Let My People Go: This Passover, the World Is Being Tested

On the evening of April 12, Jews across the world will gather to retell our most ancient story. We will speak of slavery and freedom, of cruelty and redemption. We will remember how we were once voiceless, nameless, stripped of dignity—and how, through faith and defiance, we walked into liberty.

But this year, the words will catch in our throats.

Because in 2025, “Let my people go” is no longer a ritual refrain. It is a living cry. It echoes not from Egypt, but from the darkness of Gaza—where Israeli hostages, among them children, elderly, mothers and fathers, remain in captivity more than 174 days after they were taken by Hamas.

This year, the Seder table will bear more than matzah and wine. It will carry absence—empty chairs, unspoken grief, and the unbearable weight of knowing that our people are still not free.

What is freedom, when children sleep in tunnels? What is liberation, when a grandmother is denied the dignity of her final years? What is remembrance, if it does not lead to action?

We Jews remember. But the world—it seems—prefers to forget.

Western governments, so quick to invoke international law and the sanctity of life, have faltered. They have issued statements but not ultimatums. They have measured their words as hostages are used as currency by those who dance on the graves of peace.

Where is the outrage? Where is the resolve?

The same capitals that once cried “Never Again” now whisper platitudes. The same institutions that claim to defend human rights remain paralyzed while human beings are buried alive.

And yet, amid the silence of states, there remains hope—in the voices of people. Ordinary people. Mothers, students, pastors, teachers, imams, neighbors, friends. People who still believe that justice is not a luxury but a duty. People who still feel the sting of injustice in their bones.

It is to them that this Passover cry is directed. It is to them we say: Rise. Speak. Demand.

This is not a Jewish issue. It is a human one. Hostage-taking is not resistance. It is a crime. Terrorism is not a culture. It is a moral failure.

Those still in captivity are not bargaining chips. They are human beings—people who were at music festivals, in their beds, holding their children when they were taken. Their fate is not a political matter. It is a test of whether we, as a global society, still know right from wrong.

This Passover, let us remember that the story of Exodus inspired the world not because it belonged to the Jews alone, but because it taught the world that no power is eternal, and no tyranny unbreakable.

Let us recall that it was not Pharaoh who freed the slaves. It was the people, with courage, faith, and action.

So to all those of conscience—whether Jewish, Christian, Muslim, or none at all—now is the time to act. Now is the time to write, to speak, to protest, to pray, to demand from your leaders what they should have already shouted from every podium: Bring them home. Now. Unconditionally. Alive.

We will open our doors for Elijah this year, as we have done for generations. But we do so with heavy hearts—waiting not just for the prophet, but for our people. Waiting not just for tradition, but for justice.

Because until every hostage is free, we are not free. Until every voice is heard, our story is not finished. And until we can say “Let my people go” and know the world is listening—truly listening—we are still in Egypt.

But we believe, as we always have, that liberation is possible. That truth can still rise. That solidarity still matters.

This Pesach, let our cry not remain in our homes. Let it reach the halls of power. Let it rise above indifference.

Let my people go. Let them live. Let them return.

And let the world, at last, prove worthy of the freedom it so often claims to honor.