We Must Learn Shame

Michael Auerbach

In This Season of Repentance, We Must Also Learn Shame.

For Israelis and for Jews everywhere, this is the second Rosh Hashanah marked by the trauma of October 7. Not a day passes without the memory of the horrors of that day—the slaughter, the fear, the families torn apart—and the anguish of hostages still held in Gaza, spending yet another holiday away from their loved ones. That wound belongs to us as a people. We carry it everywhere, and we will never, ever forget it.

We take pride in the strength and resolve of the hostages and their families persevering through the impossible, in survivors of the Nova Music Festival having children, in Yuval Raphael singing at Eurovision about how a new day will rise. We deserve to take pride in the Jewish people’s extraordinary resilience.

And yet, lately I have been thinking less and less about pride, and more about shame.

Shame is different from guilt. During these Ten Days of Awe—from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur—we are steeped in the language of guilt, and the Hebrew Bible and rabbinic traditions abound with commandments about it. We confess, we ask forgiveness, we promise to do better. Our tradition is a masterclass in teshuvah—in turning back from sin. Maimonides describes the steps: acknowledge the sin, feel remorse, confess, make amends, and resolve never to repeat it.

As skilled as we are at guilt, though, in all its dimensions, we aren't nearly as proficient at shame. Shame is not an action but an awareness. It is the mirror that forces us to ask: what kind of people are we, if this is what we have done? Shame can paralyze if left unspoken. But when brought into the open, it can catalyze transformation. Shame is the spark that begins the journey of repentance. Israelis know guilt, and Jews know trauma—it is in our scripture, our holidays, our very DNA. But shame? We have never truly learned how to carry it.

I do not confuse the Jewish people with the actions of Netanyahu’s regime. I know that most Israelis live under a government that does not speak for them or act in accordance with their will. But I believe that only shame can help us rid ourselves of leaders and policies that imperil Israel’s soul and our shared future—and that matters now more than ever.

For nearly two years, Israel has wrought devastation in Gaza. It began as a just war, a necessary response to the trauma of October 7. But it has turned into something else: food and medicine blocked for 78 days, a government that refuses to end the war in exchange for the hostages because it is more interested in conquering all the biblical land of Israel for a few religious extremists. In their wake, Gaza has been left in ruins, its people in hunger and mourning. There is shame in this.

And yet, history shows that shame is often the precondition for peace and renewal.

Shame is not self-hatred. It is the recognition that what has been done in our name cannot be tolerated.

Israelis are now seeing images and testimony from Gaza that had previously been obscured. The courage to feel shame—rather than to explain, deflect, or deny—may be what prevents endless repetition. And Palestinians, too, must face their own reckoning. To participate, condone, celebrate or excuse the slaughter of October 7 is not an act of dignity but of dishonor. Their path forward will require shame as well as grievance.

Neither side is predisposed to this. Jews are trained in guilt and repentance; Palestinians in victimhood and resistance. But if shame is absent, repentance will always remain partial, and peace will remain elusive.

This season asks us to look inward, to confess, to repent. But as we search our souls, we should also ask: what would it mean to feel shame, not just guilt? What would it mean to say—not only before God, but before each other—we cannot live with ourselves if this continues?

Without shame, repentance risks becoming ritual. With shame, it can become transformation.

After Yom Kippur, have we found the courage to add shame to our vocabulary of repair?