According to the Torah, a marriage comes to an end through a gett kritut, a “document of separation,” which the husband gives to the wife and severs the bond created by kiddushin.1 After this is done, the two appear to have no formal halakhic relationship. But what, if anything, should remain between them? Does the Torah offer guidance about how they should treat one another? And what about cases where the marriage was unhappy and bitterness remains?
As a general rule, halacha discourages intimate ties between a husband and wife after divorce due to the fear that it might lead to sexual relations outside of marriage.2 However, that doesn’t mean they should remain indifferent to each other. Divorce may open the door to a fresh start, but the Torah and rabbinic tradition still suggest that a bond of responsibility endures—even when there are no children, and even when the marriage was painful. This is fleshed out in one of the most striking rabbinic stories about divorce that can serve as a model for how we should think about the relationship between a husband and wife after divorce.3 The midrash begins with a famous verse from Isaiah, read as part of the Yom Kippur haftara. There, the prophet condemns empty fasts marked by outward piety alongside continued injustice. Instead, Isaiah declares, what God truly desires is “to let the oppressed go free, to break off every yoke,”4 and to practice simple acts of compassion: feeding the hungry, sheltering the poor, clothing the naked, and “not disregarding your own flesh.”5
The rabbis interpret this last injunction not as a legal commandment but as a moral charge—an exhortation to compassion that extends even to one’s ex-spouse. This even gets mentioned by the Rema, who writes: “It is permitted for a man to provide sustenance for his divorcee, and it is an even greater mitzvah than [providing for] other poor people.”6 From this perspective, divorce may dissolve the marriage covenant, but it does not erase the bond entirely. Something remains—not legal or romantic, but ethical. In modern terms, we often imagine divorce as a clean break, the chance to cut ties and move on. The midrash, however, resists that fantasy and insists that a residue of kinship is unavoidable, one that must be met not with denial but with responsibility. It tells the story of Rabbi Yossi Ha-Gelili and his wife, who had a difficult marriage and later became divorced.
Rabbi Yossi Ha-Gelili had an evil wife and she would demean him before his disciples. His disciples said to him: ‘Our teacher, leave this woman, as she does not accord you the appropriate honor.’ He said to them: ‘Her marriage contract is too much for me, and I do not have enough to give her.’
The marriage in this story does not appear to have been a happy one. Rabbi Yossi’s wife demeaned him publicly before his students. They urged him to leave her, but he could not afford to pay the ketubah, despite his desire to do so. In many ways, Rabbi Yossi’s situation mirrors that of many modern-day agunot, who long to leave a marriage with a spouse who mistreats them but are unable to do so.
The turning point comes when Rabbi Yossi invites his colleague, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, to his home after a day of study in the beit midrash. Upon entering, Rabbi Elazar notices a pot on the stove and asks what it contains. His wife replies that it is only vegetables, but when Rabbi Yossi uncovers it, he finds chicken inside. Realizing the deception, Rabbi Elazar concludes that the marriage is troubled and urges Rabbi Yossi to divorce her. When Rabbi Yossi replies that he cannot afford the ketubah, Rabbi Elazar offers to cover the cost.
After the divorce, Rabbi Yossi is said to have married a better woman, while his ex-wife married the town watchman. Eventually, he goes blind and is unable to provide for her, forcing her to lead him through the streets in humiliation, begging for tzedakah. Her husband noticed that there was one neighborhood she refused to enter and asked her, “Why do you not lead me to the neighborhood of Rabbi Yossi HaGelili, as I hear that he performs mitzvot?” She answered, “‘I am his divorcee and I cannot bring myself to see his face.’”
Nevertheless, on one occasion, they found themselves in Rabbi Yossi’s neighborhood. For reasons the midrash does not specify, her husband began to strike her, “and their disgraced voices spread throughout the city.” When Rabbi Yossi saw this, “He took them and situated them in a house that belonged to him, and he supported them all the days of their lives, due to ‘do not disregard your own flesh.’”
Several important details emerge from this story about how a couple should relate to each other after divorce. First, it should be clear that the rabbis of the midrash were under no illusions about the difficulties of marriage or the pain of separation, yet they still insisted that an ethical relationship persists even afterward. While there is no halakhic requirement for former spouses to support each other financially, the rabbis regard such support as desirable and praiseworthy. Rabbi Yossi is presented as an ethical model, showing a compassion that surpasses what most of us would likely feel possible.
What is particularly striking is that Rabbi Yossi acted compassionately toward his ex-wife despite how she had treated him during the marriage. The midrash highlights how she had humiliated him by mocking him before his students and deceiving him, and in doing so, it shows how humiliation corrodes relationships. Yet when Rabbi Yossi encounters her suffering, he acts to restore her dignity. It would have been very easy for him to ignore her plight or even take satisfaction in it; he could have seen her downfall as deserved. Instead, he refuses to let vengeance have the final word. He does not reconcile with her or welcome her back into his home, but he does provide her with support. The compassion he shows is not to be confused with intimacy, which can be problematic after divorce, but rather a minimal recognition of dignity. If there is an ethical remainder of marriage, it must be the refusal to dehumanize the other.
Although Rabbi Yossi’s actions may seem fit only for the truly righteous, the rabbis clearly intend for all to learn from his example. This is underscored by the teaching of Bar Kappara, placed just before the story: “There is no one who does not come to this condition [of being in great financial need]; if not him, his son, if not his son, his grandson.” Divorce inevitably exposes both partners to financial, social, and emotional vulnerability. In recognizing the suffering of a former spouse, we acknowledge our own fragility and admit that their misfortune could just as easily have been ours. Such an awareness nurtures humility and helps resist the temptation to see the other as a stranger or enemy.
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of the rabbinic story is its insistence that compassion must be extended even to someone who acted cruelly. Modern sensibilities, by contrast, emphasize the importance of boundaries, especially in cases of abuse. Contemporary guidance is clear: survivors of abusive marriages do not owe their abuser continued care or contact. Safety and healing come first, supported by legal protections, parallel parenting arrangements, and limited communication. Compassion, if it appears at all, must never come at the cost of re-entering harm.
Yet a closer look at the story suggests that it already accounts for this. Rabbi Yossi does not seek out his ex-wife, nor does he maintain ongoing ties. In this case, Rabbi Yossi’s compassion is triggered only when he witnesses her public humiliation. Here, ethical responsibility is situational rather than constant. Confronted with her suffering, he refuses to gloat or ignore it and instead chooses to act with decency. For today, this might be reinterpreted as follows: one does not owe continuous care to a former spouse—certainly not to an abusive one—but when faced directly with their suffering, one still confronts the human choice of how to respond.
Although the rabbinic story does not mention children, they can be read implicitly into the background of the phrase “flesh of your flesh.” Divorce inevitably shapes children’s lives, and the way parents treat one another—even in estrangement—can profoundly affect their children’s sense of dignity and security. To weaponize children against a former spouse is to disregard one’s own flesh in the most literal sense.
In the end, the rabbis do not imagine divorce as a clean slate where the past can simply be erased. They recognize that even after separation, a trace of responsibility endures. This may mean nothing more than refusing to gloat when a former spouse stumbles or even extending help in a moment of disgrace, even if we are uncertain that they would do so for us. For us today, especially where there has been harm or we feel deeply wronged by a former spouse, we must be careful about re-entering into dangerous dynamics. But we should strive not to let vengeance have the last word, and remember that even in brokenness, the other remains human, vulnerable, and bound to us in some small way by a shared history.
By Rabbi Zachary Truboff, Director, IBD Institute for Agunah Research and Education