We do not celebrate the death of our enemies.

When Yitzhak Rabin declared, “We do not celebrate the death of our enemies,” he spoke with the solemn wisdom of one who had seen both the sword and the sorrow it brings. His words were not the cry of the weak, but the command of a man who knew war, who had ordered battles, and who had buried comrades. In his voice resounded the weary strength of a soldier turned peacemaker — one who had gazed into the abyss of hatred and chosen, at last, to step back from its edge. This saying is not about restraint alone; it is about humanity, about remembering that victory purchased with vengeance is no true victory at all.

Rabin, the general who became a statesman, carried the burden of conflict his entire life. He fought in the wars that shaped Israel, saw friends fall beside him, and led armies that ensured his people’s survival. Yet in his later years, he turned from conquest toward reconciliation, seeking peace with those once called foes. From such a man, this quote bears the weight of revelation — that the greatest triumph is not in the destruction of one’s enemy, but in the redemption of enmity itself. For when hatred dies, the soul of man is restored; when hatred is fed, it devours the victor as surely as the vanquished.

The ancients too knew this truth. The Greeks, in their tragedies, taught that the man who rejoices in his enemy’s death calls down a curse upon his own house. The Hebrew scriptures tell that when the Egyptians drowned in the Red Sea, the angels themselves began to sing — but God silenced them, saying, “My children are dead, and you would sing?” Even divine justice, it seems, does not delight in destruction. There is a sacred silence that should follow every death, even that of an enemy — a silence of mourning, of recognition that life, once given, is holy. Rabin’s words remind us of that silence — the stillness in which conscience whispers that every life, even one opposed to ours, carries the same breath of the Eternal.

History offers its testament to this truth. When the Second World War ended, Winston Churchill refused to dance upon the graves of the defeated. Instead, he said with grave humility, “In war, resolution; in victory, magnanimity.” The world had crushed tyranny, yet the wise understood that to celebrate death was to plant the seed of another war. So too did Abraham Lincoln, after the American Civil War, speak “with malice toward none, with charity for all,” extending mercy to those who had fought against him. For he knew that the peace of nations cannot be built on hatred, only on forgiveness and moral strength. These men, like Rabin, understood that to rejoice in the death of enemies is to prolong the shadow of violence; to grieve even for them is to honor the sacredness of peace.

In the life of Rabin himself lies the bitter paradox of his teaching. He sought to end the conflict between Israel and Palestine, to bring two wounded peoples toward a shared dawn. Yet he was struck down not by a foreign foe, but by one of his own — slain for daring to speak of reconciliation. His death, tragic and prophetic, sealed his message with blood: that peace demands courage greater than war. The man who says “We do not celebrate the death of our enemies” speaks not of politics, but of salvation — of the salvation of the human spirit from the poison of vengeance.

The meaning of his words stretches beyond battlefields. In every heart, there are wars — quarrels of pride, grudges that burn like coals. When we gloat over the downfall of those who wronged us, we become their mirror, and our souls grow smaller. But when we refuse to rejoice in another’s ruin, we rise above the cycle of hurt. We reclaim our dignity, and we restore the world’s fragile balance. For the true warrior, as the sages taught, is not he who conquers others, but he who conquers himself.

So take this as your lesson, seeker of wisdom: when your enemies fall, do not raise your voice in triumph, but bow your head in silence. Let compassion temper your justice, and let humility guard your strength. Strive not to destroy those who oppose you, but to understand them; not to humiliate, but to heal. For life is sacred, and the earth drinks too easily of blood. To live as Rabin lived — to fight when you must, but to grieve even for the fallen — is to walk the narrow path between power and mercy. And only upon that path shall peace endure.