Sinai, My Body

Sinai, My Body

From the moment I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at age 11 in 1967, I’ve grappled with the commandment:

בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרָיִם
“In every generation, a person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.”

For many years, I’ve wrestled with this—not because I fail to feel the weight of the Exodus, but because I’ve never felt myself at Sinai. Instead, I’ve always imagined I was among those who didn’t make it. Those who died in the wilderness. The ones who were lost on the way.

In every parashah, every commentary—from Rashi to Ramban—I could trace myself in the journey. But not at the mountain. I saw myself collapsing somewhere between Egypt and Sinai, lost in the heat, the thirst, the dust. Forgotten.

Each year, as my family celebrates freedom around the Seder table, I remain in that wilderness. Not in Egypt. Not yet redeemed. Just trying to survive, silently. I sit among loved ones, surrounded but alone—living with chronic illness, carrying a body that feels out of step with the promised liberation.

The Torah says:

שֵׁשׁ מֵאוֹת אֶלֶף רַגְלִי הַגְּבָרִים לְבַד מִטָּף (שמות יב:לז)
“Six hundred thousand men, not including the children.”

But what of those who didn’t survive the journey? The Torah is silent.

Who died from thirst before the water came? Who stumbled and was trampled? Who reached for a child’s hand and never found it again?

We mourn those lost in Egypt, in the sea, in exile. But not those lost in the desert before Sinai. Why?

This is why I wrote my Midrash: Sinai, My Body. It’s not to revise history—but to give voice to the uncounted. The ones whose stories were left behind in the sand.

Sinai, My Body
פאר אונדזער פֿאַרלוירענע ברידער און שוועסטער, וועמענס ליידן איז אָפֿט אומזעעוודיק אין די דערציילונגען פון באַפרייאונג
For our lost brothers and sisters, whose suffering is unseen in the stories of liberation.

Imagine. Not from a distance. Not as a reader—but with your whole being. You are there. Your feet blister in the sand. Your throat cracks with thirst. You are part of the Exodus, but your body can barely carry you forward.

“In every generation…”

But what if, in your generation, your body is the desert?

In 1967, age 11, I began my own wandering. Not with a staff, but a syringe. Not manna, but boiled urine tests. Not a pillar of cloud, but fear—of lows, of seizures, of being forgotten. I was in the crowd, but unseen.

I don’t remember when I began to run. I only know I had to keep moving.

The ground trembled. Dust blinded. A girl cried beside an overturned cart. Miriam—my friend—who burned with fever and thirst that would never be quenched. She grew small. Then silent.

I ran harder.

“And all Mount Sinai was in smoke…” (Exodus 19:18)

Would I make it to that smoke? Or was I already lost—body failing, spirit flickering?

Each Pesach night, I sit again in the sand. Still thirsty. Still tired. Still counting.

Pesach is a night of questions.

But we rarely ask:
Who didn’t make it?
Who couldn’t finish the journey?
Who have we left out of our redemption?

As we recline in comfort, retelling our freedom story, I ask:

Are we still counting them?