distribute blame, punishment, and power unevenly.

And it reminds us that true healing begins when we are willing to acknowledge our mistakes, listen to the voice of the other, and, like Moses, find words of compassion even in the midst of conflict.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier