Suri Kinzbrunner
I. Introduction
The story of the violation of Tamar, daughter of King David, in 2 Samuel 13 is often deeply distressing to readers. What is perhaps most disturbing is how quickly the narrative moves on after she is violated; while the atrocity committed against her triggers a cataclysmic chain reaction of vengeance by her brother Absalom, ultimately culminating in rebellion, civil war, and death, Tamar herself is completely dropped from the text. She is left, as the verse records, “in her brother Absalom’s house, forlorn.” (2 Samuel 13:20). Yet while there is no earthly justice or consolation for Tamar within her lifetime, her story is not lost. Instead, Tamar becomes a paradigm for Jerusalem’s destruction in the Book of Lamentations and, ultimately, the starting point for national healing. In other words, although Tamar herself is left desolate, Tanakh refuses to let her narrative remain an isolated tragedy and elevates her experience into a blueprint for national mourning, spiritual rupture, and eventual restoration.
II. Amnon’s “Love-Sickness” and Tamar’s Desolation
The narrative in 2 Samuel 13 introduces Tamar uniquely as the sister of Absalom, rather than explicitly calling her King David’s daughter. As Rashi explains (2 Samuel 13:1), Tamar and Absalom were full siblings from the same mother, placing her under his immediate protection. Right away, we are introduced to Amnon’s obsession. His emotional state is described as “so distraught because of his [half-]sister Tamar that he became sick” (2 Samuel 13:2). The text makes it clear that this was not a pure love-sickness when it notes “it seemed impossible to Amnon to do anything to her” (ibid). Rashi explains that this was because Tamar was deeply modest and did not leave the house, as was the way of princesses. As a result, Amnon’s mind turned to scheme and force instigated by his cousin, Jonadab.
Jonadab is introduced as a “very clever man” (2 Samuel 13:3). In Sanhedrin 21a, the Gemara clarifies that his wisdom was actually hakham l’ra: pure cunning used for evil. Jonadab devised a plan for Amnon to feign illness and ask King David to send Tamar to prepare food for him. Amnon followed this advice, which culminated in his grabbing Tamar against her will, overpowering her, and violating her. Throughout this horror, Tamar’s voice shines with incredible righteousness and moral clarity. The Gemara in Sanhedrin 21a praises her heroic attempts to reason with him, preserving her words from the text: “Don’t, brother. Don’t force me. Such things are not done in Israel! Don’t do such a vile thing! Where will I carry my shame? And you, you will be like any of the scoundrels in Israel!” (2 Samuel 13:12–13). The text makes clear that Tamar does not share any blame; her desperate pleas were ignored by her attacker, and the text records her words as an eternal testament to her wisdom and moral clarity.
The clearest proof that Amnon’s “love” was purely self-gratifying and transactional is the chilling, immediate shift that follows: the moment he satisfied his carnal urge, “Amnon felt a very great loathing for her; indeed, his loathing for her was greater than the passion he had felt for her” (2 Samuel 13:15), and he threw her out, bolting the door behind her. Tamar’s reaction is raw and devastating; she “put dust on her head and rent the ornamented tunic she was wearing; she put her hands on her head, and walked away, screaming loudly as she went” (2 Samuel 13:19). When Absalom learned of the crime, he was furious, yet he advised Tamar to “keep quiet about it” (2 Samuel 13:20). King David is described as being “greatly upset” (2 Samuel 13:21), yet he meted out no judicial consequences and sought no justice for his daughter. In the end, Tamar is left in tragic isolation: “in her brother Absalom’s house, forlorn (shomema)” (2 Samuel 13:20).
III. Shomema: Tamar’s Desolation and the Destruction of the Temple
The Book of Lamentations, ascribed to the prophet Jeremiah, is read on Tisha B’Av to commemorate the destruction of both Temples. The First Temple was far more than a passing dream for King David; he purchased its site on Mount Moriah, amassed vast reserves of materials, and drew up its blueprints before it was ultimately built by his son, King Solomon. In mourning the fall of the Temple and Jerusalem, Jeremiah repeatedly utilizes the metaphor of a degraded woman to describe the ruined state of Jerusalem. Indeed, forms of the root SH-M-M, the very root describing Tamar’s abandonment, recur throughout Lamentations. For example, in Lamentations 1:13, Jerusalem herself laments that she was left, “forlorn (shomema), in constant misery” echoing the exact word used to describe Tamar’s permanent state of abandonment. Furthermore, throughout the scroll, Jerusalem is personified as Bat Tzion (Daughter of Zion), depicted as a young woman weeping bitterly in the night (Lamentations 1:2), her dignity stripped, disgraced by being exposed to all who once honored her, and who now revile her (Lamentations 1:8). The physical signs of grief in Lamentations mirror Tamar’s trauma with striking precision, elders sitting on the ground in silence with dust on their heads (Lamentations 2:10) just as Tamar placed dust on her head and was silenced, put into isolation.
Jeremiah reaches back to this vivid, highly emotional event, evoking the memory of Tamar, left desolate and without resolution, to tap into our deepest capacity for grief over Jerusalem’s destruction – setting the stage for ultimate repair.
IV. Song of Songs: The Redemption of True Love and Tikkun
Where 2 Samuel exemplifies corrupted, one-sided “love,” which was nothing more than self-serving, transactional lust with a devastating aftermath, and Lamentations expands this tragedy to a national scale through the destruction of Jerusalem, Song of Songs provides the ultimate repair and tikkun. Ascribed to King Solomon, Tamar’s half-brother, the text presents a radically different vision of love. Unlike Jonadab’s cleverness that was utilized for evil and ulterior motives, King Solomon is granted true, divinely-cultivated wisdom (1 Kings 3:12). In Song of Songs, he utilizes the metaphor of pure, consensual love to capture the ideal relationship between the Jewish people and God. As Rabbi Akiva declares in the Mishnah (Yadayim 3:5), “All the Scriptures are holy, but Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies.” Rashi in his commentary emphasizes that the entire book is meant to be understood allegorically as the deep, reciprocal bond between God and Israel.
The contrast between Amnon’s lust and the love expressed in Song of Songs comes into sharp focus in Song of Songs 5:8: “I adjure you, O maidens of Jerusalem! If you meet my beloved, tell him this: That I am faint with love (holat ahavah).”
The phrase holat ahavah, faint or sick with love, instantly stands in stark contrast with Amnon’s self-induced sickness in 2 Samuel 13:2. Love-sickness is an extremely powerful emotion, yet it is deployed in opposing ways across these two contexts: one describes a toxic sickness born of selfish craving, while the other describes a pure, respectful love and deep desire for connection. The former leads to destruction; the latter is the very foundation of spiritual devotion. Indeed, Rambam in Hilkhot Teshuvah (10:3) seizes upon this exact phrase from Song of Songs to define the highest tier of divine service: a soul so consumed with love for God that it acts as a constant, passionate holat ahavah. In Rambam’s framework, true love is not an act of coercion or self-gratification, but an all-encompassing devotion.
Linguistically and structurally, the opposing parallel between Amnon’s crime and Song of Songs is apparent. Tamar was lured into Amnon’s room, trapped against her will, and then cast out behind a locked door (2 Samuel 13:17–18). In Song of Songs 5:2, we see the exact opposite dynamic: the Beloved (God) stands outside, gently knocking and asking for permission to enter: “Hark, my beloved knocks! Let me in, my own, my darling, my faultless dove!” Rather than forcing entry or locking someone out, the lovers seek each other out.
Tamar herself did not receive resolution or justice within her lifetime, yet her narrative was not preserved in vain. Through Lamentations, her unresolved pain helps us tap into the depths of our mourning for the destruction of the Temple; through Song of Songs, her half-brother King Solomon provides the language that serves in part as a tikkun for that trauma. The metaphorical defilement and destruction of Jerusalem will not endure forever; through ahavat hinam, boundless, selfless love built on mutual respect and genuine care, it will one day be fully repaired and restored.
V. Breaking the Silence and Restoration
Along with the tikkun of consensual love found in Song of Songs, the prophecies of consolation in the Book of Isaiah, read throughout the weeks leading to the Yamim Noraim, stand out as the ultimate answer to Tamar’s pain and Jerusalem’s destruction. In chapter 62, Isaiah declares, “For the sake of Zion I will not be silent” (Isaiah 62:1), directly contrasting with the silence imposed on Tamar, until her vindication shines forth. He promises in verse 4 that “Nevermore shall you be called ‘Forsaken,’ nor shall your land be called ‘Desolate’ (shemama).” Instead, as verse 5 continues, “And as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will your God rejoice over you.” This refusal to remain silent is repeated again in verse 6: “Upon your walls, O Jerusalem, I have set sentries, who shall never be silent.” This unceasing voice is the ultimate remedy to Tamar’s tragic fate. Tamar’s voice was good and true when she pleaded with Amnon, yet after the crime, she was silenced by her brother Absalom, leaving her without real care, protection, or justice. When such pain occurs, we cannot deny it or force those who suffer into quiet isolation.
The challenge of hearing the voices of sexual assault survivors remains relevant. The recently released documentary, The Darkest Light (Simon Mendes, 2026), explores Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach’s public persona as a source of spiritual inspiration while also giving voice to women who were violated by him. Much of Carlebach’s music draws on Psalms, traditionally attributed to King David, creating a striking connection to the story of Tamar. King David himself remains one of the most beloved figures in Jewish tradition despite the troubling treatment of women in his story, including his failure to protect and seek justice for his own daughter. More important than the question of what we do with the legacy of a revered figure is whether we will silence the voices of those who suffered at his hands. As Carlebach’s daughter, Neshama Carlebach, wrote in her recent essay, Less Alone Than I Thought, “[T]estimony matters. Every person who brings a hidden truth into the light makes it a little more possible for someone else to speak. Yes, it hurts, but it is how we face darkness” (The Times of Israel, August 19, 2026). Tamar spoke clearly and urgently, even screamed, and was silenced. Renewal requires that when survivors speak, we listen, acknowledge their suffering, hold perpetrators accountable regardless of their communal stature or reputation, and do what we can to prevent it from happening again.
Tamar’s personal story ended in desolation, but her experience lives on, serving as a metaphor for both the destruction and ultimate restoration of Jerusalem and the Jewish people. Her narrative challenges us to move from the depths of personal trauma and national grief toward a future built on ahavat hinam, mutual respect, and genuine renewal.
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