A New Way of Seeing and Acting In and From the Present
By Romi Morales
What if we could start again—not from scratch, but from a wiser, fairer, more compassionate place? What if life gave us the chance to take all the lessons we’ve learned through experience and use them to make better decisions in the future? How beautiful would it be to restart the game of life, and this time, with a better understanding of the rules and ourselves, know how to play to win—or at least lose a little less?
In Parashat BeHar, we are presented with a model of cyclical renewal. Rest and restitution are not passive pauses, but opportunities to reorder things based on experience, to correct what has been imbalanced, and to return possibilities to those who were left out of the game. It’s not about forgetting the past, but rather returning to it from a different place. While the parasha’s proposal is mainly social and economic, it also holds great educational value. Let’s imagine: what would our educational practices look like if guided by these same principles? What would this “starting over” mean within a cyclical and reflective pedagogical logic? What would this demand be from educators? What implications would this have for individuals and the group as a whole? Come explore this with me—let’s begin!
Shmitah, Yovel, and Everything in Between
Parashat BeHar lays out profoundly revolutionary socio-economic rules. First, it speaks of Shmitah (Leviticus 25:17), the sabbatical year in which the Land of Israel must rest. During this year, whatever grows naturally is made available to everyone—animals, strangers, etc.—but cultivating or harvesting for commercial gain is forbidden. Then comes the Yovel, or Jubilee year (Leviticus 25:8-24), celebrated every 50 years after seven cycles of seven years. This special year sees the release of Hebrew slaves and the return of land to its original owners. The parasha also includes rules to ensure that property transactions and returns are fair. Remarkably, the text doesn’t accept these events as inevitable, but provides community guidelines to help the poor avoid selling themselves into slavery, and if they do, their rights must be respected and protected. In this way, Parashat BeHar promotes economic relationships grounded in justice and solidarity, and social relationships based on mutual responsibility and compassion.
What This Parasha Offers to Those Who Love to Educate
For many, this parasha may seem distant, yet its wisdom resonates in contemporary educational paradigms (like Democratic Education) and offers tools for improving our current practices.
Essentially, the parasha offers three key messages:
“Ki Li Ha’aretz” – “For the Land is Mine” (Leviticus 25:23)
The first message is that although we work the land, it does not belong to us—our power over it is limited. Similarly, the classroom does not belong to the educator. While they plan and lead the educational journey, their authority does not equate to ownership. The space must be genuinely open and available to all who inhabit it.
“For they are My servants… they shall not be sold as slaves.” (Leviticus 25:42)
The second message is that even those in dependent positions are still subjects of dignity, not objects of possession. In education, this is particularly relevant in formal schooling, where attendance is mandatory. Understanding that we do not own our learners means letting go of the idea that they must see the world as we do or act according to our instructions. It means abandoning the fantasy of molding their identities to instead accompany them in their dynamic processes of self-discovery and becoming autonomous, authentic human beings.
“If your brother becomes poor… support him, so he can live with you.” (Leviticus 25:35)
Being social beings demands high moral responsibility—to know how to support and uphold those in need with dignity. In other words, whoever shares our physical space deserves respect and dignity, especially in hard times.
Adolescence is not an easy stage. Add the aftermath of the pandemic, constant technological changes, and the pressure for perfection from peers and parents, and we realize how much our youth need educational figures to hold and support them when everything else shakes. They need us to show them what they can’t always see: that they are valuable, important, necessary. That their presence matters. That we won’t give up on them, but rather, we want to walk beside them through hard times.
In Conclusion
What if we, too, as educators, could start over—not to erase the past, but to see it with new eyes?
What if we could offer our children and teens a symbolic Shmitah, where they are free to explore what they can create, without demands or expectations for productivity?
What if we could offer them a metaphorical Yovel, a time to shed the labels that have defined them, and discover new facets of their being, without fear?
What if we could promise that next time, we’ll be there to support them in the way they truly need, not how we think they need?
What if we stepped off the pedestal we’ve been placed on and built an educational relationship rooted in mutual respect and human connection, where knowledge is built together, and with dignity?
If all this came true, we’d probably discover that we don’t need a fresh start—just a new way of seeing and acting in and from the present.
