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Parashat Bo: The Worst Kind of Darkness

Why is it that the Torah ALWAYS reflects situations from our own reality?


Why do the examples and stories of our People seem to update almost magically, week after week? Is life just a cycle that repeats itself, only changing its characters?

 

Sometimes, it even feels like a test from the Kadosh Baruch Hu, placing us in the same situation over and over again to see if we can finally do something better with the Creation He gifted us.

 

Parashat Bo immerses us in the most critical moments of slavery in Egypt and the climax of the struggle for the freedom of the people of Israel. The last three plagues—locusts, darkness, and the death of the firstborn—were not just punishments directed at Pharaoh’s stubbornness; they carry profound lessons for the present.

 

The eighth plague, the locust invasion, devastated Egypt, destroying crops and leaving the population without sustenance. Locusts represent uncontrolled destruction, bringing to mind images etched into our collective memory—images recorded by those who documented barbarism. And I am not only referring to the hordes of Hamas and their sympathizers, arriving by land, air, and sea, destroying everything in their path, sowing terror, and annihilating entire communities. I am also referring to every war that has been recorded in our memory, showing devastation at every turn.

 

However, in the case of Hamas, we must not be deceived. This is not just about physical attacks or a struggle for resistance; it is an ideology that seeks to annihilate us as a people and erase all traces of diversity and freedom around the world, imposing a distorted belief system.

 

The ninth plague always moves me in a special way:

"וַיֵּ֥ט מֹשֶׁ֛ה אֶת־יָד֖וֹ עַל־הַשָּׁמָ֑יִם וַיְהִ֧י חֹֽשֶׁךְ־אֲפֵלָ֛ה בְּכׇל־אֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם שְׁלֹ֥שֶׁת יָמִֽים׃" 

"Moses stretched out his hand toward the sky, and a dense darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days."

"לֹֽא־רָא֞וּ אִ֣ישׁ אֶת־אָחִ֗יו וְלֹא־קָ֛מוּ אִ֥ישׁ מִתַּחְתָּ֖יו שְׁלֹ֣שֶׁת יָמִ֑ים …" 

"People could not see one another (NT: in Hebrew, the literal translation is ‘one could not see his brother’), and for three days, no one could move from their place..." (Shemot - Exodus 10:22-23)

 

This is the true plague of darkness.

 

"Where would they go without light?" asks Ibn Ezra. The medieval commentator explains this verse: Everything was dark; no one could go anywhere.

 

Yet, today's darkness is the same, though different.

 

These days, no one moves. No one is shaken. The world remains silent in the face of the darkness that engulfs this earth—the one that concerns us as the People of Israel, but also many others. Or maybe the real issue is that ALL of them should move us equally, and not just the ones that reach our own doorstep.

 

This is how societies work today: victims are left to be defended only by those closest to them, because in the face of inhumanity, no one moves. They stay "at home," as long as they are not affected…

 

Rabbi Alexander Zusia Friedman, a modern 20th-century commentator, wrote:


"The worst kind of darkness is when a person cannot see his own brother suffering and offer him help. And the result of this is that when a person ignores the suffering of his friend, he himself remains stagnant, which explains the continuation of the verse: ‘And no one could rise from their place.’"

 

The ninth plague plunged Egypt into thick darkness, which today translates into international indifference. The blindness is moral—the indifference of the world, governments, international organizations, and even vast sectors of public opinion that choose not to "see" the brutality of terrorism, justifying the unjustifiable and leaving the victims of every conflict in a desperate darkness.

 

But the worst part? Not knowing whether the darkness prevents us from seeing our brothers, or if it is indifference that drowns us in a nearly tangible darkness, slowly isolating us—not only as individuals but as groups, nations, religions, and beliefs in general.

 

The final plague, the death of the firstborn, shattered Egypt’s heart and finally led to the Israelites' liberation.

 

Moses never negotiated his people's freedom halfway. Every time Pharaoh tried to impose conditions, he remained firm: freedom is not negotiable.

 

Today, Israel and the Western world face a similar crossroads. We cannot negotiate with those who promote terror, nor yield to those who relativize kidnapping, torture, and murder.

 

Parashat Bo reminds us that freedom is won with determination and with the conviction that light must always overcome darkness—both external and the darkness within ourselves.

 

Just as we are commanded to tell the story of the Exodus, now we must ensure that our children and grandchildren know what happened on October 7. Not just the facts, but the context, the pain, the resistance, and the unity that emerged within our people.

 

Parashat Bo teaches us that freedom is not just a matter of the past but a present responsibility. Just as every generation has recounted the Exodus, just as the generation of the Shoah passed down its tragic and inhumane experience, we must tell the story of October 7.

 

We must ensure that our children understand the value of memory, the fight for truth, and the importance of unity in building the future.

 

Being free is not just about not being oppressed, but about actively defending our security—just as in Egypt, but also in Medinat Israel and our identity.

 

This Shabbat, when we read Parashat Bo, we will do so with a new perspective, knowing that our generation also has a story to tell.

 

May we soon see the remaining 82 hostages return home in peace.

 

Shabbat Shalom ve Chodesh Tov have a good new month.

 

Rabbi Gustavo Geier

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