The Power of Memory and the Choice to Remember (Shemot)
This week, as we open the Book of Shemot, we are met with a haunting and perplexing line: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. (Ex. 1:8)” How could this be? Joseph, whose wisdom saved Egypt and the surrounding nations during years of famine, whose leadership brought prosperity and stability — forgotten? How is it possible for a ruler to “not know” someone whose impact was so profound?
The commentators wrestle with this question. Some suggest the new king deliberately erased Joseph’s legacy from the annals of history. Others propose it was not a literal forgetting but a willful denial, an intentional revision of memory to serve new agendas. This is not merely a tale of ancient Egypt; it is a recurring pattern of history. Leaders, in their pursuit of consolidating power, often rewrite or erase the past, leaving a void where wisdom and gratitude once resided.
This is not just Pharaoh’s story — it is ours, too. Today, we are grappling with the weight of memory and the responsibility to remember. The fires in Los Angeles rage on, leaving families displaced, lives shattered, and communities grieving. In Israel, the scars of war remain fresh, with families still reeling from unfathomable losses. Just one year ago, we marked the 100th day of captivity for those taken on October 7. Today, 465 days later, some of those captives remain unaccounted for, and their families live in a limbo of hope and despair.
Memory is hard. It’s easier to turn away, to let the weight of the world’s pain push us into forgetfulness. But as Jews, we are commanded: zachor — remember. Not passively, but actively. We remember by telling our stories, by re-living them through ritual, and by allowing them to shape our actions.
Judaism teaches that time moves in two ways: cyclically, as we relive the past through holidays and rituals, and linearly, as we carry the lessons of history forward. We sit in sukkot to remember the fragility of our ancestors’ journey through the wilderness. We eat matzah to taste the haste of redemption. These acts are not mere symbols; they are tools to embed the past into our present consciousness.
Pharaoh’s choice not to remember Joseph was no innocent lapse. It was a rejection of the past — a refusal to acknowledge the wisdom and contributions of those who came before. Today, we face similar dangers. Whether through historical revisionism, climate denial, or the erasure of collective trauma, the temptation to forget is ever-present.
But we are a people who choose memory. We carry the stories of our ancestors, the faces of the captives, the cries of the displaced, and the dreams of the exiled in our hearts. We hold them close because to forget is to risk repeating the pain of the past.
As we read this week’s Torah portion, let us renew our commitment to remember. Let us hold space for the grief of our siblings in Israel, our neighbors in Los Angeles, the devastation Hamas has caused in Gaza, the resilience of displaced Israelis in the North of Israel, and the pain of families still awaiting their loved ones held hostage these impossible 465 days. Let us shout to the world that memory is a sacred act, a form of resistance against the forces that seek to erase and deny.
We are the people who remember. We remember Joseph, we remember the Exodus, and we remember the cries of the oppressed in every generation. The past lives in us, shaping who we are and what we must do.
May our memory fuel our prayers, our actions, and our hope. And may it guide us toward a future where all are free, all are safe, and all are home.