Ethics and Hebrew Tattoos

In the work with Hebrew tattoos, questions about language, story, the body and ethics come up very quickly. The people I meet come at very different stages and from different places in their process. Some arrive with a specific Hebrew word or verse they already love, while others come only with a story, a memory, a difficult transition, or a feeling they want to mark somehow without yet knowing which phrase could hold it for them. Even before we find the text, the ethical questions are already present. We are asking what this mark will say, what relationship this person has to the language, and which histories the choice touches.

When I think of morality, I do not understand it as a set of external rules that police people, and I am not interested in purity for its own sake. For me morality has to do with consequences, with what an act does in the world and in the lives of conscious beings. A moral act is one that supports life, connection and psychological as well as cultural growth and wellbeing. This idea resonates with the work of contemporary philosophers such as Peter Singer, who describe morality in terms of the wellbeing of sentient beings rather than obedience to a fixed code. In my daily work this is very concrete. I constantly ask whether a choice increases understanding, coherence and respect, or whether it produces confusion, erasure or harm.

This becomes particularly relevant around questions of cultural appropriation. Hebrew cannot be treated simply as an aesthetic script. It is a living language, but it also carries religious, historical and cultural associations that are very present for many Jewish people. So when someone who may or may not be part of that history asks to place a Hebrew word on their body, I cannot answer the question simply with yes or no. I have to ask what it means to take this word out of its contexts, what relationship this person has to it, and how it will live on this body.

I think the key word here is coherence. We look for coherence between the person, the story they bring and the word they want to inscribe, and I listen for a sense of relationship. Do they understand where this text comes from and what it carries in Jewish memory? Do they have a genuine connection to it? And that connection does not have to be the obvious religious one. Or does the Hebrew function mainly as an ornament? When there is coherence, when the person understands the word and has a real relationship to it, I experience the act as morally grounded, even if it might still be controversial for some observers.

Respect is central in this process, because you cannot work with Hebrew responsibly without it. These words are emotionally and culturally charged for many people, and they carry generations of stories of grief and hope. When I help someone choose a text, I am very aware that the word has a history beyond this particular person. Other people speak it, read it, pray with it and have their own relationship to it. That is why I ask questions that might sometimes feel demanding. The questioning is part of the responsibility. I want to understand whether there is a real relationship to the word and whether the person understands what they are choosing to carry.

At the same time, I do not believe it is possible or even desirable to avoid all friction. If the main goal were never to offend or disturb anyone, meaningful art and meaningful relationships would become very difficult. The philosopher Byung-Chul Han describes our time as a kind of palliative society, one that constantly tries to smooth away pain, conflict and negativity so that everything feels easy and agreeable. I recognise something of this in my work and in the culture around me. But I think something is lost when avoiding discomfort becomes the main goal. Some encounters are uncomfortable precisely because something important is being confronted.

So for me, the presence of friction is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong. What matters is how we respond to it. If a client brings a difficult or charged word, my first impulse is to slow down and invite them to explain their connection to this word in detail. Sometimes this process reveals that the choice is shallow and needs to change. Sometimes it reveals a deep and thoughtful connection, and the person is aware of the potential pain or misunderstanding that might arise. In that case, the fact that the word may create discomfort becomes something the person has considered and has consciously chosen to take responsibility for.

I think about something similar when I look at how language changes historically. As a linguist, I find it interesting that words that were once completely ordinary can later become unacceptable or painful to hear. That distance tells us something. It shows us that our moral understanding has changed. For me there is value in being able to look at that change rather than simply removing the evidence of it. Our discomfort with the language of the past can itself become a source of knowledge. It allows us to see where we once were and how our ethical understanding has developed.

Since language is our medium, the relationship between words, reality and thought plays a central role in all of this. Language is not simply a neutral vehicle for thoughts. It also shapes what we are capable of experiencing and articulating. Wittgenstein wrote that the limits of my language mean the limits of my world. I feel that very strongly. When we spend time finding the precise language for a tattoo, sometimes the process itself helps a person understand more clearly what they are actually trying to say. Finding the word is part of understanding the experience.

For me ethics in this work comes down to attention and responsibility. A Hebrew word does not begin with the person who chooses to tattoo it. It already has a history, associations and meanings for other people. At the same time, the person who chooses it is bringing their own story and meaning to it. My role is to help them understand what they are choosing, where it comes from, and to think seriously about their relationship to it. That is where, for me, the ethical part of this work lies.

References

Byung-Chul Han. The Palliative Society: Pain Today. Polity Press, 2021.

Peter Singer. Practical Ethics. 3rd ed., Cambridge University Press, 2011.