Dear TBZ Community,
I’ve been sitting with a heavy heart as we witness yet another eruption of violence, pain, and fear. In Los Angeles, protests erupted after aggressive ICE raids targeting immigrant communities. What began as peaceful resistance has led to curfews and the deployment of federal troops, raising deep concern about civil rights and the erosion of democracy.
The words “curfew” and “martial law” ring too close to home for me. As I’ve shared before, growing up under a dictatorship in Chile, these were not abstract concepts, but defining realities of my childhood. They shaped my earliest understanding of power, fear, and what it means to live under oppression.
It’s not only the events themselves that weigh on us, but the echo of a pattern we know too well: a cycle of brokenness and injustice, grief and reaction, fear and more fear.
Here in Boston, we know that immigrants are also being targeted. In February, Tom Homan, the acting director of ICE, said he would be “bringing hell” to Boston. This is not isolated: it is part of a broader strategy by the current administration, driven by quotas for deportation and a disregard for human dignity. Just last week, I volunteered as a Spanish translator, sharing “Know Your Rights” information with undocumented individuals waiting for their hearings. I spoke with families simply trying to build a safe and good life here. I also witnessed ICE arrests while volunteering, an experience that left me shaken and heavy with sorrow.
At this time, I know many of us are asking: How do we keep going? How do we not become numb or cynical? How do we live with integrity and compassion in the face of so much despair?
This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotcha, may offer us a path.
The Israelites, having left Egypt and entered the wilderness, are overcome with fear and dissatisfaction. They are free, but the journey is long. The uncertainty is exhausting. And they begin to panic, to complain, to long for the predictable misery of slavery rather than the frightening openness of liberation.
And Moses, their leader, breaks under the weight. He says to God (Numbers 11:14–15):
לֹא־אוּכַל אָנֹכִי לְבַדִּי לָשֵׂאת אֶת־כָּל־הָעָם הַזֶּה כִּי כָבֵד מִמֶּנִּי
I cannot carry all this people by myself, for it is too much for me.
וְאִם־כָּכָה אַתְּ־עֹשֶׂה לִּי, הָרְגֵנִי נָא הָרֹג
If You would deal thus with me, kill me rather, I beg You, and let me see no more of my wretchedness!
This is not a story of heroes and villains. It is a story of real people; of fear, frustration, and despair. And of a deep spiritual truth: we cannot carry the weight alone.
What happens next is essential. God tells Moses to gather seventy elders, trusted people to help him carry the burden. Not to fix everything. Not to lead alone. But to share the weight.
We, too, must not face this moment alone. Whether we are gripped by fear over what is happening in Los Angeles and across our country, or overwhelmed by the spirals of injustice and loss – in Israel and Gaza, on our streets, and in our fractured political culture – we must ask:
Who do we trust?
Who do we turn to?
How do we build relationships of trust that will allow us to walk together through this wilderness?
The parsha (Torah portion) reminds us: even Moses, who spoke panim el panim (face to face) with God, reached his limit. It wasn’t a failure. It was a turning point. It was human. And it opened the door to a new kind of leadership, one rooted in trust and shared responsibility.
Our tradition teaches us in Pirkei Avot 2:16:
לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמֹר, וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה
You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.
And: you are not expected to do it alone.
So I offer this invitation: Let’s keep showing up for one another, in trust.
Let’s build relationships that can hold our pain, our questions, and our hope.
Let’s stand up against injustice together.
Let’s stand with the most vulnerable.
Let us not give up on the power of solidarity, of people coming together for justice, for kindness, for life.
May this Shabbat bring you moments of stillness, moments of clarity, and above all, moments of connection.
May all those in pain, in fear, or in danger find safety and comfort.
May we have the courage to reach out, the strength to keep walking, and the wisdom to build trust where it is most needed.
May this Shabbat bring us peace, strength, and clarity.
May we find the courage to heal, to hope, and to keep walking.
May we receive and give blessings—with intention and full hearts.
May those who are ill find healing.
May the hostages come home.
May the suffering in Israel and Gaza come to an end.
May peace and dignity prevail for all.
And may we know that God’s presence dwells within us and between us.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia
I share below, again, the prayer I offered at the Prayer for Liberty March two weeks ago (you can read more about that in my last Shabbat N’kabla), which remains relevant.
Prayer for Liberty
Rabbi Claudia Kreiman
Ribbono Shel Olam—Master of the Universe,
God of the vulnerable and the strong,
God of Miriam who danced in freedom, and of Moses who stood before Pharaoh—
We turn to You today because we must.
Because the pain is too great, the injustice too cruel, the silence too dangerous.
Torah teaches:
וְגֵר לֹא תִלְחָץ וְאַתֶּם יְדַעְתֶּם אֶת־נֶפֶשׁ הַגֵּר כִּי־גֵרִים הֱיִיתֶם בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם
“You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger—because you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Exodus 23:9).
No oprimirás al extranjero, porque ustedes conocen el alma del extranjero.
We gather here as people of many faiths and stories,
but we are united in our deep knowing:
That cruelty is not policy.
That dehumanization is not justice.
That the image of God shines in every face.
We are here because we believe:
that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.
And we refuse to look away.
I stand here today not only as a rabbi,
but as a child of Chile who grew up under the weight of dictatorship,
who knows what it means to live in fear
and what it means to be silenced.
But I also know what it means to resist.
I witnessed people of faith, arm in arm, standing up to dictatorship.
And so, here I am again: standing with my brothers and sisters of faith,
to stand up for the values of justice, democracy, compassion, and love.
Yo crecí en dictadura y sé del miedo de una sociedad que vive en opresión.
Pero también sé de la esperanza que uno no pierde cuando está en comunidad,
caminando con hermanos de fe.
True faith means showing up: for the detained, for the deported, for the disappeared.
God, we ask You:
Strengthen our hearts.
Let our prayers be loud enough to break open the gates of detention.
Let our tears mix with Yours: tears for the children in custody,
for the parents in anguish,
for the souls lost in the desert of bureaucracy and cruelty.
We echo the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Is this not the fast I choose? To unlock the chains of wickedness…
to let the oppressed go free and break every yoke?” (Isaiah 58:6)
Yes, God—this is the fast we choose.
This is the prayer we lift:
Not words alone, but action.
Not silence, but solidarity.
May we be worthy partners in the work of redemption.
Let this prayer not end only with “Amen,”
but with courage.
With organizing.
With love.
Que nuestra fe nos dé fuerza.
Que nuestra compasión nos guíe.
Que nunca tengamos miedo de luchar por la justicia.
Amen.