I was sixteen when I stood on Mount Eival, knees trembling, heart thudding like a trapped gazelle. My name is Micah, son of Elazar, from the tribe of Zebulun. You won’t find that written in any scroll, but I was there the day we heard the curses.
It wasn’t just the wind that carried those words—it was weight itself, pressing on our chests, letting no one look away. I stood with thousands of others, crammed between the twin mountains—Mount Gerizim to our right, where blessings would be spoken, and the harsh, stony face of Mount Eival to our left, where curses echoed like thunder.
We had just crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land. After years in the wilderness, this was what Moses had told us to prepare for—not just the land, but the choice. The covenant. The responsibility.
The Levites stood in the valley, their voices loud and clear, reciting each curse as if G-d Himself was announcing them from the heavens: “Cursed is the one who makes an idol…” “Cursed is the one who dishonors his father or his mother…” Each line lit up the air like lightning, and each time, the people gave a loud, hollow-sounding “Amen.”
I said Amen too. But some part of me wondered if we really meant it.
You see, my older brother Caleb—he had always been a clever one—used to scoff when Father recited the laws at home. “What difference does it make?” Caleb would mutter. “We’ve heard it a hundred times.” He didn’t come to Mount Eival with us. He was off with a group of other boys, camped far from the center, looking for shortcuts to live comfortably in a land we didn’t yet deserve.
As the Levites went on, something inside me tightened. Cursed is the one who moves his neighbor’s boundary marker… I thought of how Caleb talked about grabbing land before the tribal divisions were set. Cursed is the one who strikes his fellow in secret… I remembered a younger boy, bruised and silent, after Caleb “taught him a lesson.”
I wanted to sink into the dust.
I had always admired my brother. My father said he needed time to learn. But here I was, saying "Amen" to curses that he lived as excuses.
That night, while others rejoiced, I sat quietly, staring at the dark silhouette of Eival. It wasn’t just a mountain anymore—it was a mirror, showing us who we were when no one watched.
In that silence, I made my choice.
I found my father and told him I wanted to stand as a witness to the covenant—not just say "Amen" with my lips, but with my life. Even if my brother chose otherwise.
When Moses sang his final song before his death, reminding us of the danger of turning from God, I listened with a heart that finally understood.
Those curses weren’t meant to destroy us.
They were meant to stop us. To protect us.
To make us see the path before we wandered too far off it.
And I would stay on it.
I was sixteen when I stood on Mount Eival, knees trembling, heart thudding like a trapped gazelle. My name is Micah, son of Elazar, from the tribe of Zebulun. You won’t find that written in any scroll, but I was there the day we heard the curses.
It wasn’t just the wind that carried those words—it was weight itself, pressing on our chests, letting no one look away. I stood with thousands of others, crammed between the twin mountains—Mount Gerizim to our right, where blessings would be spoken, and the harsh, stony face of Mount Eival to our left, where curses echoed like thunder.
We had just crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land. After years in the wilderness, this was what Moses had told us to prepare for—not just the land, but the choice. The covenant. The responsibility.
The Levites stood in the valley, their voices loud and clear, reciting each curse as if G-d Himself was announcing them from the heavens: “Cursed is the one who makes an idol…” “Cursed is the one who dishonors his father or his mother…” Each line lit up the air like lightning, and each time, the people gave a loud, hollow-sounding “Amen.”
I said Amen too. But some part of me wondered if we really meant it.
You see, my older brother Caleb—he had always been a clever one—used to scoff when Father recited the laws at home. “What difference does it make?” Caleb would mutter. “We’ve heard it a hundred times.” He didn’t come to Mount Eival with us. He was off with a group of other boys, camped far from the center, looking for shortcuts to live comfortably in a land we didn’t yet deserve.
As the Levites went on, something inside me tightened. Cursed is the one who moves his neighbor’s boundary marker… I thought of how Caleb talked about grabbing land before the tribal divisions were set. Cursed is the one who strikes his fellow in secret… I remembered a younger boy, bruised and silent, after Caleb “taught him a lesson.”
I wanted to sink into the dust.
I had always admired my brother. My father said he needed time to learn. But here I was, saying "Amen" to curses that he lived as excuses.
That night, while others rejoiced, I sat quietly, staring at the dark silhouette of Eival. It wasn’t just a mountain anymore—it was a mirror, showing us who we were when no one watched.
In that silence, I made my choice.
I found my father and told him I wanted to stand as a witness to the covenant—not just say "Amen" with my lips, but with my life. Even if my brother chose otherwise.
When Moses sang his final song before his death, reminding us of the danger of turning from God, I listened with a heart that finally understood.
Those curses weren’t meant to destroy us.
They were meant to stop us. To protect us.
To make us see the path before we wandered too far off it.
And I would stay on it.
