Parashat Ki Tetze – The Call to Remember within the Call to Fight

This week’s parashah opens with the words: “Ki tetze la-milchamah al oyevecha – When you go out to war against your enemies” (Deuteronomy 21:10).

Our sages note that the Torah does not say “if” you go out to war, but “when.” It is as if the Torah already knew (and of course it does) that the people of Israel, throughout history, would inevitably be condemned to face wars—both external and internal.

Our brothers and sisters in Israel are living in a daily “Ki Tetzi la-milchamah.” Exhausted soldiers and reservists, families still waiting for their loved ones abducted in Gaza, a civil society stretched to its very limits, and the bitter feeling that political leadership is failing to rise to the level of sacrifice carried on the shoulders of those defending the nation.

Has it always been like this? Was it the same in the past? Is this our destiny—or even a divine decree—that as a people we must carry the burden of war throughout the ages?

Parashat Ki Tetze exposes the dark and brutal side of combat. It addresses what can happen precisely at the moment when power intoxicates us—when we boast of victory and when a human being believes they hold absolute control over another.

And yet, woven into these laws of warfare, we also encounter mitzvot that lift us up, that fill us with pride and align us with the noblest values of our tradition. The command to build a railing on a rooftop, so that life is protected. The mitzvah of returning a lost or fallen animal to its owner—even if that person is our enemy. The delicacy of sending away the mother bird if we must take eggs from her nest. The dignity of allowing working animals to eat while they labor. The compassion of leaving behind the fallen sheaves and forgotten crops in our fields so that the poor and needy may gather them.

In other words, the very parashah that begins with war unfolds into countless laws of daily decency: reminders of integrity and responsibility toward our fellow human beings—whether family, foe, stranger, or even animal.

Too often the headlines of war blur our vision. They drown out the simple but essential demands of social ethics. And though the calamity of war roars in our minds, deafening all reason, Torah calls on us not to neglect the daily acts—those decisions that shape our shared lives, that build or break the moral fabric of our community.

Ki Tetze warns us: it is precisely in moments of passion, anger, and the thirst for revenge that we must remember who we are, what values we have inherited, and who we are called to continue becoming.

We always read Parashat Ki Teitzei in the month of Elul—a month when we recite Psalm 27, which also speaks of war. At first, war and teshuvah seem worlds apart, impossible to reconcile. Yet in our deepest reflections, in our most intimate nearness to the Divine, we proclaim: “Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise against me, in this I am confident” (Psalm 27:3).

In this moment, Torah demands that we set moral boundaries—that even in war we remember the humanity of the enemy, restraining the drive to dominate and exploit. Ki Teitzei compels us to reexamine morality in war—then and now—not merely as a legal necessity, but as the ultimate test of our humanity, and of a culture rooted in the ethics of care.

But this parashah teaches us that war is not only external. Ki Teitzei speaks of battles against Amalek, but also of our internal struggles—our moral, ethical, and communal battles: justice in human relationships, care for workers, compassion for the vulnerable, mutual responsibility. The Torah reminds us that the true strength of Israel does not rest only in its army, but in its social fabric—in its ability to sustain one another, to ensure that no one is abandoned.

And after all the laws and regulations, after all the rules meant to preserve the people’s morality, we are given the deepest reason of all: “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt, and that the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore, I command you to do this.”

The Torah insists that we, as a people, never forget we were once slaves. Therefore, we cannot mistreat others. Even if we win a war—assuming there is such a thing as “winning” in war—even with captives in our hands, we are commanded to act with morality. Again and again the Torah reminds us: you were slaves. And even the generations born free in the land, who did not taste the bitterness of exile, are commanded to remember—through their actions—that we were once powerless, and that we bear the responsibility to care for those who now stand in a weaker position.

This is the very heart of Pesach: transmitting the story to our children is not only about preserving tradition or ensuring continuity. It is a formative, ethical command—so that future generations do not lose their moral compass.

So we must ask: is it possible to sustain war without losing our ethical identity? Can we hold on to strength and pain, without surrendering to anger and vengeance?

In today’s Israel—and in the Diaspora, shaken by the rise of antisemitism—the battle is on many fronts:

• Against enemies who seek our destruction.

• Against a world that often remains indifferent.

• Against despair that seeps into our hearts.

• And against our own inner divisions, which weaken us and deepen the sense of inequality and injustice.

Perhaps the sharpest message of Ki Tetze is that war does not end on the battlefield. Each of us—in Israel and in the Diaspora—is called to fight for dignity, for unity, and for faith in the future of Am Yisrael.

And yes, perhaps the fear of these times—entering the second High Holy Days after October 7th, with so much pain and anguish—makes the journey harder, toughens our souls, and leaves us wondering whether this process has any meaning at all. But I believe the opposite: even in the worst of moments, Torah calls us to rescue our humanity, to strengthen bonds of justice and mutual care in the spaces we inhabit.

Perhaps there, in that quiet and daily resistance, lies our true victory.

May God grant us the strength to achieve it. Inner and outer peace. Both physical and spiritual.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Gustavo Geier