By Rabbi Yaakov Raskin for Times of Israel

If you ask someone what darkness means, they’ll tell you about night time, about blindness, or about depression. But the Torah describes a different kind of darkness entirely, one that’s harder to recognize but much more dangerous.

In this week’s portion, “Bo” (Exodus 10:1–13:16) G-d strikes Egypt with the three final devastating plagues. The ninth plague, darkness, was an intense, thick, all-encompassing darkness, as it says, “they felt the darkness. No man saw his brother, neither did anyone rise from his place for three days.”

The Chassidic interpretation of this verse is profound. The Egyptians’ inability to “see” one another wasn’t a symptom of the darkness, it was in fact the cause. In Egypt, each individual only worried about himself, and was completely blind to their neighbor’s pain or joy. 

The lesson here is that the way to combat darkness is by doing the opposite. When we see our fellow struggling materially or spiritually, it should bother us. When we see another Jew doing a mitzvah or having a milestone, we should feel joy. Just as a person being unable to see his fellow is like their being “in the dark,” being sensitive to the needs of others and helping them overcome their own inner struggles brings light and goodness into the world.

This was one of the favorite teachings of my father-in-law, Rabbi Zushe Wilhelm, of blessed memory, who served as dean of the central Chabad-Lubavitch high school for 32 years. Many of his students are now serving as Chabad emissaries, rabbis and community leaders around the world. He was also a prolific writer and he authored many books and translations of Chassidic works. 

My father-in-law taught that the darkness which arises when “a man sees not his fellow,” applies not only to obvious self-centeredness and selfishness, but even in our noblest pursuits. We can become so absorbed in lofty, spiritual endeavors that we remain oblivious to what’s happening in the next room. We should never be so involved in our own spiritual refinement that we fail to hear the cries of others.

There is a well-known Chassidic story about Rabbi Dov Ber, the Mitteler Rebbe, who was deeply engrossed in his studies when his baby fell out of the cradle and began to cry. Though in the same room, he didn’t hear. His father, the Alter Rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, was studying upstairs but heard the baby’s cries. He came downstairs, soothed the child, and placed him back in the cradle.

Afterwards, he reprimanded his son: “How could you leave the baby crying?”

The Mitteler Rebbe explained that he had been so engrossed in his studies that he was oblivious to everything else and simply hadn’t heard.

The excuse did not hold. “You should never be so involved in your own spiritual endeavors that you fail to hear the cry of a child,” the Alter Rebbe told his son.

This principle extends even to those trapped in their own darkness. In 1961, a suicidal teenager named Richard wrote a letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, describing his despair and disillusionment with life. The Rebbe’s response was unexpected: “You must get away from yourself, and begin to think of others. It is time to begin an active participation in society; to give, and to give generously. The opportunities are many and the need is great.” 

Rather than dwelling on Richard’s pain, the Rebbe directed him toward concrete ways to help others. The way out of darkness, the Rebbe showed, wasn’t to look inward but outward. Richard not only survived but thrived, going on to become a beloved professor who spent decades helping young people find their own purpose.

My father-in-law embodied this principle throughout his life. This week marks four years since his passing, and his warmth and dedication to helping others continues to inspire me and my wife in our work as Chabad emissaries. 

Every week, my father-in-law would put out a publication which included trivia questions on the weekly Torah portion and time of the year in order to bring the joy and excitement of Torah to his students. While he maintained incredibly high academic standards in his school, that didn’t detract from his extreme sensitivity and care for each student, many of whom he would stay in touch with for years via letters in the mail. 

One particularly challenging student, who he maintained a relationship with long after his graduation, visited him weeks before his passing and asked: “Rabbi, why did you give me so much attention? I was one of your most difficult students, so why do you expend all this effort?”

My father-in-law responded, “They say that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Precisely because of the noise you would make, I felt the need to bring you close.” This wasn’t just his approach to teaching, it was his approach to life.

In a world that often feels consumed by darkness, may the legacy of my father-in-law and the teachings of the Rebbe continue to inspire each of us to bring light to the world. We don’t need to go to the ends of the earth to make an impact. All we need to do is be there for one another. We must hear the cries of our fellow Jews in pain and share in their joy. When we truly see each other, we become the light itself.