Gaza and the Nile (Vaeira)

The synergy between this week’s Parashah and current events is profoundly intense. Due to the arrangements in the ceasefire and hostage release deal, we have been confronted with visuals from Gaza itself. Many people ask how I and others grapple with the devastation in Gaza, and I want to address that head-on today. But first, I want to look at the parashah as a helpful framing—a spiritual anchor—for this conversation.

Let me be clear: this reflection on the Torah portion and the devastation in Gaza does not presume to provide authoritative answers, nor does it diminish the exquisite joy of seeing three hostages released back into their families’ arms this past Sunday. With our hearts in our throats, we now anticipate the release of four more hostages this coming Shabbat. We don’t know who they are or the condition they are in, and that uncertainty makes this next phase incredibly difficult.

And before sharing insights from the parashah or my reflections, I ask you to join me in praying for the release of all the hostages—all of them.

Now, turning to the parashah: Parashat Va’era marks the beginning of the plagues, a deeply complex narrative in Jewish consciousness. During the Pesach seder, we ritually diminish the wine in our cups while reciting the plagues, acknowledging that we cannot feel full joy when any of God’s children are in pain.

A famous midrash teaches that when the children of Israel crossed the Red Sea, they sang a song of praise, but God rebuked them, saying, “How dare you sing when my children are drowning? (Megillah 10b)” Here, God refers to the Egyptians—our oppressors and those who sought to destroy us, terrorists in an ancient time. The rabbis who authored this midrash imagine God grieving over the Egyptians’ deaths, even as their downfall was necessary for our liberation.

This tension—the profound discomfort of liberation through suffering—feels painfully relevant today. For 475 days, we have been metaphorically in the tunnels with the hostages. Though we cannot truly comprehend the horror of their experiences, we carry their weight in our hopeful, broken hearts.

In the biblical story, Pharaoh’s refusal to release the Israelites led to the plagues, beginning with blood. God commands Aaron to strike the Nile, turning its life-giving waters into blood:

And God said to Moses, “Say to Aaron: Take your rod and hold out your arm over the waters of Egypt—its rivers, its canals, its ponds, all its bodies of water—that they may turn to blood; there shall be blood throughout the land of Egypt, even in vessels of wood and stone.” (Ex. 7:17–19).

This act disrupts Egypt’s very source of sustenance, making survival impossible. The plagues were not arbitrary; they were direct consequences of Pharaoh’s moral failure.

As we consider this narrative, we cannot ignore the parallels. Who bears moral responsibility for the devastation in Gaza? In the biblical text, Pharaoh’s stubbornness condemned his people to suffering. Today, we confront a similarly complex question: How do we respond to the Palestinian leadership in Gaza – Hamas – that uses civilian infrastructure to perpetuate violence, hiding behind and beneath civilians homes, mosques, schools, and hospitals while committing atrocities?

I feel no joy in drawing these connections, but the visuals of Gaza devastated force us to grapple with these moral complexities. The rabbis teach that even God regretted the violence of the plagues, implementing them only as a last resort to secure the Israelites’ freedom. Liberation does not come gently, neither in the biblical story nor in our reality.

This moment is profoundly painful. Our soldiers, young men and women of Tzahal, Israel’s Defense Forces (the IDF), face unimaginable moral and physical challenges. But powerlessness is not an option—Jewish history has taught us that. And yet, the rabbis remind us to temper our strength with compassion.

The midrash offers a profound insight: Moses could not bring himself to strike the Nile himself, for it had once protected him as a baby. Instead, Aaron carried out the act. This teaches us the value of gratitude and the moral weight of our actions, even in times of necessity.

As we defend ourselves against Hamas’s inhumanity, we must also hold onto our humanity. The defense of Israel is just—but it’s necessity and consequence are tragic. The rabbis’ imagination of God grieving for the Egyptians teaches us that even justified actions can bring profound sorrow.

Today, we cry for the hostages. We must also cry for the babies of Gaza, born into unimaginable hardship. Every child deserves better. Speaking of them with love and compassion is not a contradiction to our own justice—it is a mandate of Jewish tradition.

We reduce our joy on Pesach to honor those who suffered, and so too must we carry this duality now: the moral clarity of our right to self-defense and the heartbreak of the innocent lives caught in the crossfire. Yes, the moral responsibility for the devastation of Gaza is Hamas’. But until all people are free, none of us are free.

May our collective tears replenish the Nile itself, restoring what was lost and bringing justice, compassion, and hope to this broken world.