This week’s Parasha contains a large number of Mitsvot: 53. Almost all of these precepts are categorized as mishpatim, or civil laws. This code of laws, which complements the Ten Commandments, begins unexpectedly by establishing the rights of slaves. The Tora states that a slave must be treated with respect, cannot be humiliated or subjected to degrading labor, and if their master physically harms them, they must be set free. Above all, their period of servitude is limited to six years, and when it ends, they do not leave empty-handed—the master must compensate them.
The Tora also addresses the rights of a young woman working as a servant, explaining that she must be treated with dignity. If the master decides to marry her to his son—something that was not uncommon—her husband cannot discriminate against her or treat her with fewer rights than a regular wife.
If we review the oldest legal codes, such as the Code of Hammurabi or the Hittite laws, contemporaries of Abraham Abinu, we notice a clear element. These laws focus on the rights of masters, the owners of slaves: in the Code of Hammurabi, law 282, for example, states that “if a slave says to his master: ‘You are not my master,’ his ear shall be cut off.” In the Hittite laws, if someone harmed a slave, they had to pay compensation. But to whom? Not to the slave but to the owner, as if it were a broken object. In both cases, the most vulnerable had neither voice nor rights.
Why did the laws of ancient peoples not mention the rights of slaves? Because laws were always written to benefit and protect the interests of the most powerful: kings, rulers, and aristocrats, who were often the owners of slaves. Slaves, who at that time made up more than two-thirds of the world’s population, had no voice or power to influence legislation.
Legal codes were written by the powerful to protect their interests: to maintain their authority as masters and deter any attempt at rebellion.
But who, then, could have written laws that protect slaves? Whose interests were being protected, and why?
It is also surprising that the Tora began the code of mishpatim with the rights of slaves. The Code of Justinian in imperial Rome, for example, begins by proclaiming the supremacy of the emperor and demanding that his authority be respected, ensuring that anyone who violates this law will be punished with death. The priority is to protect the ruler’s power, maintain the empire’s order, and punish rebels. No code begins with the rights of ordinary citizens—and even less so with the rights of slaves.
We can determine who wrote a law with a simple question: Who benefits from it? Laws always benefit those who draft them. And those who write them are usually the most powerful, those in power. They need rules that help them preserve their authority—not to benefit the most vulnerable.
However, the Tora completely breaks this pattern. Its laws are not written from the perspective of the master but from that of the slave. They do not seek to preserve the authority of the powerful but to guarantee the dignity and rights of those without power. The Tora protects slaves, widows, and orphans—the most vulnerable, who had no one to defend them.
Let’s see, for example, the severity with which the Tora condemns abuses against the defenseless:
“You shall not mistreat any widow or orphan. If you mistreat them and they cry out to Me, I will surely hear their cry. My anger will be aroused, and I will kill you with the sword; your wives will become widows and your children orphans.” (Shemot 22:21-24)
Who could have written these laws? Slaves? Widows? Orphans who were in power? The rulers? For what purpose would rulers and masters limit their own authority?
The obvious conclusion is that the only author of the Tora is God, the Creator of the world and humanity—the only King and Ruler who cares, first and foremost, about protecting the most vulnerable.
