Recently I was called up for reserve duty. During the service I met soldiers—men and women—whom I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was an emotional reunion: we were genuinely happy to see one another. Out of that encounter came a direct question: “Are you shomer negiah?" (a Jewish religious practice of refraining from physical with members of the opposite sex who are not one’s spouse or close family, in order to maintain modesty and avoid sexual impropriety), my answer was: “I’m not shomer negiah. I’m someone who is ‘negia shomer’ (observes boundaries around physical contact).”
That distinction isn’t wordplay. It reflects a deep gap between two different worldviews. One seeks to impose an absolute, blanket prohibition on all physical contact. The other insists on distinguishing between situations, weighing context, and preserving boundaries through moral responsibility and trust in individual human beings. By examining the issue of “negiah” as it is understood and practiced today, I want to argue that this is not merely a technical halakhic dispute. It is also a cultural, social, and even political question—one that touches on how we understand human beings, society, and the public sphere.
The discussion was recently ignited after a message circulated among employees of the Shin Bet ahead of an official ceremony, instructing female staff to refrain from shaking the hand, David Zini, an observant Orthodox Jew. The directive was presented as if it were an operational instruction, and provoked strong reactions. Why is this? Is it because people sense that such requests can reshape the public sphere and erode democratic and liberal norms?
Here a paradox emerges. Those same “liberal” cultural norms, that would protest prohibiting women from shaking the hands of men, in many contexts, also contribute to the objectification of women—turning them into advertising images, consumer objects, and instruments for selling products, cars, and lifestyles through cynical sexualization. So, what is the meaningful difference between (a) a seemingly simple personal request to perform a public role according to one’s faith without harming anyone, and (b) broad cultural norms that are treated as self-evident even though they raise serious moral questions of their own?
Where did the Jewish idea of a sweeping 'prohibition on touch' come from?
The Torah tells us that Jacob kissed Rachel when he first saw her. Many commentators across generations felt uncomfortable—and this is an understatement—about this description and asked: how could Jacob kiss Rachel, when kissing between a man and a woman is immodest? Was it erotic? If not, where did he kiss her—on the hand, shoulder, neck, forehead, mouth?
I shared several of these interpretations with Kes Sama’i Kahin, one of Ethiopian Jewry’s leading traditional spiritual leaders today. He burst out laughing. When he calmed down, he said: “I would be puzzled if Jacob didn’t kiss Rachel—his mother’s brother’s daughter. That was our custom in Ethiopia when relatives and acquaintances met, especially those who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. We would kiss on the cheek, side to side, and sometimes even cry from joy and emotion.” He added that people also kissed and sometimes cried at times of farewell.
Indeed, this was a common practice in Ethiopian religious culture. Greeting between men and women, and between men and men or women and women, included a handshake and sometimes a cheek-kiss. Those who met frequently would often stop at a handshake; those who had not seen each other for a long time might kiss on the cheek out of longing. Because this was an expression of closeness and affection—not sexual desire—it was not seen as immodest. On the contrary: it was considered davar Hashem—a dignified human practice consistent with religious life.
That raises a foundational question: which side of this debate is truly carrying “the word of God”? And what exactly did the Holy One mean at Sinai when the Torah says: “Do not approach a woman in the impurity of her menstruation”? Ethiopian Jewry, in its spiritual-traditional self-understanding, also stood at Sinai and heard the word of God.
A brief historical glance suggests that until roughly sixty years ago—even among major rabbis, including those raised in Orthodox youth movements in the United States, in Morocco, and in other Jewish communities—the issue of “negiah” was not central in religious discourse. Sometimes it wasn’t mentioned at all. Other issues—like skirt length, or even dancing the hora for a public and moral cause—were often viewed as natural parts of a full religious life. In many ways, the religious culture of that era resembled Ethiopian Jewish practice more than the almost obsessive halakhic fixation we often witness today. So what changed?
The main thing that changed was not halakhah; it was outlook
I suspect that the fight over “touch” versus “no touch” is not, in its core, a classic halakhic dispute. It is a dispute about outlook, society, and power.
From the sources it seems that, halakhically, there are two primary foundations for prohibiting certain forms of touch: the laws of niddah (ritual impurity) and the prohibitions of arayot (sexual prohibitions). Beyond that, there is no sweeping, all-encompassing prohibition. The verse “Do not approach a woman in the impurity of her menstruation” is not a general ban on touch; it addresses touch arising from the status of niddah. Ethiopian Jewry maintained a clear and binding halakhic practice on this issue. The community’s sages interpreted the verse plainly: the prohibition stems from the status of niddah—and not beyond it.
In Ethiopia, niddah laws were observed strictly. A woman who entered niddah would go to a designated “house of niddah” for seven days, and on the seventh day—before sunset—she returned home. In such a system, it was clear who was in niddah and who was not, and the biblical commandment was preserved in full.
By contrast, rabbinic tradition (for reasons that made sense within its framework) established that we are all ritually impure through contact with the dead. This created deep difficulty for Ethiopian Jewish sages. Keis Brahan Yahis expressed the challenge sharply: how can one impose a general impurity by fiat, on everyone, that seems to conflict with explicit Torah verses that treat impurity and purity as concrete, situational states? Moreover, if everyone is always “impure,” other categories become blurred as well—including questions surrounding touch.
So where does the contemporary blanket “touch prohibition” come from? In rabbinic tradition an additional layer developed connected to arayot. But here an essential question arises: does every touch—even polite, non-sexual touch—necessarily carry sexual meaning? If so, why is touch between a son and his mother, or among close relatives, permitted? The standard answer is: because that touch has no sexual meaning. But that implies that all other touch is inherently sexual—a difficult assumption, as though there is no trust in the person, as though “the inclination of the human heart is evil from his youth.” (Genesis 8:21)
Even if we assume that certain situations can be problematic, it is clear that a polite handshake or a respectful gesture is not a biblical prohibition. A grandmother hugging her grandson, or a handshake offered out of civility and honor, is not an act of sexual transgression. On the contrary: foundational principles like human dignity can override rabbinic prohibitions, and public humiliation is akin to bloodshed, demand basic moral sensitivity—and certainly push aside a practice that lacks a clear, decisive halakhic anchor.
It must be noted that others claim that there are sources prohibiting touch between men and women that are firmly grounded in Scripture, the Sages, and later halakhic rulings. If so the prohibition would not be merely social or political.
However, even considering these sources it seems clear that the prohibition regarding arayot focuses on touch as a form of desire and affection, that habituates one toward sin—and not on touch connected to work, service, or ordinary civility. As such, there is also a known custom in some Western lands of kissing the hands of rabbis and elders as a sign of honor and respect.
The distinction: “blanket prohibition” vs. “negia shomer” (observing boundaries around physical contact).
From here comes the distinction I want to propose, inspired by the halakhic tradition of Ethiopian Jewry: between “a prohibition on touch” as a sweeping, absolute, sanctified decree—and “observing boundaries around physical contact.”
I do not accept a total ban on all touch, because it lacks a clear, unequivocal halakhic foundation. But I do recognize that there are different kinds of touch, and a wide range of contexts in which boundaries are appropriate and sometimes essential. In matters of civility, derekh eretz, and human dignity, there is room for humane flexibility. In intimate relationships—during courtship, engagement, and marriage—and certainly in the laws of niddah, the halakhah prohibiting touch stands in its full force.
Ethiopian halakhic culture thus teaches that moral responsibility is created in encounter with another person—in the ability to see the world from the other’s perspective. Basic human decency, a greeting, a gesture of civility, is not a threat to halakhah; it is a condition for halakhah to thrive.
In this sense, obsessive preoccupation with “touch/no-touch” does not restrain desire—it can end up serving it. That is one reason Ethiopian tradition understands restraint around touch not as a battle with the yetzer hara, but as a stand against Satan. The difference is profound, but I cannot address it within the confines of this article.
“So why does a seemingly minor, arguably non-biblical issue like ‘touch’ become framed as yehareg ve’al ya’avor—a category reserved for the gravest prohibitions, where Jewish law demands death rather than transgression?” Why is a handshake seen as equivalent to idolatry, murder, or sexual immorality? The discussion here is far deeper than a technical halakhic question.
To illustrate, I will recall an anecdote shared by Jorge Luis Borges, the Argentine poet, essayist, and master of the philosophical short story: a man loved a woman so intensely that he could not stop thinking of her for even a second—except for one extraordinary moment, when his thoughts of her vanished entirely as he climbed the stairs to a dentist appointment.
Professor Shalom Rosenberg (of blessed memory) used this story to illustrate that fear defeats love. For me, this is the key to understanding our issue. This is not only a halakhic discussion; it is a story of fear—operating on multiple levels.
On the personal level, fear is rooted in a lack of self-confidence and a lack of trust in the human ability to control impulses, set boundaries, and distinguish between human warmth and boundary-crossing. It is the worry that any human closeness inevitably slides down a slippery slope. When a person stops trusting their own judgment, they also struggle to trust others.
On the public-political level, fear is fed by two extremes that intensify one another: permissiveness on one side and tightening conservatism on the other. These two poles live in an ongoing dialogue of mutual anxiety. And this fear ties into an even larger question: what kind of state and society do we seek to shape in Israel’s public sphere—a Jewish state in a narrowly halakhic sense, or a democratic and liberal state?
That is why the question of “touch” is not the core problem. In my view, the root problem is fear and the deepening mistrust between different groups in Israeli society. This fear produces a dichotomous perception of reality: “us” and “them,” good and bad. Not merely a question of belonging, but an assumption that anyone “from our camp” is necessarily good, and anyone outside it is a potential threat.
The Shin Bet controversy as a mirror of the wider conflict
Against this background, interpretations diverge regarding the directive not to shake hands.
One side claims that such a decision represents yet another form of excluding women and separating them. In this view, “shomer negiah” carries a patriarchal dynamic, and it is not marginal—it is part of a wider movement away from liberal values. In such processes, women are pushed out of the public sphere, narrowed into domestic roles, and expected to fulfill traditional gender functions—patterns common in many societies undergoing such shifts.
The other side defends the move and argues there is nothing new here. They claim that opponents of the appointment of David Zini as head of the Shin Bet seized on a new pretext: he is religious, he is shomer negiah, and he stated in advance that he would not shake hands with women. In their eyes, this is a “plot” by the secular left, which never accepted the appointment of a religious person to such a sensitive position.
Here I want to bring in the perspective of Danny Limor, the first Mossad commander in Sudan and one of the figures who helped bring Ethiopian Jews from the Tawawa camp to the Red Sea coast, from where they were transferred by Shayetet 13 (Israeli Navy Seal) fighters to ships that brought them to Israel. Limor emphasizes a basic distinction between arenas of action: within an internal religious sphere, unique norms operate; but in a state security role, different rules apply. From these flows a critical distinction between the private individual and the public officeholder: a person representing the state does not act only in his/her own name, but in the name of the state’s values.
But again: which values? Each side holds a different answer
Either way, the distinction forces difficult questions: when should one be strict and when flexible; when should one insist and when should one flow with reality.
This connects to something Adv. Misgav Ner wrote to me in the name of Rabbi Israel Rosen: there is, in the religious public, a kind of psychosis around sexuality. In his view, the many cases of sexual harm in the religious world did not happen because of handshakes with women, polite hugs or cheek-kisses, or women’s singing. Rabbi Rosen once said: excessive modesty produces excessive licentiousness.
Love and fear: a choice for Israeli society
The story of Ethiopian Jewry—like the story of the Jewish people as a whole—is a continuing story of love and fear. When fear overcame love, it led us to destruction and exile. When love overcame fear, it led us to redemption and renewal.
We are at a critical moment in Israeli society. Will we keep deepening fear of one another at the expense of love—or will we strengthen love over fear?
I am optimistic, because since October 7 we have seen how this generation rose like a lion, with great love for the people and the state, crushing every fear in its path. The eternal people do not fear.
Rabbi Dr. Sharon Zeude Shalom is the founding director of Ono Academic College's International Center for the Study of Ethiopian Jewry. He is also the author of The Living Geniza (Open University, 2022), Dialogues of Love and Fear (Koren, 2021) and From Sinai to Ethiopia (Gefen, 2016).
First published: 04:35, 02.16.26