The Torah prohibits the unnecessary destruction of resources. This principle is known as bal tash’hit, the ban against needless waste.
Of course, what constitutes waste depends on context. Behavior that is wasteful in one era or circumstance may not be considered wasteful in another. In a modern world where, thank God, food is abundant, discarding leftover food may not carry the same implications that it did in generations marked by scarcity.
What is striking is the setting in which this prohibition appears. The Torah introduces bal tash’hit, the prohibition against waste, amid warfare, rather than in the more predictable setting of agriculture or everyday life.
Ancient wars were fought by laying siege to cities, requiring enormous quantities of timber. Wood was needed for military camps, battering rams, siege towers, and fuel. Recognizing these genuine military needs, the Torah permits the felling of non-fruit-bearing trees for such purposes, while protecting fruit trees from wanton destruction.
When outlining this prohibition, the Torah offers an iconic analogy: ki ha’adam etz hasadeh, “man is like the tree of the field.” Just as human life must be carefully protected, a tree that produces and sustains life cannot simply be felled for utilitarian purposes.
The comparison reflects the unusual connection human beings have always felt toward trees. More than almost any other part of nature, we identify with trees and sometimes even personify them.
The 19th-century naturalist W. H. Hudson observed nature through an almost spiritual lens. In his memoir Far Away and Long Ago, he recounts the story of a landowner who possessed a “reverential feeling for his old trees.” Before retiring for the night, “he would walk round to visit them, one by one,” resting his hand on the bark and whispering good night. Hudson writes that the man believed his trees possessed “intelligent souls” and appreciated his devotion. To him, trees were alive, individual, and deeply personal.
Unlike this landowner, we do not believe that nature is animate, and trees certainly do not possess human souls. Yet the prominence of trees throughout Tanach suggests that our attachment to them is more than sentimental.
Human history begins among the trees of the Garden of Eden. Abraham receives his angelic visitors beneath a tree, and Jonah becomes deeply attached to his kikayon tree. Again and again, trees appear in Tanach as part of the human landscape.
Even the anatomy of a tree invites comparison to the human form. A mature tree has a clearly defined structure: hidden roots supporting a central trunk which rises and spreads into an intricate network of branches. There is something almost “bodily” about this structure, with a stable core and limbs reaching outward in different directions.
Our Sages drew on this structure in Pirkei Avot, comparing a person whose wisdom exceeds his deeds to a tree with many branches but few roots, easily overturned by the wind. The comparison works because we so readily recognize human qualities reflected in trees.
More than almost any other feature of nature, trees really do seem alive. As Shakespeare wrote, there are “tongues in trees.” Each tree has its own shape and something resembling a distinct personality. An old oak conveys strength, a willow gentleness, a cypress dignity. Trees grow and mature; they age and become scarred, and each develops its own shape and character.
The comparison between a tree and a human being reminds us to guard against wasting human potential. A productive tree still has fruit to bear; a person still has talents, abilities, and contributions to offer. Wasting either means cutting short what could still have been produced.
The connection between trees and war
However, there is a particular reason why the Torah draws this analogy between human beings and trees, specifically in the context of war. The qualities represented by trees carry special importance during wartime. Preserving sensitivity toward trees can help counter some of the pressures that war creates.
Planting for Israel's future
Trees teach us to think about the future. The Talmud in Ta’anit tells of a man planting a carob tree even though he will not live long enough to enjoy its fruit. When asked why he is planting for a future he will not see, he explains that he entered a world filled with trees planted by earlier generations and must do the same for those who will follow him.
Unlike crops that must be replanted each year, a tree planted today can continue producing fruit for decades. Trees naturally extend our vision beyond our own lives. We plant and nurture them, knowing that their fullest benefits may only be enjoyed by generations who had no part in planting them.
War demands that we extend our vision into the future. It is painful and exhausting, exacting enormous sacrifices at many levels. Without a clear vision of what we are fighting for, those sacrifices become much harder to sustain. A war without a larger purpose can easily become a succession of battles without hope.
During the past three years, we have endured an extraordinarily difficult war; the strain on our society has been enormous. The war has dragged on without a clear and decisive victory on the horizon.
We must keep reminding ourselves that our generation is struggling so that future generations will not face the violence and pogroms that we experienced on October 7. Sometimes a generation is called on to carry a burden whose benefits will be realized only by generations to come. We plant and nurture a tree today, knowing that others may sit beneath its branches and enjoy its fruit.
Every tree is different
Trees also possess remarkable individuality. No two mature trees are identical. Each develops its own shape and carries its own history. Trees are battered by storms, afflicted by disease, scarred by injury, and sometimes recover in ways that permanently alter their appearance. An old tree possesses something resembling a biography, with much of its history written into its trunk and branches.
War reduces individuals to numbers and statistics. Behind every person lies a world of relationships, dreams, achievements, and hopes. Every loss is the loss of an entire world. Every serious injury can radically alter a person’s life and the lives of those around them. Amid the scale and intensity of war, it is easy to lose sight of the individuality of each person and the unique story of every family.
The Torah’s concern for each individual tree reminds us to preserve that same sensitivity toward every individual human life.
Building, not destroying
Finally, trees remind us that humans are meant to be productive in this world. Trees are among nature’s great providers. They give us fruit, shade, shelter, fuel, and, through photosynthesis, the oxygen we breathe. Their presence sustains the environment around them.
War is fundamentally destructive. It destroys lives and what human beings have spent years building. Sometimes we are forced into war, but we should never develop a culture that celebrates war or destruction.
The comparison between people and trees reminds us of our deeper calling. We are meant to produce, build, and improve our world. War may sometimes be necessary, but destruction can never become our purpose. Man is meant to be a tree.
Planting again in Israel
From its earliest days, the Zionist movement viewed planting trees in Israel as an expression of confidence in our future. I remember collecting money as a child in the little blue Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael-Jewish National Fund boxes to help plant forests in Israel.
Trees have repeatedly been destroyed by war, fires, and other causes, but we have always planted again as an expression of Jewish resilience and rebuilding.
https://www.jpost.com/judaism/torah-portion/article-905419
