The Raven and the Dove: How We Carry Pain

What might it feel like to look out the window of a large wooden boat at an expanse of water extending as far as the eye can see? Perhaps, in the immediate aftermath of the Great Flood this is how Noah spent his afternoons on the ark. Perhaps, the other people aboard joined him beside the window. I often wonder how the different members of Noah’s family each understood the Flood. When they looked out across the waters, did they feel awe? Fear? Hope? Sadness? Relief? I imagine that some understood it as a moment of celebration for the birth of a new world and the possibilities ahead. And yet, it is just as plausible to imagine that some understood it as a moment of catastrophe and devastating loss.

Today, on a day celebrated by some as Yom HaAtzmaut and mourned by others who experienced this as the Nakba (Catastrophe), the Flood story in Genesis offers a pathway for understanding and holding how one moment might be experienced in such drastically different ways.

In Dirshuni: Contemporary Women’s Midrash, Tamar Biala writes a stunning midrash about the raven and the dove which Noah sent forth from the ark to confirm whether the waters had pulled back to reveal the land below. While Biala did not write this midrash as an allegory for the establishment of the State of Israel, I reinterpret these two birds–the raven and the dove–as representing just two possible reactions to May 1948 when Zionist leaders declared the birth and independence of a new Jewish state. The midrash wonders what ever happened to the raven and the dove, highlighting ambiguity in the Genesis text about their ultimate fate. The other birds of the sky sent an eagle to search for the raven and the dove. Biala writes:

The eagle flew for a day, and another, and then returned with the dove, and all her retinue, since from the day she had found a home and until that day she did not stop being fruitful and multiplying […] and utterly exhausting herself. But he did not return with the raven. They asked him: That raven, you didn’t find him? He said: I found him, flying here and there at the ends of the earth and he refused to come with me. He said, Ever since the day that Noah sent me forth from the ark, I haven’t stood still or rested, for the earth is defiled, so how could I come and dwell among you? 

In an attempt to settle the raven, the beit midrash of birds seeks out help from the Shekhinah (the divine presence). With the Shekhinah present, they press on in conversation to understand why the raven has reacted differently from the dove. The birds ask:

Why do you fly back and forth and find no rest? He [the raven] said, where should I stand, and where should I rest my wings? Anywhere I try to stand, the dead eyes of my brothers and sisters stare at me. And anywhere I try to sit, the earth stirs, and groans, and the weeping voice of my brother’s blood rises upward from it. They answered, But the dove found land on which grass grows, and took an olive branch in its mouth, and then went, and blossomed, and sought out a new life, and she is still giving birth even now. […] He answered them, Even if the waters have left firm ground upon the earth, I cannot dwell on it, for it says the face of the soil was destroyed (Genesis 8:13), and a place that has no face, neither its tears nor its disgrace can be wiped away. At that moment, the sun began to set, and the sky seemed to them as red as blood. The inhabitants of the beit midrash cast their eyes upon the dove, and saw that she was tired and weeping. They looked at the raven and saw that he was losing his mind. They looked upon the Shekhinah and saw that She was spreading Her wings, and they were large, and a warm wind emanated from them. The Shekhinah arose from Her place and went over to the dove and the raven and sheltered them with Her wings. The raven ceased his flight. The dove’s soul was rested.

The raven and the dove have both responded to the new reality of the world around them, each carrying pain that manifests in the ways they live each day. I want to be explicit that I am not suggesting one bird represents Israelis and the other Palestinians. Rather, elements of both birds may resonate with the experiences and identities of different individuals in the aftermath of the establishment of the State of Israel and the mass displacement of some 750,000 Palestinians.

Additionally, the idea that a solution lies solely in invoking the Shekhinah is overly simplistic. However, this midrash does illuminate two powerful truths: first, while the raven and dove may not be united by shared experience or understanding, they are united in standing together beneath the wings of the Shekhinah, forming a collective “we.” This gesture points toward the possibility and opportunity of building a shared society—one in which we recognize how deeply our stories are entangled and strive to understand one another’s narratives for the sake of healing and lasting peace. They are also united in their pain, which although it manifests differently, serves as a profound reminder of our shared vulnerability.

A second lesson is illuminated in the raven’s statement, “a place that has no face, neither its tears nor its disgrace can be wiped away.” This image serves as a profound reminder of the centrality of compassion and a re-investment in the belief that every individual is deserving of human dignity. Reading this, I was reminded of a conversation the NIF Froman Social Change Fellows had with Rabbi Shoshana Cohen of the Shalom Hartman Institute. In a discussion on revenge and poetry post-October 7 she shared, “When I am aware of the depths of my own suffering–to what extent do I choose to use it to inspire empathy for others or choose to use it as protection for myself.” Rabbi Cohen’s teaching illuminates the deep struggle of responding to human pain, which demands that individuals contend with both compassion and a desire for self-preservation.

In this way, the midrash and Rabbi Cohen’s words become not a roadmap to resolution, but an invitation to empathy, urging us to build connection through shared grief, mutual recognition, and the humble pursuit of holding multiplicity. May we embrace this invitation each day, but especially on this day—one that is celebrated as Yom HaAtzmaut by some and mourned as the Nakba by others—a day that lives in our hearts, minds, and stories through differing lenses, inviting us to reckon with its profound complexity.