A friend reached out to me last Tuesday evening with a rabbinic question soon after the news broke that Ismail Haniyeh had been killed in an explosion in Tehran: “Is it OK to be happy that he’s dead? Not just relieved but happy?”
And it’s not just the death of the Hamas leader that sparks this question. In the span of just a few days, three terrorists with the blood of tens of thousands of innocents on their hands were killed. In bus bombings, in cafes, and at U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983, these men were responsible for unspeakable violence; including the murder, rape, torture, and kidnappings of October 7.
The classic text on the matter is found in Proverbs 24:17: “Rejoice not when your enemy falls and let your heart not be glad when he stumbles.”
The answer seems clear: Al tismach, rejoice not!
But this teaching seems to be at odds with a Jewish custom that we joyfully encourage even our littlest ones to observe: on Purim we boo with glee every time we hear Haman’s name. We celebrate, often with excessive joy, not only our deliverance but surely also the downfall of our enemies.
The rabbis of the midrash, writing fifteen hundred years ago playfully imagine Haman himself making the case against our rejoicing. When Mordechai seems to delight in our would-be persecutor’s humiliation, even using him as a footstool on which to mount his horse, Haman cries out: “What are you doing? Doesn’t your own Torah teach: ‘Rejoice not when your enemy falls?!?’”
Mordechai responds: “That verse does not apply to you.”
When the truly wicked are laid low, we are permitted to rejoice. Normal rules no longer apply.
The other classic source is the famous passage in the Talmud about the angels celebrating when Pharaoh’s army is swallowed up in the Sea of Reeds. God rebukes them saying, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you are reciting a song?”
Wicked and cruel though they were, the Egyptian soldiers were still, for God, ma’asei yadai—“the work of My hands,” God’s children. As a matter of simple justice, they deserved to drown but it wasn’t appropriate for the angels to sing in joy.
Many years ago I came across an extraordinary commentary on this Talmudic passage that poignantly and perfectly captures the way I think many of us are feeling right now. The commentary is taught in the name of Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira. He explains why the angels were rebuked while Moses, Miriam, and the children of Israel—who, according to the Torah itself, sang and danced at their deliverance—were not.
It all comes down to suffering. Here’s how Rabbi Shapira puts it:
“But were the angels ever subjected to beatings and whippings by the Egyptians? Were any of the angels ever murdered by the Egyptians? Were they humiliated? No. But we were. Therefore, since the Angels did not suffer at the hands of the Egyptians, they weren’t permitted to rejoice. But we did suffer—we suffered greatly—and so when we were redeemed, we sang a song of rejoicing. And Miriam and the women took up their timbrels and sang and danced in joy as the Egyptians drowned in the sea.”
It’s a deep insight. The angels are forbidden to rejoice because it wasn’t personal for them. They didn’t suffer. But the Israelites, our ancestors, did, and so it was permitted for them to sing a happy song even as their enemies drowned before them.
Here’s what you need to know about Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira. He was the Grand Rabbi of Piaseczno, a town about ten miles south of Warsaw. During World War II, he was interred in the Warsaw Ghetto and worked tirelessly to bring comfort and hope to those who suffered there alongside him. After the ghetto was liquidated, he was sent to the Trawniki Labor Camp where he was murdered in 1943.
He knew all too well what suffering was. He could imagine what it might feel like to see his oppressors stumble and fall, to see them receive the punishment they deserved.
Rabbi Shapira understood that human beings are far from angels. We hurt. We weep. We witness the humiliation and suffering of those we love.
If we were purely righteous, tzadikim g’murim, perhaps we could aspire to be like the angels, above it all.
But we are all too human and when we see the truly wicked among our enemies—those who terrorized us and others, those who planned and executed acts of unspeakable cruelty, those who tore parents from their children and children from their parents—brought to justice, we can breathe more than a sigh of relief. We can rejoice.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi