Plagues of Liberation (Bo)
Parshat Bo arrives in the midst of heartbreak and fire. This week, the world watches as hostages are returned, as families embrace after unthinkable suffering, as names are spoken that should never have been forgotten. It is not enough to call them “hostages” — to do so reduces them to what was done to them. They are human beings, sisters and brothers, Thai and Israeli, each carrying a story, each deserving of being known, named, held in love.
Pongsak Thenna, Sathian Suwannakham, Watchara Sriaoun, Bannawat Seathao, Surasak Lamnau. Five Thai workers who were freed. Pinta Nattapong, still held captive. Sudthisak Rinthalak and Sonthaya Oakkharasri, murdered on October 7th. May their memories be a blessing.
Agam Berger. Arbel Yehoud. Gadi Mozes. Freed, but forever changed. Their faces — etched with the trauma of captivity — are a painful reminder that release is not the same as healing. And yet, we hold them close, knowing that the work of rebuilding shattered souls is a sacred obligation, a mitzvah.
The Torah speaks to us in this moment. The final plagues descend upon Egypt, relentless and terrifying. And we, inheritors of this story, are asked to hold an impossible truth: that sometimes, freedom is only won through devastating force.
I struggle with this, as I always have. The suffering of the Egyptians is not a source of joy. We spill drops of wine at our seder tables to remember that their pain — the pain of our tormentors and enslavers — diminishes the celebration of our liberation. And yet, history has shown us that evil does not relent willingly. Power does not surrender without a fight. In Egypt, it took ten awful plagues (“signs and wonders”) before Pharaoh would let us go. In our own day, it has taken unspeakable horror for the world to witness what we have known all along these last 482 days since the Dark Day of October 7, 2023: that we, the Jewish people, must still fight for our freedom. That our lives are still on the line.
The parallels are too stark to ignore. In the Exodus story, we were pursued even after we were freed, chased to the water’s edge by an empire unwilling to let us live. Today, we saw it again. Gadi Mozes, an 80-year-old man, barely able to walk, almost lynched today in Khan Younis as he was being released. Arbel Yehoud, only 29, nearly lost again today after surviving captivity for all these months and years. There is no pretending that this is a world of justice.
And yet, the Torah does not only tell us of plagues and destruction. It also commands us: “There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you.” (Exodus 12:49) The Erev Rav, the mixed multitude, leaves Egypt alongside us. They were not born into our people, but they became our people. Pongsak, Sathian, Watchara, Bannawat, and Surasak are ours too, a mixed multitude in a covenant of fate. In the most positive of ways, this is the precise vision we must hold fast to — a world where all human beings are recognized as family. When we say “Bring them all home,” we mean all. Every hostage. Every soul.
And so, we pray. For Agam, for Arbel, for Gadi. For Pongsak, Sathian, Watchara, Bannawat, and Surasak. For those still waiting in the shadows. For a world in which the warnings of Torah are less understandable, where the devastation-framework of the plagues is less relatable. Where it can simply be light.
Until then, we will not stop. Not until they are all home. Not until their names are known. Not until justice is more than a dream.
Ken yehi ratzon. May it be God’s Will. And ours.
#BringThemHomeNow #AllTogether #UntilTheLastHostage
