Some weeks, drawing connections between the Torah portion and current events can feel like a reach. And then there are weeks like this one, when the parallels are impossible to ignore.
Parashat Balak is a story rooted in fear—fear of occupation, fear of being overwhelmed, fear of the other. The Moabites and Midianites grow anxious as they watch the Israelites temporarily settle near their borders. To Balak, king of Moab, this wandering people is a looming threat, a “horde” so vast they “hide the earth from view.” Determined to stop them before they become too powerful, Balak seeks out Balaam, a renowned diviner, to place a curse on the Israelites and pave the way for their destruction.
After an initial consultation with God, Balaam refuses, but he eventually cedes under pressure and mounts his donkey, setting off toward the Israelite camp.
What happens next reads like a biblical twist on Aesop’s fables: God sends an angel to block Balaam’s path, but only the donkey can see it. She veers, stops, refuses to proceed. Balaam, blind to the danger, beats her repeatedly, frustrated by her refusal to obey him, until finally the donkey speaks, asking why she’s being punished for trying to protect him.
It’s a moment of reversal — the she-ass, whom Balaam had dismissed as voiceless and unintelligent, becomes the voice of divine clarity while the man “versed in divination” can’t see what is right in front of him. The prophet sees nothing; the donkey sees everything, and it is only when Balaam stops and listens to donkey’s voice of caution that he can hear the voice of God and, rather than placing a curse on the Israelites, Balaam delivers a blessing, including the question: “How can I damn whom God has not damned?”
This story—full of misperceived threats and misplaced aggression—resonates painfully with the current atmosphere in Israel and the broader Middle East. Once again, we witness a region consumed by fear, suspicion, and cycles of retaliation. Israel’s ongoing military operations, the trauma of October 7th, and the humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza have fueled a tragic spiral, where each side views the other as an existential danger.
Like Balak, many leaders in the region seem to be acting from fear — fear of demographic overwhelm, fear of terror, fear of displacement, fear of annihilation. And like Balaam, too many voices, even those capable of insight, are swayed by pressure, missing the presence of the angel in the road — the opportunity to halt, to reassess, to choose a different path.
And yet, as in the Torah, there remains the possibility of blessing.
Balaam, expected to curse the Israelites, ends up blessing them — not once but three times. The final blessing, “Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov” — “How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob” — emerges not from manipulation or fear, but from an unclouded recognition of dignity and humanity.
What if, like Balaam, the leaders of today paused in the face of unseen angels? What if we could hear, amid the din of war and rhetoric, the quiet voice of a donkey — the unexpected source of wisdom — urging us to stop beating the path toward destruction?
Parashat Balak reminds us that enemies can be misunderstood, prophecy can be misused, and curses can become blessings — but only if we are willing to open our eyes to truths beyond fear, and to the sacred possibility of peace where we least expect it.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rebecca Abbate
