That feeling is ancient, etched into the very stories that form our identity. Let's dive into a moment of that silence, a moment laden with consequence, from the Book of Genesis.

We're in the story of Dina, Jacob's daughter, and the events that follow her encounter with Shechem, son of Hamor. The verse tells us, "And his soul cleaved to Dina the daughter of Jacob, and he loved the young woman, and spoke comfortingly to the young woman” (Genesis 34:3). Then, Shechem turns to his father and says, “Take me this girl for a wife” (Genesis 34:4).

But here's where the silence descends. "Jacob heard that he had defiled Dina his daughter, and his sons were with his livestock in the field, and Jacob kept silent until their arrival” (Genesis 34:5).

That silence... it's deafening, isn't it? The Midrash, specifically Bereshit Rabbah, picks up on this, drawing a parallel to Proverbs 11:12: “But a man of understanding will be silent.” What does this silence mean? Is it acceptance? Fear? Shock? Strategic calculation?

The text doesn't tell us outright. It leaves us to grapple with the weight of Jacob's quietude.

Then, the sons of Jacob arrive, and the atmosphere explodes. "The sons of Jacob came from the field when they heard, the men were saddened, and they became very angry, as he performed a depravity to Israel to lie with Jacob's daughter, and so should not be done” (Genesis 34:7).

Bereshit Rabbah highlights the ambiguity of this verse too. Isi ben Yehuda points out that there are verses in the Torah with no clear resolution, where the end of one phrase seems to bleed into the beginning of the next. He calls them verses that "have no resolution." He gives a few examples, including “It will be lifted [se’et]” (Genesis 4:7) and “Cursed [arur]” (Genesis 49:7). Rabbi Tanhuma adds our verse to the list: "The sons of Jacob came from the field when they heard," or: "when they heard, the men were saddened.” It's a subtle point, but it underscores the fractured, uncertain nature of the moment.

What’s really fascinating here is the phrase "and so should not be done." The Midrash takes this a step further, suggesting this act was wrong even by the standards of other nations. "Even among the nations of the world," the text says, "as from the moment that the world was stricken in the generation of the Flood, they stood and fenced themselves away from licentiousness."

In other words, even societies with different moral codes recognized the sanctity of certain boundaries. This wasn't just a violation of Israelite custom; it was a violation of something fundamentally human.

So, what do we take away from this unsettling episode? Perhaps it's a reminder that silence, while sometimes wise, can also be a breeding ground for unspoken pain and simmering anger. Perhaps it's a challenge to consider the universal values that bind us, even across cultures and generations. And perhaps, most importantly, it's a call to break the silence when injustice occurs, to speak out against what "should not be done."