In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va’era, God’s tells Moses to return to Mitzrayim and say to the Israelites:

“I am יהוה. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements.” (Exodus 6:6)

But when Moses attempts to impart this message of liberation to the people, they weren’t able to hear it as “their spirits were crushed (kotzer ruach) by cruel bondage.” (6:9)

This one verse says so much about the trauma of personal and systemic abuse. The Hebrew word ruach means both “spirit” and “breath/wind.” On one level this could mean that their oppression was so severe that individual Israelites could barely breathe. On a deeper level, it might indicate that their collective spirit was so damaged they couldn’t even begin to comprehend the possibility of liberation.  

The dual meaning of the word ruach in Jewish tradition suggests that the divine spirit is embodied by our very breath: the life force that we share with God and all that lives. In the first chapter of Genesis, we read that the process of creation began when the ruach elohim (“God’s breath”) rippled across the primordial waters. Humanity itself came to life when God breathed into the first human. In Jewish liturgy, we awaken every morning expressing gratitude for “the breath of every living thing and the spirit of all flesh.”

I believe there are powerful spiritual/political implications embedded in this theological concept. It suggests that when human beings – or humanly-created systems of oppression – deprive people of their ability to breathe freely, the flow of divine life force in the world is disrupted. Moreover, the demand to be able to breathe is itself a clarion call to action. We need look no farther than the phrase “I can’t breathe,” the final words of George Floyd and Eric Garner, whose deaths at the hands of systemic racism provided a powerful spark for the Black Lives Matter movement. Nigerian writer/poet Ben Okri has suggested that these three words “should become the mantra of oppression,” from the racist systems in our communities to the life-choking forces of global climate change.

In this regard, we might view the Jewish practice of giving thanks for our breath every morning as much more than a simple prayer discipline: it is nothing less than a statement of connection and solidarity with all that lives. Those who can breathe easily tend to regard the act of breathing as a natural, involuntary reflex. But as those with chronic respiratory illnesses will surely attest, it is no small thing to be able to take a breath. And in the age of COVID and climate change, millions throughout the world are increasingly becoming chronically kotzer ruach as a result of systemic oppression and corporate profit.

In other words, a commitment to a world in which everyone can breathe freely is a spiritual/political act of resistance. As disability justice activist Rabbi Julia Watts Belser has written:

Let’s learn to work more slowly, move more deliberately. Let’s learn to listen, when our bones say no. Let’s mandate breaks for anyone who works outside. Let’s require air purifiers, ventilation systems and safe work environments. Let’s make sure that all of us can breathe.

It is not too hyperbolic to suggest that the current political moment has left many of us breathless. As we death-scroll through the news of Trump’s executive orders and authoritarian policies, the ferocity of this onslaught can leave us literally or figuratively gasping for air. But this is, of course, just what Trump and his movement wants: to leave us reeling through a calculated strategy of shock and awe. They want us to feel breathless, paralyzed, despairing. We must not succumb. We must not accept that breathlessness is the new existential normal of our political age. We cannot become, like the Israelites of our Torah portion, so kotzer ruach that we cannot even imagine the possibility of something better beyond this authoritarian tyranny.

In the work of resistance, the first order of business is, quite simply, remembering to take a breath. Because in the end, if we are paralyzed with breathlessness for the next four years, we will be of no use to ourselves or anyone else. Moreover, once we regain our breath and our equilibrium, we will be in a better place to discern what we can do to meet this moment. In the wise words of Chicago organizer Kelly Hayes:

When your enemy wants you disoriented, your ability to focus is an important means of self-defense. What matters to you in this moment? Most of us can meaningfully dedicate ourselves to one or two causes, at the most. What can you commit to doing something about? Where do you get trustworthy information about those subjects? Who do you connect with when deciding what to do about what you’ve learned? Is there an organization whose resources you will employ or whose calls to action you will answer? Do you have a friend group or solidarity network that will formulate a response together? Answering these questions is key to steadying yourself in these times. Remember: Vulnerable people don’t need a sea of reactivity right now. They need caring groups of people who are working together to create as much safety as they can. We need to create a rebellious culture of care. That will take focus and intention. It will take relationships and a whole lot of energy. 

This Shabbat, let’s all commit to breathing more freely. Then let’s fight for a world in which that freedom is extended to all.