Author: Shlomo Bar-Ayal

The final act of Moses in Egypt was to retrieve Joseph’s bones. This is because we do not leave anyone behind and we do not forget anyone. We take care of all in our nation.

Quick D’var Torah

You may have noticed that today we did not say the two chapters of Tehillim. We stopped saying them because the body of the last hostage was returned. And that fact is deeply significant—especially in light of this week’s parashah.

In Parashat Beshalach, while the Jewish people are running, gathering possessions, and finally leaving Egypt in a moment of chaos and relief, the Torah pauses to tell us something striking: Moshe takes the bones of Yosef. This is mentioned very early in the parashah. That is not accidental.

Moshe’s final act in Egypt was not about gold, silver, or escape. It was about making sure Yosef would not be forgotten.

And that brings us to the present moment.

People ask: Why was the return of the body such a deal-breaker for Israel? Why risk everything for someone who is no longer alive?
And the answer is simple—and fundamental: because we don’t abandon our dead.

In Judaism, this is called chesed shel emet—a true kindness. Most kindnesses come with some form of reciprocity. You help someone; someday they help you back. But when you take care of the dead, there is no payback. That person will never return the favor. That is why it is considered the purest mitzvah.

And here’s the deeper point:
If you don’t take care of the dead, you will eventually stop taking care of the living.

That’s why Moshe makes this his priority. That’s why Israel insisted on the return of the last body. It’s a guarantee to the Jewish people: You will never be abandoned—alive or dead.

There’s a famous story of Maharam of Rothenburg, who was imprisoned and held for ransom. He instructed the Jewish community not to redeem him, fearing it would encourage future kidnappings. He eventually died in prison. Years later, members of the community paid a ransom—not to free him, but to ensure he received a Jewish burial. Even in death, he would not be left behind.

Israel lives by this principle to this day. That’s why there is no Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Israel. No one who falls defending the state is ever “unknown.” Israel goes to extraordinary lengths to identify every fallen soldier.

And that is why the Torah tells us—at the very moment of redemption—that Moshe took Yosef’s bones.

Because Jewish freedom isn’t just about leaving slavery.
It’s about responsibility.
It’s about memory.
And it’s about never abandoning a Jew—no matter what.

Something to think about.

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Why did Pharaoh assume that the Jews would return after their festival? That is because he misunderstood that when Moses said that the Jews had to go out to serve God that it was about learning how to live, not just prayer. This is the major innovation of the Bible. Religion is not just for Synagogue but about life.

“Pharaoh Says: ‘Moshe Fooled Us’ — But How?”

One of the more puzzling lines in the Exodus story comes right after the Jews leave Egypt. Pharaoh suddenly declares, “Moshe fooled us — they’re running away!”

At first glance, this makes no sense.

Moshe never says the people are coming back. The idea of a permanent return to Egypt was never on the table. So why does Pharaoh assume this? Where does that expectation come from?

The answer lies in how the ancient world understood religion — and how radically different the Torah’s vision was.

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Religion in the Ancient World

In the ancient Near East, religion and morality were two completely separate spheres.

You didn’t pray to the gods in order to become a better person.
You didn’t worship in order to refine your character or reshape society.
Religion was transactional: you offered sacrifices, festivals, rituals — and the gods were expected to respond.

In fact, many ancient cultures believed the gods literally ate the offerings brought to them. That’s why sacrifices were described as “food for the gods.”

Contrast that with the Torah: nowhere does it say God eats the korbanot. The offerings aren’t for God’s benefit — they’re for ours.

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Why Pharaoh Assumed They’d Return

When Moshe repeatedly tells Pharaoh:

“Let My people go, that they may serve Me,”

Pharaoh hears this through his cultural lens.

To him, “serve God” means:

• Go out into the desert
• Hold a religious festival
• Perform rituals
• Then come back to normal life

That’s how religion worked. It was an event, not a transformation.

So Pharaoh assumes: Fine — they’ll pray, celebrate, and return to work.
When they don’t, he feels deceived.

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What Pharaoh Missed

What Pharaoh never grasped is that Torah isn’t about religious moments — it’s about a religious society.

“Serving God” doesn’t just mean festivals.
It means:

• How you treat other people
• How you run an economy
• How justice works
• How power is limited
• How dignity is protected

It’s not confined to the synagogue — it governs life outside the synagogue.

This is why Jewish prayer is so structured and formulaic. Not because God needs the words — but because we need them. The consistency shapes the person. The ritual reshapes the soul.

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A Revolutionary Idea

There was a TV series years ago called Rome. The actors were asked what was hardest to understand about Roman society. Their answer?
That religion and morality were totally disconnected.

You could be deeply religious — and morally corrupt — without contradiction.

The Torah comes to dismantle that worldview.

Judaism insists that religion without morality is meaningless — and morality without God lacks permanence.

That’s the revolution Pharaoh never saw coming.

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“I Was Fooled”

So when Pharaoh says, “Moshe fooled us,” he’s revealing more about himself than about Moshe.

He wasn’t tricked — he misunderstood.

He thought the Jews were leaving to perform a ritual.
In reality, they were leaving to become a people — with a new moral order, a new vision of humanity, and a new understanding of what it means to serve God.

That misunderstanding changed the course of history.

Something to think about.

The story of the crossing the Sea of Reeds (Red Sea) is the story of the Jewish people. We have to realize that in order to succeed we have to try. If we do not try, we will never succeed.

You Have to Step Into the Water

There’s a simple truth we all know from personal experience:
If you don’t try, you can’t succeed.
You may fail, sure—but without the attempt, success is literally impossible.

That idea sits at the heart of this week’s parashah.

The Jewish people have just left Egypt. Freedom is brand new, and already everything seems to go wrong. We find ourselves trapped at the Sea of Reeds. In front of us: water. Behind us: the Egyptian army charging full speed.

Panic sets in.

The Midrash tells us the people split into four camps:

• One group says, “Let’s go back to Egypt and be slaves again.”
• Another says, “Let’s fight the Egyptians.”
• A third says, “Let’s jump into the sea and end it all.”
• And Moshe turns to God in prayer.

God’s response is shocking:
“Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the people to move forward.”

In other words: Stop yelling. Start walking.

Only then does Nachshon ben Aminadav step forward. He enters the water. It rises—to his knees, his waist, his chest, up to his nose. And only then does the sea split.

The miracle does not come before the action.
It comes after the commitment.

God had already taken us out of Egypt. He had performed plagues, shattered an empire, and humiliated its gods. Now He asks one question:

What are you going to do to show Me you’re serious?

There’s an old joke about a deeply religious man who prays every day to win the lottery. Years pass. Finally, the angels ask God, “Why not let him win?” And God answers, “First, he has to buy a ticket.”

That’s the Sea of Reeds in a nutshell.

God doesn’t need us to perform mitzvot.
God doesn’t need our prayers.
We need them.

Our prayers are fixed and repetitive not because God needs to hear them said just right—but because we need to be shaped by them. Everything God commands us to do is for our benefit, not His.

Moshe makes this clear to the people:

• Going back to Egypt? Off the table.
• Fighting a professional army? Impossible.
• Suicide? Not an option—because there’s no future in it.

Judaism rejects the idea of sanctifying despair.

That’s why one of the most dangerous ideas ever spoken—especially during World War II—was the suggestion that Jews should commit suicide to awaken the world’s conscience. There is no redemption in self-destruction. Once you’re gone, the story is over.

Jews are not a people of victimhood.
Yes, terrible things have happened to us—but we do not live as victims.

Within three years of the Holocaust, the State of Israel was born. Jews fought, built, and created. We chose life and responsibility over despair.

That’s why the world pays attention to the Jewish people far beyond our numbers. We’re a fraction of a percent of humanity, yet our impact is outsized—because we don’t wallow. We act.

Like a quarterback who gets sacked: he gets up and runs the next play.

Standing at the Sea of Reeds, we didn’t wait to be rescued.
We stepped forward.

And that’s still our task today.

Individually and as a people, we make ourselves better not by waiting for miracles—but by walking into the water first.

Something to think about.

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More important than God taking the Jews out of Egypt is why. And that the next generation know this. If they will not be taught, then they will make up reasons that have nothing to do with the story.

A central moment of Yetziat Mitzrayim—leaving Egypt—comes with a commandment:
You must tell your children.
You must teach them what happened, why we left Egypt, and what it means.

And this may be the most important part of the entire story.

Because if you don’t tell your children why you do something—why it mattered to you, why it shaped your life—you create a vacuum. And nature abhors a vacuum. If we don’t give them the story, they will invent one.

We see this again and again. People end up “making up” what Judaism is because no one ever taught them what it actually means: why we keep mitzvot, why we pray daily, why we keep kosher. Lacking knowledge, they fill in the gaps with ideas that make sense to them—even when those ideas make no sense within Judaism itself.

I recently spoke to a well-meaning non-Jew who asked, “Aren’t the kosher laws really just about health?”
I explained: 3,500 years ago, Jews didn’t know germ theory. Kashrut wasn’t about bacteria. We keep kosher because we were commanded—to remind ourselves that God took us out of Egypt for a purpose. Once you forget the purpose, everything else unravels.

There’s a famous line attributed to the early secular Jewish movements: they hoped to raise a generation of heretics. Instead, they produced a generation of ignoramuses—am ha’aretz. Because without education, people don’t even know what they’re rejecting.

And that matters.
A heretic knows what he’s rejecting. Someone who never learned isn’t a heretic at all—he’s simply a child who was never taught.

There’s a telling contrast here. One revolutionary knew nothing about Judaism; another grew up in yeshiva and knew exactly what he was turning away from. When asked why, he cited the story of Rabbi Meir learning Torah from Acher—on Shabbat—while Acher rides a horse. They reach the boundary where Rabbi Meir must stop, and Acher says, “You can’t go further. I will.” And the man said, I continued.

That’s rejection with knowledge. That’s a conscious choice.

Our problem today is different. We’re surrounded by people who promote grand moral ideas—often under the banner of “social justice”—without realizing that many of those ideas are fundamentally alien to Judaism. Not because they’re evil, but because no one ever taught them what Judaism actually stands for.

And that brings us back to the mitzvah of telling the story.

Our job is not just to remember leaving Egypt—but to teach it, clearly and honestly, to the next generation. So they’ll know who they are, what they stand on, and—if they ever choose otherwise—what it is they’re choosing to leave.

Something to think about.

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The entire social structure of Egypt was built on lies. What the plagues did was to strip away all the lies. Egypt was destroyed. The Jews were building on the truth of the Torah.

A Sign on the Doorpost

This week we reach the final plague: the death of the firstborn. To understand its power, you have to understand the ancient world. Like today, society depended on continuity—the next generation. When the firstborn die, continuity itself collapses. Egypt is not just punished; its future is erased.

And it wasn’t only “firstborn sons” in the simple sense. It was the firstborn of any coupling. If someone was living a lie—if a child was secretly not who he claimed to be—the truth was exposed in the most devastating way. Someone who falsely claimed the status and honor of the firstborn paid the price for that deception. A society built on false narratives eventually collapses under their weight.

The Jews were spared—but only after placing blood on their doorposts. This raises the obvious question:
Did God really need a sign to know who was Jewish?

Of course not.

The blood wasn’t for God.
It was for us.

It was a declaration: I identify with the Jewish people. Redemption required courage, visibility, and public commitment. Freedom begins when you stop hiding.

We saw a modern echo of this after October 7. In places where Jews were attacked or threatened, some Jews considered removing their mezuzot. But something unexpected happened: non-Jews began placing mezuzah cases on their doors—not the parchment, just the case—so they would be mistaken for Jews, to show solidarity. That, in turn, strengthened Jews to leave their mezuzot up. Identity became an act of courage again.

We saw it too in Congress. During hearings on antisemitism, Congressman Randy Fine chose to wear a kippah publicly—not because he suddenly became religious, but because he understood the moment demanded identification. Later he said something striking: If I’m publicly identifying as Jewish, I’d better start living it too. And he began keeping kosher.

That’s the message of the blood on the doorposts.

God doesn’t ask us to hide in order to survive.
He asks us to stand visibly as Jews.

And the Torah reminds us of one more truth: evil societies can survive only as long as their narrative holds. Once it collapses, the society collapses with it—just as Egypt did.

Something to think about.

The Pascal sacrifice in Egypt was to teach the Jews that they were no longer under Egyptian rule, just as it was to teach the Egyptians that their entire society was based on a lie.

The Korban Pesach: Freedom Requires Jewish Pride

One of the very first mitzvot we received as a people was the Korban Pesach, the Pascal sacrifice. What’s striking is when this mitzvah is given: between the plague of darkness and the death of the firstborn—right at the threshold of redemption.

God commands the Jews to take a lamb, bring it into their homes, slaughter it, roast it, eat it publicly, and place its blood on the doorposts. This blood would mark Jewish homes so that God would pass over them during the final plague.

At first glance, this seems strange. Why this act? Why now?

But we have to remember something fundamental: just as the plagues were judgments on Egypt—its gods, its economy, its ideology—they were also building the Jewish people. Redemption is not only about leaving Egypt physically. It’s about leaving slavery psychologically.

And this mitzvah is all about that.

The lamb was an Egyptian god. God is telling the Jews:
Take your former master’s god. Bring it into your home. Slaughter it. Roast it. Eat it. And then advertise it by putting its blood on your doorposts.

Imagine what that takes. These people had been slaves their entire lives. Publicly defying Egyptian religion wasn’t just dangerous—it was unthinkable. And yet God is saying: You are not leaving as frightened slaves. You are leaving as a proud nation.

Freedom requires Jewish pride.

I once heard a powerful story that captures this idea. A Jewish refugee from Austria in the 1930s was drafted into the U.S. Army during World War II. Because many Jewish refugees spoke fluent German and understood German culture, the army grouped them into a special intelligence unit.

On the first day of basic training, the sergeant—a rough Southern man—walked up to the most Jewish-looking soldier and barked, “You a Jew?”

Everyone froze.

The soldier answered quietly, “Yes.”

The sergeant shouted, “I can’t hear you!”

So the soldier yelled:
“Yes, Sergeant! I am a Jew, Sergeant!”

The sergeant replied:
“That’s how I want you to say it. If someone doesn’t like that you’re a Jew, you deal with them. And if you don’t—I will.”

That sergeant understood something profound. You don’t send people into battle ashamed of who they are. You build them up with identity and pride.

That is exactly what Hashem—and Moshe—were doing in Egypt.

Before freedom could happen, the Jewish people had to learn:
Don’t hide who you are.
Don’t deny your identity.
Live Jewishly, publicly, proudly.

Our responsibility is not to worry about who doesn’t like it.
Our responsibility is to do the mitzvot, to live as Jews, and to wear that identity with pride.

That was true in Egypt.
It was true then.
And it’s something worth thinking about now.

The ninth plague was to teach both the Jews and the Egyptians that idolatry is darkness while the Torah is light. When we stray from the Torah we enter into darkness.

Parashat Bo: From Economic Collapse to Spiritual Darkness

This week’s parashah, Parashat Bo, brings us to the final three plagues—the decisive blows that dismantle Egypt entirely. What is striking is that these plagues are not random acts of destruction; they are systematic. They unravel Egypt layer by layer: its economy, its ideology, and finally its continuity as a civilization.

The first of these plagues is locusts, which utterly destroy the Egyptian economy. Every remaining crop is consumed. Egypt is left with nothing. This is not accidental. There is a profound measure-for-measure (middah k’neged middah) at work here. Egypt survived the great famine years earlier only because of Joseph, who saved the country through careful planning and foresight. Yet Pharaoh later chose to “forget” Joseph—to erase history when it no longer suited his narrative.

God’s response is clear: You forgot how you were saved from famine? Then you will experience a famine with no rescue. Egypt’s economy collapses completely.

Next comes the plague of darkness, and this plague is fundamentally different. It follows the destruction of Egypt’s material strength, but it precedes the final blow—the death of the firstborn, which will sever Egypt’s future. Darkness is not about physical survival; it is about meaning, belief, and identity.

Egypt was an intensely ideological civilization. Among its central objects of worship was the sun, embodied in the god Ra. As long as the sun rose each day, Egypt believed its worldview was validated. Power, permanence, and divinity all flowed from that light.

Then God removes it.

This darkness was not merely the absence of light. It was a spiritual paralysis. People could not see one another. They could not move. They could not communicate. Society itself ceased to function. A civilization that had worshiped light discovered that it was, at its core, a civilization of darkness.

And yet, in the very same space, the Israelites had light. The Torah tells us explicitly: “For all the children of Israel there was light in their dwellings.” This is not just a physical distinction—it is a philosophical one. Torah is light. Idolatry is darkness.

Rashi reminds us that the light created on the first day of Creation was not the sun. The sun came later. The original light was a deeper illumination—a moral and spiritual clarity, a light reserved for the righteous. That is the light the Israelites possessed in Egypt.

During this plague, the Israelites were able to see everything. They could see where the Egyptians had hidden the wealth they had stolen from Jewish slave labor. Later, when the Jews demanded payment before leaving Egypt, the Egyptians could not deny it. “We have nothing,” they said.
“Yes, you do,” the Jews replied—and they knew exactly where it was.

But this plague was not only about justice or punishment. It was a lesson—primarily for the Jews themselves.

If you follow the Torah, you walk in light.
If you abandon it, you walk in darkness.

History bears this out repeatedly. Secular ideologies often promise enlightenment and progress, but they consistently lead to oppression and despair. One powerful modern expression of this idea appears in Darkness at Noon, written by Arthur Koestler after his imprisonment by the Soviet regime. The title alone captures the paradox: a movement that claimed to bring light instead delivered darkness at the height of the day.

The message of the plague of darkness is timeless. True enlightenment does not come from power, ideology, or human systems. It comes from Torah. Anything else, no matter how persuasive it sounds, eventually leads to blindness.

That is the choice placed before us—not only in Egypt, but in every generation:

Light or darkness.
Torah or illusion.

Something to think about.

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The first commandment that the Jewish people received as a people was to declare the new month. Keeping time connotes freedom. We are now responsible for keeping time and what we do with it.

The First Mitzvah of Freedom: Owning Time

One of the most striking ideas in Parashat Bo is something Rashi points out almost in passing—but it changes how we understand freedom itself.

The first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a people is Kiddush HaChodesh—the sanctification and announcement of the new month, Rosh Chodesh.

And notice when this mitzvah is given.

Not at Sinai.
Not after the Exodus.
Not after the splitting of the sea.

It is given while we are still in Egypt, while we are still enslaved, while we are still waiting for the final plague—the death of the firstborn—that will finally break Egyptian power.

This timing is deliberate.

Up until now, Egypt has been systematically dismantled. The plagues destroy Egypt’s gods, economy, natural order, and belief system. Darkness itself—both physical and ideological—has already descended. The final blow is imminent.

But before God takes us out of Egypt, something else must happen.

Egypt has to be taken out of us.

That is the deeper meaning of this mitzvah.

A defining difference between a slave and a free person is control over time.

A slave does not need a watch.
A slave does not set schedules.
A slave does not decide when something begins or ends.

Time belongs to the master.

A free person, by contrast, is responsible for time. If you are free, you must know when to act, when to show up, when something begins, and when it ends. You are accountable—not just for your actions, but for when you take them.

That is why the Jewish people are commanded, even before leaving Egypt, to sanctify time itself.

“This month is for you the first of months.”

God is saying: You are no longer passive objects in history.
You will no longer be told when life happens to you.
You will now shape time.

This idea remains true today.

Even on a secular holiday, even when attendance is small, even when the outside world is off schedule—we still pray at fixed times. We still show up. Because free people are responsible for their commitments, and free people understand that time matters.

A slave lives reactively.
A free person lives intentionally.

The mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh is not just about the calendar. It is about dignity, responsibility, and moral agency. It is the moment God tells the Jewish people: You are now accountable. You are now builders of a future.

Freedom does not begin with open borders.
Freedom begins with owning time.

Something to think about.

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When Moses began his mission, he and his brother were alone. By the end they were the natural leaders and Egypt was destroyed. The were standing for the right thing while Pharaoh tried to lie his way out.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Bo

We are entering Parashat Bo, the parasha where the real geulah begins. From this point on, Egypt doesn’t just suffer plagues—it is systematically dismantled.

The first of the final three plagues is arbeh, locusts. Locusts consume everything in their path. This isn’t symbolic—it’s economic collapse. Egypt’s agriculture, its wealth, its future, all wiped out. The Egyptian economy is finished.

Then comes darkness. The Egyptians are plunged into darkness, while the Israelites have light. This is more than physical—it’s ideological. Egyptian belief is a culture of darkness. Ours is a movement toward light. The very first thing Hashem creates in the Torah is light, because light represents clarity, truth, and life.

Egyptian culture worshipped death. One of the first acts of a new Pharaoh was to begin building his tomb. Their entire civilization was oriented toward death and the afterlife. Judaism is the opposite. We honor the dead—but we worship life. We preserve life, protect life, and sanctify life, because without life, nothing else matters.

Then comes the final blow: the death of the firstborn.

But already by the plague of locusts, something critical happens. The Egyptian people themselves realize Pharaoh is finished. Moshe says something will happen—and it happens. Pharaoh’s narrative collapses. The people begin to turn on him. Now Pharaoh isn’t just fighting Moshe; he’s dealing with internal rebellion. Everything is unraveling.

The man everyone once mocked—Moshe—is now clearly running the show.

History repeats itself.

Think about Glenn Richter, who in the 1960s said that quiet diplomacy to save Soviet Jewry wasn’t working. The establishment told him, “This will never work.” But he didn’t listen. He organized protests, changed the conversation, and helped bring about the Jackson–Vanik Amendment, forcing the Soviets to allow Jews to leave. He moved mountains. And eventually, the Soviet Union itself collapsed.

The lesson is powerful: sometimes redemption requires people willing to act, to speak truth, and to step on toes.

That’s what happens in Parashat Bo. The Jews begin learning that redemption isn’t passive. Under Moshe’s leadership—and Hashem’s guidance—they start taking responsibility for their future. Moshe is no longer seen as an outsider. His leadership comes from integrity, truth, and moral courage. He says what needs to be said, regardless of the consequences.

And that’s real leadership: doing what’s right, caring about your fellow Jew, and refusing to live by a false narrative—even when it’s uncomfortable.

Something very important to think about.

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Just as dictators will try to keep their narrative, the true believers in them will make every excuse why the system isn’t working as it should. It is harder to shake their belief with the truth. But it is our duty to try.

True Believers and the Power of Narrative

Yesterday I spoke about Pharaoh’s desperate attempt to keep his narrative alive even as the facts were collapsing all around him. As we know, narratives can be powerful—but eventually, facts win out. Or as the modern phrase goes, facts don’t care about your feelings. I’ve heard that somewhere.

One of the biggest problems Moshe faces, however, is not Pharaoh himself—but the fact that some of Pharaoh’s most committed true believers were the slaves themselves: the Jewish people.

This is not unique. History shows us again and again that even when a system is clearly failing, some people cling to it until the bitter end. Think of young boys defending Nazi Germany as Allied forces closed in on Berlin—long after it was obvious the war was over. Or Jews who continued to support the Soviet Union even when it was clear that the system was corrupt, oppressive, and that even its leaders no longer believed in it. They were in it for power and money, not ideology.

There’s a remarkable example from Israel after the Soviet Union collapsed. Someone at Israeli television had the inspired idea to interview members of Kibbutz Yad Hanna, the only kibbutz officially aligned with the pro-Moscow Communist Party of Israel. They were asked to explain the collapse of the Soviet Union. What followed was unintentionally hilarious: an elaborate attempt to explain—within their ideological framework—how the Soviet Union hadn’t really collapsed. The facts didn’t matter; the system had to be preserved.

We see this same phenomenon today. During Israel’s recent war with Hamas, much of the mainstream media treated Hamas statements as credible, reporting them as fact and then adding, “Israel says otherwise—we don’t know who to believe.” This despite the overwhelming evidence that Hamas lies consistently and deliberately. But facts didn’t matter, because many of these commentators were true believers in their own ideological framework.

They believed that the poor are always righteous, the wealthy always evil; that people of darker skin must always be victims and others must always be oppressors. The Torah explicitly rejects this worldview. When judging a case, the Torah commands: Do not favor the poor and do not favor the rich. Justice is not emotional. Justice is factual.

Pharaoh ruled by edict, fear, and propaganda. Moshe did not lead through fear—he led through integrity and truth. What Moshe said came true. That is why the people eventually followed him: not because they were coerced, but because he earned their trust.

And yet—even after leaving Egypt—some Jews still cried out in the desert, “We had it so good in Egypt.” Slavery, beatings, degradation—forgotten. This too is familiar. To this day, there are people in Russia who say they miss Stalin.

This is the enduring danger of narrative: when people become so emotionally invested in an idea that they cannot abandon it, even when reality disproves it.

Our task is different. The Torah demands intellectual honesty. Even when the facts are uncomfortable—even when they don’t support our preferred story—we must follow them anyway. We cannot explain reality away just to protect our beliefs.

That is the difference between Pharaoh and Moshe.
That is the difference between propaganda and truth.
And that is something worth thinking about.

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