Pharaoh’s Shadow

The Story We Tell—And Live

Each year on Passover, Jews around the world sit down to recount the Exodus—the foundational story of liberation from slavery. It is a tale of transformation: from oppression to freedom, from silence to voice, from object to subject. And yet, the Haggadah does not present this journey as a completed historical episode. Instead, it insists on eternal relevance. “In every generation,” it declares, “a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.” The story is not over. It is being lived again.

This year, that mandate feels painfully real.

In the shadow of October 7, as families prepare the Seder plate and rehearse the story of freedom, dozens of families still await the return of their loved ones held hostage in Gaza. The geography may have changed, but the essential condition remains: the captivity of the innocent, the wielding of power through fear, and the systematic stripping of human autonomy.

Egypt, Gaza, and the Narrow Place

It is no accident that the Haggadah calls Egypt Mitzrayim—the narrow place. It is a symbol not just of political enslavement, but of existential constriction. Pharaoh is not merely a figure of tyranny; he is the archetype of domination itself. He denies the Israelites their names, their agency, their future. Their cries go unheard. Their labor is exploited. Their children are murdered. He is a regime built on control for its own sake.

Today, too, we witness systems that operate on these same foundations as civilians are trapped in the grip of ideologies that exploit life and death as tools of strategy. Hostages become bargaining chips, autonomy is erased, and the human being is reduced to a political symbol. In these places, control is not a means; it is the goal.

Between Pharaoh and the Present: Ancient Archetype, Modern Face

Pharaoh may belong to the world of ancient myth, but his model persists. We continue to encounter leaders and regimes that convert fear into power and treat human lives as expendable. Some act out of anxiety over perceived threats; others, from radical ideologies that deny the value of the individual. One builds hierarchies in the open; another hides in shadows, decentralized and evasive. But both rely on the same essential mechanism: the denial of autonomy—of movement, of speech, of identity. In this, they become mirrors of each other across time, proving once and again that tyranny wears many faces, but its essence rarely changes.

The Meaning of Autonomy

The philosopher Isaiah Berlin distinguished between negative liberty—freedom from coercion—and positive liberty—the capacity to act, to choose, to live meaningfully. Judaism, and particularly the Passover narrative, insists on both. It is not enough to be released from slavery; one must also enter into covenant, community, and moral responsibility. The Exodus does not end at the sea. It continues through the wilderness, toward a vision of a just society rooted in human dignity.

But how do we speak of freedom while others remain in darkness? What does it mean to celebrate autonomy when so many are denied even the basic agency of being seen and heard?

This tension is not new. The Israelites sang songs of freedom even as they looked over their shoulders at the armies behind them. Their joy was tempered by memory, by uncertainty, by the knowledge that freedom, once gained, must be constantly defended—externally and internally.

Telling the Story, Holding the Tension

Today, we sit between Pharaoh and a modern reality shaped by conflict, captivity, and ideological control. We tell the story not to escape the present, but to illuminate it. Autonomy is not only a political condition—it is a moral claim, a theological truth, a human necessity. And its denial, whether by ancient tyrants or modern actors, demands a response.

Passover is a festival of questions. Among them, this year, must be: What kind of freedom are we seeking? Is it safety? Sovereignty? Self-determination? What responsibilities does it carry with it? And how do we honor the story of the Exodus while acknowledging the pain of those still trapped in narrow places?

The answers may not come easily. But the telling matters. The remembering matters. Because to tell the story of captivity and liberation is to affirm that dignity can be restored, that the arc of history can bend, and that even the longest night eventually gives way to dawn.

“The Haggadah concludes with the phrase "Next year in a rebuilt Jerusalem," reminds us Prof. Michael Avioz, “the aspiration of every individual and of the Jewish people as a whole has always been to return home. The song "Habayta" (Coming Home) by Yardena Arazi has become an anthem for families longing for the return of their loved ones.

Returning home symbolizes a deep yearning for peace, stability, and harmony”.