A sensitive reflection on Jewish ethics, Derech Eretz, preserving life, and how living by Torah values can help protect mental health even in times of conflict.
By Bev Moss-Reilly
There is something deeply rooted in Jewish life that goes beyond law, ritual, or identity alone. It is menscheskeit, that instinctive decency, compassion, and moral accountability that shapes how a Jew is meant to move through the world. It is expressed through mitzvot, through Derech Eretz, and through the understanding that power must never cancel conscience. In times of conflict, when grief, fear, and rage can easily consume the human spirit, these values matter even more. They remind us that to be Jewish is not only to survive, but to remain anchored in holiness, restraint, and compassion.
The Torah teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and that life itself begins with divine breath. In Bereishit (Book of Genesis), Hashem breathes the breath of life into the human being, and the Talmud teaches that saving a single life is as if one has saved an entire world. These are not abstract ideas. They form the moral architecture of Jewish consciousness. They tell us that a Neshama is never trivial, never ownerless, and never outside the concern of Heaven. When Jews speak about life as sacred, it is because we believe that the soul within a person is entrusted by Hashem and ultimately belongs to Hashem – that we feed our Neshama to afford us a place in Olam Habah (the world to come).
That belief has consequences. It means that even in war, even under unbearable provocation, even when facing an enemy, the Jewish moral instinct is not meant to delight in cruelty or become casual about suffering. Jewish ethics calls on us not to stand idly by the blood of another, and to love our neighbour as ourselves. It also demands that we do not allow pain to turn us into people who no longer recognise the humanity of others. This does not mean abandoning self-defence. It does not mean becoming passive in the face of terror. It means that defence must still be held within a moral framework, because the soul of a people is tested not only by how it suffers, but by how it behaves when it has the strength to act.
International humanitarian law reflects some of these same moral instincts. It prohibits attacks directed at civilians and requires effective advance warning of attacks that may affect civilians when circumstances permit. Whatever political arguments may rage around any specific conflict, the underlying principle is clear, civilians are not to be the object of attack, and precautions matter. For many Jews, that principle does not feel foreign. It resonates with a Torah shaped conscience that recoils from the deliberate targeting of innocents and insists that even necessary force must never become moral carelessness.
This is also why so many Jews feel deeply moved by examples of medical care given across lines of hostility. Israeli official sources have documented the coordination of medical aid and field hospitals for Gazan civilians, and Israeli hospitals have long described treating Palestinians and even patients from adversarial states. These moments matter far beyond public relations or politics. They express something enduring in Jewish moral life, namely that saving a life is not cancelled by enmity. When an injured person is treated, stabilised, or comforted, even if they come from the other side of a conflict, a line is being drawn in favour of life. A statement is being made that our values do not evaporate under pressure.
From a mental health perspective, this matters profoundly. War always leaves emotional scars. There is fear, anticipatory dread, helplessness, grief, and often deep exhaustion. But another burden can enter as well, moral injury. Moral injury occurs when a person feels that a deep moral line has been crossed, whether by what they did, what they witnessed, or what they failed to prevent. It is associated with guilt, shame, disgust, anger, and severe psychological distress. When people feel they have betrayed their deepest values, the inner toll can be devastating. By contrast, acting in ways that remain aligned with conscience, compassion, and restraint may help protect the inner life, even when pain remains. That is an inference, but it is a meaningful one. If violating one’s moral core can wound the psyche, then remaining faithful to that core can help preserve it.
There is research too showing that helping others can reduce stress and improve mood, self-esteem, happiness, and a sense of connection. Kindness does not erase trauma, and compassion does not make war emotionally easy. But it can interrupt the hardening of the heart. It can protect people from becoming consumed by hatred. It can remind them, even in crisis, that they are still capable of good. In that sense, living by Torah values is not only spiritually elevating, but it can also be psychologically protective. It gives suffering meaning, keeps cruelty from colonising the soul, and creates a moral continuity between belief and action.
This is where Derech Eretz becomes more than a beautiful phrase. It becomes an emotional stabiliser. To act with dignity, to show mercy, to preserve life where possible, to warn civilians, to treat the wounded, and to refuse to surrender one’s humanity, these are not signs of weakness. They are signs of spiritual strength. They say that even under siege, even after trauma, even when the heart is broken, the Jewish people are still answerable to something higher than rage.
That does not mean Jews do not suffer. Of course we do. It does not mean Jews are not traumatised by terror, by war, by loss, by hostage crises, or by the constant psychological strain of living under threat. We are. When a people continue to act from mitzvot, from compassion, and from the awareness that every Neshama comes from Hashem, something important is preserved. The body may be exhausted, the heart may ache, and the mind may still need support, but the soul is less fractured when it has not betrayed itself.
Perhaps that is one of the deepest forms of Jewish resilience. Not merely surviving but surviving without letting brutality define us. Not merely fighting but fighting without worshipping force. Not merely mourning our own but recognising the sacredness of life itself. In that lies both holiness and protection. Because when Jews live by Torah, honour the Neshama, and save life wherever they can, they do not only help the other. They help guard their own inner world as well.
About the writer:
Bev Moss -Reilly is a Jewish freelance content writer living in South Africa with a deep and heartfelt focus on mental health, emotional wellbeing, trauma, grief, and the unseen struggles people carry every day. Through her writing and her Mental Health Packs, she aims to bring comfort, awareness, compassion, and practical support to individuals, families, workplaces, and communities. Her work is rooted in empathy, dignity, and the belief that nobody should feel alone in their pain, especially in times of crisis.
While the mission of Lay of the Land (LotL) is to provide a wide and diverse perspective of affairs in Israel, the Middle East and the Jewish world, the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by its various writers are not necessarily ones of the owners and management of LOTL but of the writers themselves. LotL endeavours to the best of its ability to credit the use of all known photographs to the photographer and/or owner of such photographs (0&EO).
