Tzvi Sinensky
The problem is well known. Toward the end of Megillat Esther, the Jews are granted permission to destroy their enemies. Yet the ethical framework under which they do so is subject to extensive debate. The decree permits them “to assemble and defend their lives” (Esther 8:11). This language suggests a framework of self-defense. However, the Megillah also states that the decree was issued so the Jews might “take vengeance on their enemies” (Esther 8:13). This dual framing—self-defense and retribution—creates an interpretive challenge with potentially explosive implications for a Jewish ethics of war. Complicating matters further, the decree explicitly permits killing “women and children” and plundering the spoils (Esther 8:11). Does the Megillah endorse vengeance as a legitimate motivation for punishment?
Unsurprisingly, as we will see, numerous commentators tend to read the story through the lens of their own ideological priors. Some cite the Megillah as evidence that vengeance is a Jewish value, while others emphasize its self-defense language to present a more restrained interpretation.
Beyond the case of Megillat Esther, this tension raises a broader question: How can we approach emotionally charged biblical texts while striving to ground our interpretation in the text itself rather than in ideological reflexes? This question is crucial not only for giving the text a fair reading but also for fostering meaningful dialogue about its meaning. Jonathan Haidt has shown that moral intuitions are often shaped by cultural and personality-driven biases. As a result, he argues, even individuals approaching the same issue in good faith may reach starkly different conclusions.[1] If we hope to engage constructively with those who hold different moral intuitions, we must first undertake a careful reading of the text before drawing ethical conclusions.
The challenge becomes particularly acute in times of crisis, like now. In such moments, debates over Jewish ethics and law—like all discussions—tend to become especially charged. Instead of being analyzed carefully, biblical and halakhic sources are often read polemically, reinforcing the lack of intellectual rigor so pervasive today. To engage with the Megillah rigorously, we must start with a fundamental question: What does the text actually say?
To give the text a fair reading, it is helpful to begin by outlining a set of methodological tools that can help us avoid common pitfalls. These principles are not novel—though some may dispute certain points—nor are they comprehensive. But they serve as an initial framework, a first draft of a checklist, to keep us grounded. Just as medical professionals use checklists to minimize errors under pressure, a structured approach to difficult texts in crisis ensures focused and constructive intellectual effort.
Methodological Principles
- Lead with Humility
Humility not only enhances our search for truth but also enriches our discourse. Too often, discussions of difficult biblical texts devolve into ideological skirmishes. However, by acknowledging textual ambiguities, identifying where our interpretations rely on assumptions, and staying open to alternative perspectives, we foster a more honest and meaningful intellectual exchange—and can learn more in the process.
- Resist the Impulse to Impose Contemporary Categories
This may seem obvious to some and wrong-headed or impossible to others, but I find it useful to begin by identifying my own ethical priors and resisting the impulse to impose my moral instincts onto the text. This does not mean that ethics are irrelevant to interpretation—on the contrary, as Moshe Halbertal argues, moral reasoning is deeply tied to how we interpret texts.[2] But if moral assumptions are introduced too early, they can obscure the text’s actual meaning and interfere with our ability to meaningfully discuss the text with those who don’t share our baselines. In this case, my instinct is to recoil at pure vengeance. But I will try to set that aside—otherwise, I risk not giving the verses the attention they deserve.[3]
- Acknowledge How Prior Knowledge Shapes Our Reading
Beyond ideological biases, our prior knowledge shapes how we approach the Megillah. For example, even as an adult, I still come to the text with an image of Mordekhai as a rabbinic scholar, molded by midrashim I learned early on—though also, paradoxically, as an assimilated Jew who finds his way back to Jewish identity alongside Esther. Neither of these images readily lends itself to viewing Mordekhai or Esther as aggressive or capable of authorizing large-scale violence—but that assumption is belied by the Megillah itself.
- Define Terms
After making our best effort to recognize our ideological and knowledge-based assumptions, we must clearly define our terms—both the categories we are examining and the words that appear in the text.
Thus, returning to the Megillah, both the terms “self-defense” and “retribution” carry multiple meanings. Self-defense can take two distinct forms:
- Reactive self-defense: responding to an immediate threat.
- Proactive self-defense: taking preemptive action to neutralize a future threat.
Both are forms of self-defense, though they may operate under different ethical and legal frameworks. Without distinguishing between them up front, we risk conflating concepts that the biblical text may treat differently.
Similarly, the word vengeance can carry multiple meanings. It can refer to personal retaliation driven by emotion (revenge), retributive justice, or a broader concept of restoring moral balance.
A similar rule holds for defining key terms that appear in the text under discussion. Like “vengeance,” the Hebrew “nekama” also requires careful definition. While often translated as vengeance, we have already noted that the term vengeance itself is multivalent. Thus, nekama can at times signify the enforcement of justice and the restoration of order, rather than an emotionally driven act of revenge—as in “God of vengeances, O Lord” (Tehillim 94:1).
- Be Cautious with Emotionally Charged Language
Certain terms—particularly those associated with violence, vengeance, or destruction—evoke strong reactions that can further color our interpretation. In our case, if we react instinctively to the term nekama without considering these nuances, we risk imposing a meaning that aligns with our emotions rather than with the text itself.
Additionally, concrete numbers tend to draw our attention. It is probably no coincidence that many discussions of this issue emphasize the killing of 75,000 Persians outside of Shushan—even as the exact number of deaths does not in itself necessarily carry moral weight. Large numbers can feel overwhelming or morally significant even when they may simply convey scale or historical fact. To be clear, this is not to say that scale is irrelevant. One might argue that large-scale destruction is qualitatively different from small-scale, that a high number suggests aggression rather than self-defense, or that a large, unrealistic, round number reflects typical biblical literary exaggeration. All of these are plausible and reasonable modes of analysis. But if we instinctively fixate on numbers, we risk distorting the text’s message.
- Distinguish Between Description and Prescription
Biblical texts often describe actions without necessarily endorsing them. A careful reading requires distinguishing between what the text reports and what it affirms. Some narratives depict events as they happened, while others present ideals. Failing to make this distinction can lead to misreadings. In our case, this distinction does not seem particularly relevant, as the overall thrust of the Megillah suggests that Mordekhai, Esther, and the Jewish people are to be celebrated for their actions at the end of the story. Still, it remains an important point to consider in interpreting biblical texts more broadly.
- Recognize the Limits of a Single Text
Even after arriving at a fair reading of the text, it is important to remember that no single text serves as the definitive authority on complex dilemmas. The Megillah is often invoked in contemporary discussions about war ethics, including in relation to Israel. However, ancient Persia is not modern Israel, and the mitzvot governing warfare in the land of Israel do not necessarily apply to the events of the Megillah. Nor is it obvious that the text serves as a direct precedent for modern conflicts—though it undoubtedly has something valuable to teach. Rather than seeking a final resolution, we would do better to view each source as a data point within a broader framework. I will aim to approach my analysis in the same way.
- Isolate Points that Emerge as Most Likely or Definite
Throughout the process—but especially at the end—it is useful to separate ambiguity from what is most likely or definite. This involves identifying the text’s core claims, distinguishing between areas of scholarly consensus and uncertainty, and resisting the temptation to overstate conclusions where the text remains unclear. By anchoring our reading in the strongest textual evidence rather than conjecture, we ensure a more faithful and intellectually honest interpretation.
With these principles in mind, we return to our question of retribution and self-defense.
The Irrevocable Decree
By the final chapters of the Megillah, Haman has been exposed and executed, and his house has been handed over to Esther and Mordekhai. Yet Esther makes an additional request to King Ahashverosh: a new decree allowing the Jews to defeat their enemies:
And she said: “If it pleases the king, and if I have found favor before him, and the matter is proper before the king, and I am pleasing in his eyes, let it be written to revoke the letters devised by Haman son of Hammedatha the Agagite, which he wrote to destroy the Jews in all the king’s provinces. For how can I bear to see the disaster that will befall my people? And how can I bear to see the destruction of my kindred?” (Esther 8:5–6)
Ahashverosh responds by reaffirming the irrevocability of royal decrees while granting Mordekhai and Esther the power to issue a counter-decree entirely of their choosing:
And you may further write with regard to the Jews as you see fit, in the king’s name, and seal it with the king’s signet. For an edict that has been written in the king’s name and sealed with the king’s signet may not be revoked. (Esther 8:8)
Here, we encounter our first questions: Why do the Jews require another decree to defend themselves, and what does the king mean by noting that his decrees are irrevocable? The commentators debate both questions. On the need for a decree, Ibn Ezra[4] and Malbim[5] argue that this was a legal necessity—Persian law forbade the revocation of a royal decree, so the only way to counteract it was to issue a new law permitting the Jews to defend themselves. Without this, their enemies would still have had royal sanction to attack with impunity.[6]
Rashbam[7] suggests that Mordekhai’s approach was undertaken at the king’s request: to avoid the appearance of undermining the king, Mordekhai framed the second decree as a clarification rather than a reversal.
Maharal[8] takes a third tack, arguing that Mordekhai’s decree was not only a practical necessity but also a fulfillment of the mitzvah to battle Amalek. He maintains that the enemies who sought to destroy the Jews—even after Haman’s death—were Amalekites (though to me, this does not seem to be the simple reading of the text.) According to this view, even if the Jews could have survived without fighting, the battle was divinely mandated, and Mordekhai’s decree ensured they would not forgo the opportunity to fulfill this religious obligation.
This brings us to the second question: What did the king mean? The issue of whether Persian law was violable or inviolable directly impacts our understanding of Ahashverosh’s recommendation. Ibn Ezra[9] and R. Yosef Kara[10] argue that since Haman’s initial decree could not be legally rescinded, the king was implying that a second decree was necessary to counterbalance the first. This new decree would allow the Jews to attack their enemies, just as their enemies were permitted to attack them. Without it, the Jews would have remained vulnerable, unable to defend themselves without violating Persian law. According to this view, Mordekhai’s decree was conservative—it did not necessarily sanction proactive aggression but may have merely permitted self-defense.[11]
Rav Saadiah Gaon[12] and Ri of Trani,[13] however, interpret the verse differently. In their view, the initial decree was nullified as soon as Haman was deposed and Mordekhai elevated. Here, the king’s statement suggests that the second decree would gain greater authority by carrying explicit royal endorsement. The issue was not the irrevocability of Persian law but the need to embolden the Jews and deter their enemies. According to this reading, Mordekhai’s decree did more than respond to an existing threat—it actively sanctioned preemptive action, signaling that the king’s favor had shifted.[14]
Based on the evidence presented so far, it remains difficult to determine whether the king was allowing the Jews to override Haman’s decree or merely issuing a parallel decree, even when considering historical evidence from Persian protocols. However, one textual point appears uncontroversial: Mordekhai and Esther’s decree did not merely counteract Haman’s—it inverted it entirely. A close reading of the Megillah reveals striking parallels between the two. Haman’s decree empowered the Jews’ enemies to “destroy, kill, and annihilate” them, while Mordekhai’s decree granted the Jews the right to “gather and stand for their lives.” Haman’s decree permitted the plundering of Jewish property, whereas Mordekhai’s decree allowed the Jews to loot their enemies. Haman’s decree set a date for Jewish destruction, giving their enemies time to prepare, while Mordekhai’s decree ensured that the Jews had ample time to arm themselves and rally support.[15]
This reversal marks a fundamental shift in power. Mordekhai and Esther’s decree was venahafokh hu (“it was reversed,” 9:2), transforming the Jews from threatened victims into a dominant force. Haman had empowered their enemies; now, the Jews were granted the authority to eliminate them. Rather than simply negating Haman’s decree, Mordekhai’s edict actively reshaped the political landscape.
Indeed, this theme permeates the final chapters of the Megillah. The emphasis on Haman’s house being granted to Mordekhai can be understood as part of the broader theme of reversal, similar to Haman being hanged on the very gallows he had prepared for Mordekhai. This motif is also reflected in the language surrounding the promulgation of the decree: the repeated mention of the date 13 Adar (Esther 3:13, 8:12), the phrase “and the law was given in the capital Shushan” (Esther 3:15, 8:14), the contrast between the Jews’ newfound joy and their previous sorrow (Esther 4:3, 8:16), and the conversion of non-Jews (Esther 8:17).
These parallels suggest that the reversal of Haman’s decree was not a mere legal authorization but an inversion. Rather than simply nullifying Haman’s decree, Mordekhai’s edict placed the Jews in control, turning their enemies into the ones on the defensive. The Jewish response was thus not only about survival but also about reshaping the empire’s power dynamics, signaling that the Jewish people would no longer be passive targets of persecution.
Returning to the dispute among the commentators, this point seems to challenge Ibn Ezra and Rashbam—or at least suggests that even if they are correct that the second edict was necessary as a Persian legal technicality, the way it is framed in the Megillah implies that the Jews were not merely permitted to defend themselves but had gained dominance over their enemies. This suggests—though does not conclusively prove—that the decree allowed for more than just self-defense; it sanctioned some form of vengeance that underscored the Jews’ newfound authority over their adversaries.
Self-Defense and Retribution
While the circumstances surrounding the issuance of the decree inform the question of self-defense versus retribution, the text of the decree itself speaks to it even more directly. Having received royal authorization, Mordekhai and Esther issue a decree granting the Jews permission “to assemble and defend their lives” (Esther 8:11). As noted, this language emphasizes self-defense rather than unprovoked aggression. At the same time, the verse continues by stating that they may “take vengeance on their enemies” by killing “men, women, and children” and seizing their enemies’ spoils (Esther 8:11, 8:13)—appearing to sanction retribution and even the killing of unarmed civilians alongside combatants.[16]
The question of whether the Jewish response was purely defensive or involved a more aggressive stance is explicitly taken up by numerous commentators and scholars, a number of whom cast it as a form of proactive self-defense.[17]
For example, Joseph ibn Kaspi[18] offers a textual justification for interpreting nekama as self-defense rather than revenge. He argues that the phrase “to avenge” (Esther 8:13) should be read in the sense of counterattack rather than retribution. He supports this by citing Yehoshua 8:20, where those fleeing a battle turn back on their pursuers, suggesting that nekama can refer to defensive action rather than unprovoked aggression. This reading reinforces the idea that Mordekhai’s decree was fundamentally about self-preservation rather than punitive retaliation.
Maharal[19] offers another way to frame the Jews’ actions as self-defense, arguing that their response was not about vengeance but about ensuring survival. Even after Haman’s downfall, their enemies remained a threat, and the Jews, scattered and vulnerable, had to act decisively to prevent future attacks. By striking first, they were not seeking retribution but deterring those who still sought their destruction. This interpretation presents their actions as a necessary measure to secure their safety and assert their standing within the empire.
Much more recently, Fredric W. Bush argues that the term nekama in the edict must be understood within the broader context of self-defense emphasized in the Megillah. According to Bush, the Jews were permitted to carry out vengeance specifically against those who attacked them.[20]
Yet this interpretation is difficult to sustain. The term nekama appears 90 times in Tanakh, and in every instance where its meaning is clear—the majority of cases—it refers to some form of vengeance. There is little evidence to suggest that the term carries a different meaning here. Furthermore, as mentioned, the retributive nature of Mordekhai’s decree is reinforced by its clear parallels to Haman’s original edict noted previously (Esther 3:13, 8:11).
What, then, are we to make of the apparent tension between the goals of self-defense and retribution? In truth, the tension is not necessarily problematic. It is entirely plausible that the Jews were empowered to defend themselves through proactive self-defense and retribution, particularly as a form of poetic justice that inverted the relationship between them and their enemies. On the most straightforward reading, both motivations are presented as legitimate justifications for the decree.[21]
At this stage, then, the most straightforward reading suggests that the decree does not merely authorize self-defense but explicitly mandates some degree of retributive action. The use of nekama indicates that the decree is not framed purely as a defensive measure but as a response to past aggression, mirroring Haman’s original edict in both scope and tone.
The Surprising Turn
Here, however, the text takes a surprising turn. The Megillah records that “in the capital Shushan the Jews slew and destroyed five hundred men” (Esther 9:6) and later, at Esther’s request, that “they slew three hundred men in Shushan” (Esther 9:15). Outside the capital, they kill “seventy-five thousand of those who hated them” (Esther 9:16). Yet, despite the decree’s explicit mention of “men, women, and children” (Esther 8:11), the Megillah never records that women or children were harmed. Certainly, it is plausible that women and children are included in the term “ish,” which recurs in this section. But this seems odd given that women and children were mentioned explicitly in the formulation of the original decree. It is also possible to argue that the discrepancy arises because, as we previously suggested, the decree is specifically formulated to mirror and reverse the language of Haman’s decree. Still, the term ish or isha in military contexts throughout the Bible typically refers to non-combatants. In the rare instance where it applies to an entirely civilian group (e.g., the burning of Shekhem’s tower in Shoftim 9:49), ish is used exclusively for men, while isha is separately specified for women. This strengthens the reading that in our case, ish refers specifically to male combatants. At the very least, it is striking that the verse leaves this possibility open.
Moreover, the text repeatedly emphasizes that “they did not lay hands on the spoil” (Esther 9:10, 9:15, 9:16), even though the decree had explicitly permitted them to “plunder their property” (Esther 8:11). Here too, the stark contrast between what was authorized and what was carried out seems to suggest that whereas the Jews were granted broad authority, they exercised significant restraint. Finally—and perhaps most significant for our purposes—the text emphasizes their act of self-defense (Esther 9:16) without invoking the terminology of nekama.
Each of these discrepancies could, in theory, be resolved on its own. Regarding the women and children, one might simply suggest that they too were killed, but the text did not find it necessary to mention this detail explicitly. In terms of the use of the language of self-defense rather than retribution, the Megillah itself appears to treat the two concepts as nearly interchangeable earlier on, suggesting that it does not perceive a significant tension between them.
And as for the Jews’ refusal to take spoils, the commentators offer a number of solutions. Rashi,[22] Rabbi Yosef Kara,[23] and Maharal[24] argue that this was a moral decision intended to demonstrate that the Jews were not motivated by material gain. By refraining from plundering, they made it clear that their actions were purely for self-defense, not greed. Immanuel of Rome[25] adds a political dimension, arguing that the Jews’ refusal to take spoils demonstrated wisdom and moral clarity, proving their actions were driven by justice rather than personal gain and ensuring the wealth went to the royal treasury, thereby securing the king’s favor. These interpretations are relatively “technical,” as they provide explanations that downplay the broader significance of the Jews’ refusal to take loot in the context of retribution versus self-defense.[26]
Yet, taken together, these three factors—the omission of women and children, the refusal to take loot, and the language of self-defense rather than vengeance—suggest a significant shift: while the decree granted the Jews license for greater aggression, they chose to exercise restraint. In effect, although they were given permission to exact retribution, they ultimately limited themselves to self-defense.
This, in turn, raises a further question: Why did the Jews act more moderately than the initial decree allowed? It is hard to say. Perhaps Mordekhai, having personally clashed with Haman and his supporters, was particularly enraged, whereas the broader Jewish community felt less animosity. Another possibility is that Mordekhai crafted a sweeping decree to provide maximum flexibility, allowing local Jewish communities to respond as needed—yet ultimately, the most extreme measures proved unnecessary. It may be that by the time Adar arrived, the security situation had improved, reducing the need for aggression. Most intriguingly, maybe Mordekhai never intended to exact retribution at all; instead, his decree may have been a strategic bluff—an effective deterrent, as Adele Berlin suggests[27]—meant to instill fear in the enemy.
While we cannot determine the exact motivation or nature of this shift, one thing seems clear: the Jewish response was more restrained in practice than the decree had stipulated. This suggests that they implemented their mandate narrowly, targeting only those who actively sought their destruction. While this does not necessarily prove that retribution—however defined—is immoral, it does suggest that the Megillah ends with restraint.
Some Tentative Conclusions
The indeterminacy of the text prevents us from drawing sweeping conclusions about vengeance, collective punishment, or the treatment of enemy populations. As noted, even if the text were clear-cut on these issues, its applicability to modern-day Israel would still warrant separate consideration.
However, a few key conclusions do emerge. First, the Megillah appears to affirm that proactive self-defense—even on a large scale—is certainly permissible. Second, the initial decree is most naturally understood as endorsing a form of retribution. Third, at the same time, the Jews’ restraint in carrying out the decree suggests that even when retribution is permissible, it may be best to impose limits where possible.
The Megillah does not provide a definitive answer to the broader moral question of vengeance, nor can I claim that my reading is the only plausible one. Still, I hope to have shown that a careful reading offers an important data point with key insights that can help shape a Jewish ethic of war. Perhaps most importantly, I hope this serves as a model for how rigorous, methodical analysis can yield nuanced yet crucial insights—allowing us to approach even the most complex and emotionally charged issues with intellectual honesty, moral seriousness, and deeper understanding.
[1] Jonathan Haidt, The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion (New York: Pantheon Books, 2012).
[2] Moshe Halbertal, Mahapekhot Parshaniyot Be-Hithavutan: Arakhim Ke-Shikulim Parshaniyim Be-Midreshei Halakhah (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1997).
[3] The relationship between text study and moral intuition is a central issue in hermeneutics, philosophy of interpretation, and moral reasoning. Scholars have long debated how preconceptions shape textual meaning. See, for instance, Hans-Georg Gadamer’s Truth and Method and Stanley Fish’s Is There a Text in This Class? While these questions warrant deeper exploration, my aim here is not to resolve them but simply to suggest that temporarily bracketing prior assumptions can foster a more open engagement with the text.
[4] 8:8, s.v. veyesh lish’ol.
[6] This raises a deeper question: why did the Jews need permission to defend themselves at all? Should they have resigned themselves to destruction? While self-defense is a basic human right, the Persian legal system may have deemed any unauthorized use of force an act of rebellion. Without formal royal sanction, the Jews might have been punished if they fought back or even if they armed themselves. Mordekhai’s decree, then, did more than grant self-defense—it legitimized Jewish resistance, transforming them from potential outlaws into agents of royal policy.
[7] 8:7 s.v. ein lehashiv. See too Immanuel of Rome, 8:8 s.v. ve’attem.
[8] Or Hadash 8:11 s.v. vekhol. For another interesting reading suggesting that Mordekhai’s decree was not merely reactive but a strategic move to strengthen Jewish resilience and deter future aggression, see R. Meir Arama, Meir Esther 8:11 s.v. hamelekh.
[11] In her JPS Commentary to Esther (p. 77), Adele Berlin takes this argument further, suggesting that Mordekhai’s decree functioned primarily as a deterrent. Given that the Jews were unlikely to passively accept their fate, the edict was less about granting permission to fight and more about strategically leveraging royal authority to prevent violence. By signaling that any attack would be met with force, the decree may have minimized the actual need for conflict by discouraging potential aggressors.
[13] Cited by Prof. David Frankel, https://www.thetorah.com/article/masking-revenge-as-self-defense-domesticating-the-book-of-esther
[14] One might see this legal predicament as an example of the Megillah’s satirical tone, mocking the absurdity of a system where unjust laws cannot be revoked. However, even if the Megillah contains satire, the Jewish people’s survival is treated with the utmost seriousness. The decree must be understood as a substantive political act, not part of the satire.
[15] Frankel, ibid., makes essentially the same point, though his reading of the narrative ultimately differs considerably from mine.
[16] Robert Gordis (“Studies in the Esther Narrative,” JBL 95 (1976), 49—53) attempts to mitigate the decree’s severity by arguing that the phrase “men, women, and children” does not describe those the Jews were permitted to attack but rather modifies the prior phrase, “who sought to destroy them.” According to this reading, the Jews were authorized to kill only those who sought to destroy them and their families. If correct, this interpretation would significantly lessen the moral difficulty of the passage.
However, this reading seems implausible for several reasons. First, in biblical Hebrew, when a list follows a clause describing an action, the most natural reading is that the list describes the object of the action, not an expansion of the subject. Here, “children and women” appears as part of the list of those the Jews were permitted to attack rather than as a clarification of the previous clause. Second, to the best of my knowledge, nowhere else in Tanakh does a similar phrase function in this way. If the intent was to permit the Jews to kill only those attacking them along with their own families, we would expect clearer wording to avoid ambiguity. Finally, the decree closely mirrors the language of Haman’s original edict, seemingly granting the Jews the same broad authority given to their enemies. There is no indication that Mordekhai’s decree imposes a restriction significantly narrowing its scope. Given these difficulties, this alternative reading is unlikely and does not meaningfully resolve the moral tension in the text.
[17] It is exceedingly difficult to claim that the Jews were actually under attack when they defeated their enemies on the 13th and 14th of Adar.
[18] Cited by Meylekh (PV) Viswanath, https://www.thetorah.com/article/the-megillat-esther-massacre
[19] Or Hadash 8:11 s.v. lehikkahel, veyesh.
[20] Frederic W. Bush, Ruth–Esther, vol. 9 of Word Biblical Commentary (Dallas: Word Books, 1996), 453.
[21] Meylekh Vizwanath (cited in footnote 17) argues that the sheer scale of the killings described in the Megillah suggests that the Jews likely killed women and children as well, comparing the 75,000 slain enemies to Roman census data. Estimates indicate that the total number of Roman citizens in the third century BCE ranged from 242,000 to 337,000. Even if these numbers were doubled, he reasons, the figure in the Megillah remains staggering, implying that the total likely included more than just combatants. He therefore concludes that while the text does not explicitly state that women and children were among the dead, the decree permitted their killing (Esther 8:11), leaving open the possibility that they were part of the final toll. In his view, this interpretation aligns with broader conventions of ancient warfare, in which total defeat often entailed the destruction of an entire population.Viswanath’s argument, however, is unpersuasive, as it assumes the number 75,000 is a precise historical figure without clear justification. Ancient texts, including biblical and Near Eastern sources, often use large, rounded numbers symbolically rather than as exact tallies. The figure may be intended to convey total victory rather than serve as a literal casualty count. Just as the claim of 127 kingdoms or the Persian Empire’s expanse from India to Ethiopia is likely not meant to be taken literally, we should not draw firm conclusions from the reported number of slain enemies.
[26] Even Immanuel of Rome, who contends that the Jews were asserting their moral high ground, does so by emphasizing their refusal to seek personal gain. However, this does not necessarily bear on whether their actions were motivated by self-defense or retribution.
[27] See footnote 11.
Site Operations and Technology by The Berman Consulting Group.