Parashat Ki Tetze: When The Other Is No Longer a Stranger

Parashat Ki Tetze confronts us with one of the most difficult tasks of life in society: learning how to live with those who are not like us. 

The parashah contains an enormous number of mitzvot dealing with everyday life. At first glance, some of them seem to have little to do with one another. And yet, behind many of them lies the same fundamental concern: What happens when our actions affect another human being? What responsibility do we have for what takes place before our very eyes?

One of the most curious mitzvot in the parashah states: “You shall not plow with an ox and a donkey together” (Devarim 22:10).

At first glance, it is difficult to see a lesson here that goes beyond agriculture. Rashi understands that the prohibition may extend to other species being yoked together for a common task, while Sefer HaChinuch broadens its application to other forms of work. Chizkuni offers several explanations, among them one that is particularly meaningful: God has compassion for all of His creatures and does not disregard the physical differences between them.

Perhaps there is something much deeper here.

The Torah is not saying that everything different from us must be kept apart. It is teaching us that we cannot demand the same thing from those who are different without taking into account what each one is capable of bearing. Justice does not necessarily mean treating everyone identically. It means refusing to allow our differences to become a source of suffering for another.

A story attributed to Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa expresses this idea in a remarkable way.

A businessman had purchased two magnificent horses, one of Egyptian breed and the other of Indian breed. Proud of his fine animals, he hitched them to his wagon and set out for an important fair. But along the way, the wagon became stuck in the mud. The man whipped his horses again and again, but they could not move forward.

Then he noticed an old man making his way through the same swamp in an old wagon pulled by two weak and emaciated horses. To his astonishment, those animals were able to move forward where his splendid horses had failed.

He approached the old man and asked him what his secret was.

“Where are your horses from?” the old man asked.

“One is Egyptian and the other is Indian,” he replied proudly.

“There is your answer,” said the old man. “Yours are distinguished when they are apart, but together they cannot get anywhere. Mine are brothers. They grew up together, ate from the same hay, and drank from the same pond. When I strike one, the other comes to his brother’s aid so that he will not suffer alone.”

This is one of the most beautiful images through which to think about our own communal life. We do not move forward together simply because we are tied to the same wagon. We move forward when what happens to the other becomes something that matters to us.

And that brings us to another scene in the same parashah.

The Torah commands that when we find something belonging to another person, we must not simply walk away. It uses a particularly powerful expression:

לֹא תוּכַל לְהִתְעַלֵּם — lo tuchal lehit’alem: “you cannot remain indifferent,” “you cannot turn away.”

It does not merely say that we should not ignore what we see. It says that we cannot.

There is something profoundly human in that expression. We can try to look the other way, convince ourselves that it is not our problem, or tell ourselves that someone else should take care of it. But once we have seen, responsibility has already entered our lives.

I understand this is why Moshe’s first great transformation begins when he leaves the palace and sees his brothers suffering under forced labor:

“He went out to his brothers and saw their burdens” (Shemot 2:11).

Moshe already knew that the Hebrews were slaves. The difference is that now he sees them.

And seeing, in the Torah, is not simply a matter of registering something with our eyes. It means allowing what we see to affect us.

Moshe did not merely see slaves. He saw brothers.

That change in perspective was the beginning of his journey toward leadership.

We, too, live surrounded by people whose suffering we can see and yet learn not to see. Sometimes it happens on the street, within our own community, or even within our own families. And today there is another way of looking without truly seeing: the screen.

We can read words of hatred, humiliation, or dehumanization and convince ourselves that, because the person is not standing in front of us, it has nothing to do with us.

But distance does not erase responsibility.

The Torah returns to this same idea toward the end of Ki Tetze, when it prohibits using two different weights in a transaction. The image clearly refers to commercial dishonesty, but it can also become a powerful moral metaphor.

We all know that we tend to measure ourselves by one standard and measure others by another. When we make a mistake, we know our intentions and our circumstances. When someone else makes a mistake, we often see only the action and are quick to pass judgment.

The Torah forces us to ask whether the scale inside us really has only one measure.

Because perhaps the challenge of an ethical life is precisely this: learning to recognize the other without ever ceasing to recognize their humanity.

Ki Tetze does not ask us to eliminate our differences. Nor does it tell us that we are all the same. It teaches us something more difficult: that a society becomes just when we are capable of living with our differences without using whatever power we possess to cause suffering to someone who is more vulnerable.

And this is a particularly important lesson as we approach the Yamim Noraim.

During these days, we usually take stock of our actions. We think about what we did well and what we should have done differently. But perhaps there is another question that deserves a place in our cheshbon hanefesh: How much were we capable of seeing?

Because there is an enormous difference between looking at the world and allowing the world to matter to us.

The Torah does not promise that we will be able to repair every injustice or transform everyone who thinks differently from us. It asks something more concrete: that we not pass by another human being with indifference.

That we recognize another person’s vulnerability before we use our strength. That we judge by a standard we would also be willing to accept for ourselves. That we understand that behind every difference is a human being with a story of their own, their own fears, and their own dignity.

That is why Ki Tetze contains so many mitzvot—74 mitzvot in this one parashah alone—that may seem small when placed alongside the great questions of life.

Because the world does not change only when we speak great words about justice. It changes when another human being appears before us and we are capable of truly seeing them.

Moshe saw his brothers, and his journey began.

The horses in the story were able to move forward because one would not allow the other to suffer alone.

And the Torah tells us, again and again, that what we see cannot cease to matter to us.

Perhaps, as we approach the Yamim Noraim, this is one of the most honest questions we can ask ourselves:

Who is the other whom I still need to learn to see?

Shabbat Shalom u’mevorach,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier