Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

My Brother

After Kayin kills Hevel, Hashem says to Kayin, “Where is Hevel, your brother?” To that, Kayin responds, “I don’tknow. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Bereishis 4:9).

The Zera Shimshon observes the following.

Why would Hashem ask Kayin, “Where is your brother?” Hashem knows everything and nothing is concealed from Him. He certainly knew precisely what had happened to Hevel and where he was. What, then, was Hashem asking Kayin?

The Midrash reveals a fascinating dimension of the story. We might naturally assume that Kayin was the stronger of the two brothers and that he was able to kill Hevel because of his superior strength. Yet the Midrash describes precisely the opposite. Hevel was the gibbor. He was stronger than Kayin, and Kayin feared him. When the confrontation between the brothers intensified and Hevel gained the upper hand, Kayin pleaded with him. “If you kill me, what will you tell our father? There will be no one left but you.” At that moment, Hevel’s heart filled with compassion for his brother. He had mercy on Kayin. At that point, he lowered his guard, and Kayin seized the opportunity and killed him.

Hashem then came to Kayin and asked, “Where is Hevel, your brother?” Hashem was asking something more than Hevel’s physical whereabouts. Where is the brotherhood that Hevel showed you? Where is the compassion he had for you? Where is the mercy that caused him to spare your life? He looked at you not merely as an adversary standing before him, but as his brother. Yet you responded to that brotherly love by going in precisely the opposite direction. “Ei Hevel achicha? Where is Hevel, your brother?”

That question continues to reverberate throughout the generations, and perhaps it speaks to each and every one of us today. Ei Hevel achicha? Where is your brother? Do we truly love another Jew as we love ourselves? What about the person we are not particularly fond of; the person who rubs us the wrong way, who irritates us, who may be difficult to tolerate? Can we still look at that person and remember: he is my brother, she is my sister, this is another member of Klal Yisrael? And we can take the question even closer to home. “Mibsarcha lo tis’alem—Do not hide yourself from your own kin,” says the Navi (Yeshaya 58:7). What about our own brothers and sisters, our parents, and our relatives? Do they feel from us the love that family deserves?

We recite the words, “Acheinu kol Beis Yisrael.” We state, “Kol Yisrael chaveirim.” These are not merely beautiful expressions. They define who we are. We are brothers and sisters. We are one family.

The great Rabbi Aryeh Levin zt”l once visited an institution where he noticed a long-term patient sitting alone, receiving very little attention. Rabbi Levin made it his practice that whenever he visited the institution, he would spend time with this man. He would speak with him, share whatever words of Torah the patient could appreciate, bring him water, lift his feet to make him more comfortable, and do whatever he could to ease his loneliness.

One day, a nurse noticed Rabbi Levin’s extraordinary devotion and asked, “Rabbi Levin, is this patient related to you?” Rabbi Levin replied simply, “Yes, he is my brother.” Word quickly spread throughout the institution that Rabbi Aryeh Levin’s brother was one of their patients. From then on, for the remainder of the man’s life, the staff treated him like royalty. They thought Rabbi Levin meant that the man was literally his brother. But Rabbi Aryeh Levin meant simply: he is a Jew, and therefore, he is my brother.

That is the challenge contained within Hashem’s timeless question: “Ei Hevel achicha?” Where is your brother? He may live across the street or across the world. He may think differently from you, look differently from you, or live differently from you. He may even be someone you find difficult to understand. But he is still your brother. We are all brothers and sisters. We are all one family. And perhaps our task is to live in such a way that when Hashem asks us, “Ei Hevel achicha?” we can answer, not merely with words, but with the way we treat one another. “Here he is. He is my brother.”

Rabbi Yosef Palacci

The Light in the Darkness

Sometimes, an individual finds himself looking at his circumstances and wondering, “What is going on? Everything seems chaotic and everything seems dark. Nothing makes sense.”

To such a thought, the Chofetz Chaim makes a powerful observation. Not a single detail is beyond the direction of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Every moment and every development is being guided by Him, even when we cannot possibly understand where it is leading. And often, immediately following that period of darkness and confusion, an extraordinary light emerges.

The Chofetz Chaim proved this idea in the opening Pesukim of the Torah. “V’ha’aretz haysah sohu vavohu, v’choshech al p’nei tehom—The earth was chaotic and desolate, and darkness covered the depths” (Bereishis 1:2). What could appear more uncertain than that? Darkness and chaos was everywhere. Yet the very next words are, “V’Ruach Elokim merachefes al p’nei hamayim—The spirit of Hashem was hovering over the waters” (ibid.) In other words, even in the midst of the darkness, Hakadosh Baruch Hu was right there. What appeared to be chaos was never outside His control. V’ruach Elokim merachefes—Hashem was hovering over it, directing every detail and preparing what would come next.

And what came next? “Vayomer Elokim, yehi or; vayehi or—Hashem said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” First there was darkness. But all along, Ruach Elokim merachefes. And then came the light.

That is an extraordinary lesson for our own lives. A person may find himself in a situation that seems completely disorienting. He does not understand what is happening, why it is happening, or where any of it is leading. Am Yisrael can experience the same feeling collectively. But we must remember: Ruach Elokim merachefes al p’nei hamayim. Hakadosh Baruch Hu has not left us. He is directing every single detail, and what looks to us like disorder may actually be the preparation for something we cannot yet see.

Our task, therefore, is to believe. “Hama’amin lo yachish—One who believes does not become impatient” (Yeshaya 28:16). He does not need to see the entire picture immediately. The light may not yet be visible, but that does not mean it is not coming. Yehi Or is waiting on the other side of the darkness.

Whatever situation a person may be facing, and whatever situation Am Yisrael may be facing, we cannot surrender to despair. The darkness is not the end of the story. Hakadosh Baruch Hu is present even within the tohu vavohu, guiding events toward their purpose. And when the light finally breaks through, we will look back and suddenly recognize what we could not understand while we were living through the darkness.

Rabbi Yonoson Roodyn

The Keepers

At the very beginning, Torah introduces us to the first human beings, the first couple, the first family, and the first set of siblings. Tragically, it also records the first murder and, immediately afterward, what might be described as the first inquest. “Vayomer Hashem el Kayin: Ei Hevel achicha?” Hashem turns to Kayin and asks, “Where is Hevel, your brother?” Kayin responds, “Lo yadati. Hashomer achi anochi?—I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Bereishis 4:9).

At first glance, Kayin’s response is difficult to understand. He is speaking directly to Hashem, Who certainly knows exactly what happened to Hevel. It is one thing for Kayin to have committed the terrible act of murdering his brother, but did he really think that he could now conceal that act from G-d? Kayin was a navi; he knew to Whom he was speaking. It therefore seems that his words, “Lo yadati,” were not merely an attempt to deny knowledge of Hevel’s whereabouts. Rather, Kayin was making a much broader claim: whatever happened to Hevel is not my responsibility.

The Midrash Tanchuma develops this idea in a remarkable way. When Hashem asks Kayin, “Ei Hevel achicha?” Kayin responds by turning the accusation back toward Hashem. You, G-d, are “Shomer kol habriyos,” the One Who watches over all of creation. If so, why are You asking me where Hevel is? The Midrash illustrates Kayin’s argument with a mashal of a thief who breaks in and steals during the night. The following morning, the watchman confronts him and asks why he stole. The thief responds, “I am a thief; I never abandoned my profession. But you are the watchman. Your responsibility was to guard the property, so why did you fail to do your job?” Instead of accepting responsibility for his crime, the thief manages to turn upon the very person charged with stopping him.

According to the Midrash, this was essentially Kayin’s argument to Hashem. Yes, I killed Hevel, but You created the yetzer hara. You are the One Who watches over Your creations, and You allowed me to kill him. Moreover, had You accepted my korban as You accepted Hevel’s, I would never have become jealous of him in the first place. When Kayin declares, “Hashomer achi anochi?” he is therefore doing far more than asking whether he is responsible for his brother. He is attempting to shift responsibility for his own actions away from himself and, astonishingly, to place it upon Hakadosh Baruch Hu.

Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz zt”l explains that this episode reveals something basic about human nature. We possess a remarkable ability to evade responsibility, and not only when we are standing before others and attempting to defend ourselves. A person can do the same thing privately, within his own mind. We rationalize our decisions, reinterpret our behavior, blame our circumstances, and gradually convince ourselves that whatever occurred was really not our fault. Eventually, a person can reach the point at which he sincerely tells himself, “Lo chatasi,” I did nothing wrong. Once that happens, there is little possibility of change, because a person who does not believe he bears responsibility has no reason to correct his behavior.

We find this idea expressed powerfully toward the end of the second chapter of Yirmiyahu. The Jewish people declare themselves innocent, and Hashem responds that He will judge them precisely because they say, “Lo chatasi—I have not sinned.” (Yirmiyah 2:35). Rashi explains that they had deceived themselves into believing that they were innocent of the bloodshed for which they were responsible. Their wrongdoing was terrible in its own right, but there was an additional danger in their refusal to acknowledge it. If a person convinces himself that he has done nothing wrong, he will never take the steps necessary to repair what he has broken. There can be no genuine teshuvah without first accepting responsibility.

That, perhaps, was the deeper tragedy of Kayin. His failure did not end when he killed his brother. Even afterward, rather than confronting what he had done, he attempted to absolve himself of responsibility. “Hashomer achi anochi?” Why is this my responsibility? Why should this be placed upon me? In doing so, Kayin introduced a pattern that has accompanied humanity ever since: when confronted with wrongdoing, it is often easier to explain why someone else is responsible than to acknowledge our own role.

Perhaps this gives us an important perspective as we reflect upon the horrors of October 7. Our enemies perpetrated horrific acts of murder against the Jewish people, yet almost immediately, alongside the brutality itself, came attempts to evade responsibility. There were those who denied what had occurred, others who sought to justify it, and still others who shifted responsibility onto the victims themselves. In that sense, the ancient voice of Kayin continues to echo: “Hashomer achi anochi?” The responsibility belongs somewhere else. Whatever happened, it is somehow not mine.

Yet October 7 also revealed the precise opposite, because amid that terrible darkness we witnessed extraordinary examples of people who instinctively understood what responsibility means. Soldiers and reservists left their homes and families to protect their people. Others traveled south without waiting to be summoned because they understood that fellow Jews were in danger. Jews flew to Israel from overseas, while countless others opened their homes, raised money, delivered food, transported supplies, supported displaced families, comforted the bereaved, and searched for whatever they could possibly do to help. Without necessarily articulating it in words, they were answering Kayin’s ancient question: “Hashomer achi anochi?” Yes, I am my brother’s keeper.

That is the essence of achrayus. Responsibility means recognizing that another person’s welfare cannot simply be dismissed as someone else’s concern. It means understanding that another Jew’s pain matters to me, even when I did not cause it and even when I cannot completely solve it. “Kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh—the Jewish people are responsible for one another” (Shavuos 39a). I may not be capable of fixing every problem, but I can refuse to respond to another person’s suffering by saying, “This has nothing to do with me.”

Perhaps, then, one of the great lessons to emerge from those dark days was the extraordinary light of achrayus that followed them. We witnessed people stepping forward for one another in ways that reminded us what Klal Yisrael can be at its best. The challenge now is not to allow that sense of responsibility to disappear as the immediacy of the crisis grows more distant. The unity, generosity, sacrifice, and concern that emerged during those days cannot belong only to moments of catastrophe; they must become part of the way we live.

The Torah’s first murder is followed immediately by the question, “Hashomer achi anochi?—Am I my brother’s keeper?” One of the great tasks of Jewish history has been to provide the answer that Kayin refused to give. Yes, I am my brother’s keeper. Spiritually and materially, his welfare matters to me.

Now is the time for each of us to step forward just a little more, to assume a little more responsibility, and to train ourselves to ask not, “Why is this my problem?” but rather, “What can I do?” “Hashomer achi anochi?” is not merely the question Kayin asked thousands of years ago. It is a question that continues to confront every generation, and our answer must be clear.

“Yes, I am my brother’s keeper.”

Mr. Charlie Harary

The Greatest Blessing

We often go through life assuming that beracha means that Hashem gives us what we want. But sometimes the greatest blessing is precisely when Hashem holds something back, because that very need reminds us to look upward and turn to Him. And when we consistently look to Hashem, we ultimately receive something far greater than the particular thing we were asking for: we develop a relationship with Him.

We do not have Hashem in our lives merely so that He can fulfill our needs. Rather, we have needs so that through them we can find Hashem. The things we lack, the things we long for, and even the things for which we continue to wait can become opportunities to turn toward Him, speak to Him, trust Him, and deepen our connection with Him. When we begin to see our needs in that way, we discover an entirely different definition of blessing. Beracha is not simply receiving everything we want; the greatest beracha is having a relationship with our Father in Heaven. That itself is the blessing.