A number of years ago, when I was studying in yeshiva, my wife and I encountered a new face at a Shabbat kiddush, a frum young woman new to the community where we then lived. After a few weeks, we invited her to a Shabbat meal at our home to get to know her better.

As the meal progressed, she began to share some of her experiences as a gioret, a convert to Judaism. She understood how important it was for her not only to be knowledgeable about Torah and to observe the mitzvot precisely, but to integrate herself socially into the Jewish people, as well. In keeping with that idea, she had intentionally sought out a job at a business owned by observant Jews. Much to her surprise, however, she found herself harshly mistreated both personally and professionally, and she finally left. She also told us how difficult it had been for her to find frum friends in general, and to meet marriageable men for shidduchim in particular.

Summing it up, she said that in all honesty, it had been much easier for her
to find respect and acceptance as an observant Jew at work, among her non-Jewish coworkers, than among her fellow Jews. She said that she did not regret her conversion; her love of HaShem and His Torah was as strong as ever. However, she just wished someone had warned her - before her conversion - of the difficulties she might face afterwards as a convert.

As she detailed all of this for us, her emotions were so strong that she sobbed at several points, only to regain her composure and continue the conversation. We all recited birkat hamazon, and she left. The unexpectedly intense Shabbat table conversation left a powerful impression on me.

Even though I knew that some converts encounter few or no difficulties integrating into the Jewish people, I also knew our new friend was not alone in her experience. In a subsequent conversation, a rabbi active in the area of conversion told me that he always informs prospective converts about the
difficulties they may face after conversion, precisely to reduce the bruised feelings that may arise for that person later.

In this week's parasha we read, �ve'ger lo tilchatz, ve'atem ye'datem et nefesh ha'ger ki gerim heyitem be'eretz Mitzrayim� - Do not oppress a ger; for you know the feelings of a ger, for you were gerim in the land of Egypt (23:9). The simple translation of ger in this context is 'stranger' or, perhaps, 'resident alien.' Mistreatment of strangers is a basic element of human nature throughout the entire world. (Anyone, for example, who has visited another shul and gotten an earful for sitting in "my seat" can easily attest to that!) Here, the Torah acknowledges that aspect of human nature but forbids us to succumb to it by oppressing others who are strangers. In Parashat Kedoshim and elsewhere the Torah goes even further, instructing us to proactively overcome basic human nature with the mitzvah of ahavat ha'ger, to love the stranger and alien.

Chazal, however, understood ger to refer specifically to converts to Judaism. Indeed, the Torah directs our people always to be willing to embrace qualified converts into our midst. Based upon our pasuk and others, the gemara (Baba Metzia 59b) rules that when we mistreat a convert, we violate up to 36 or 46 separate injunctions of the Torah.

By linking these mitzvot to our nation's formative experience in Egypt, the Torah is emphasizing that a central purpose of that suffering and enslavement was to make us sensitive to others who are different from us, as a nation and as individuals, particularly in the case of converts.

Why, then, the gap between the clarity and centrality of this repeated Divine command and the reality experienced by our Shabbat guest and others like her?

Tosafot (Kiddushin 70b) provide a critical insight into this question.
Converts, they write, pose a difficulty for the Jewish people because HaKadosh Baruch Hu has commanded us not to oppress or hurt them so many times and yet, "ee-efshar she'lo yitza'arum" - it is impossible for Jews not to cause them anguish anyway.

Why is it impossible? Do Tosafot imagine that here, somehow, we have no free will? Surely not! This argument is neither theological nor halachic; it is a sociological truth. Why, then, is it true?

There are, no doubt, many reasons.

On the one hand, perhaps we ought to note that converts are individuals in transition, and undergoing continuing personal transformation. As a result, some are no doubt unusually sensitive to even mild mistreatment, particularly by Jews, people whose human acceptance and embrace they desire.
At the same time, it is probably true that some Jews succumb to their human nature and may express the xenophobic attitudes that come naturally to them.
Others may be unusually insensitive individuals, or may simply be unaware of the effect of their words or actions. Yet others may not think of the tremendous courage and conviction this person has shown by converting and then fail to show this person the respect and awe he or she deserves.

Instead, they may see the convert as a reminder of all the non-Jews who have oppressed our people during our long history (or even them personally), projecting their anger about those non-Jews, historical or contemporary, on the innocent Jew standing before them. No doubt there are other reasons, as well.
Regardless of how one understands the matter, the Torah's unambiguous, repeated command remains before us, both as individuals and as a community.
May we rise to the challenge of fulfilling it.