February 2, 2025|ד' שבט ה' אלפים תשפ"ה Why Did Egyptian Slavery and October 7th Happen? The Power of Creating a Narrative By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

This past week has been an emotional whirlwind. We celebrated the release of hostages, including Karina Ariev, Daniella Gilboa, Naama Levy, Liri Albag, Arbel Yehoud, Gadi Mozes, Agam Berger, and five Thai nationals. I was told that today Ofer Calderon, Keith Siegel and Yarden Bibas were also released. Watching the emotional reunions—parents embracing their children after fifteen agonizing months—was profoundly moving. Yet, alongside the joy, there is overwhelming rage. Rage at the dehumanizing way our hostages were paraded—displayed on a stage in Gaza City, shoved and humiliated by a mob in Khan Younis. Rage at the devastating price we paid for their release.

In exchange, individuals like Mohammed Abu Warda, who orchestrated suicide bombings that killed over 40 and injured more than 100 others, were freed. Sentenced to 48 life terms, he was released on Tuesday. Others, like Mohammed Odeh, Wael Qassim, and Wissam Abbasi—responsible for the Second Intifada’s deadly attacks, including the 2002 pool hall bombing and the Hebrew University attack—were released after serving multiple life sentences. Even Khalil Jabarin, who brutally murdered Ari Fuld six years ago, is slated for release.

This mix of emotions—joy, pain, and rage—forces us to confront heavy questions. Why did this happen? Why were we placed in a position where such painful decisions had to be made? Some might argue that these events are part of a broader plan to reshape the Middle East. The October 7th attacks, horrific as they were, triggered a series of responses: the dismantling of Hamas’ military capabilities, the near-elimination of Hezbollah leadership and their military capabilities, the weakening of Iran’s air defenses, and the downfall of the Assad regime. Perhaps, years from now, we’ll view this moment as a turning point—a moment that brought forth a new Middle East, where Israel no longer plays defense against its enemies but neutralizes its threats decisively. A future where Israel forms strong alliances with Saudi Arabia and moderate Sunni states, ushering in unprecedented security and prosperity.

It’s a hopeful vision. One day, we might thank God for the miraculous outcomes: the defeat of our enemies, the creation of a stronger Israel, and a transformed region. But even as we imagine giving thanks for these blessings, one question looms: Why October 7th? If this is the beginning of a new era, why did it come at such a staggering cost of death, terror, and suffering? Surely, God could have set this plan in motion without the horrors we endured.

This question is not new. It is the same question our ancestors must have asked thousands of years ago as they left Egypt.

Bnei Yisrael arrived in Egypt as a family of 70 and emerged as a nation of millions with a new relationship with God and a grand vision: receiving the Torah and entering Eretz Yisrael. We celebrate the seminal event of Yetziat Mitzrayim every year and indeed every day while reciting the Shema. But imagine living shortly after the exodus. Would we celebrate this event—or would we question why it had to unfold as it did? Did we need to endure decades of slavery to celebrate redemption? Could we not have Pesach without the suffering that preceded it?

While Chazal point to certain sins, such as the sale of Yosef, as the cause of our enslavement, the plain reading of the Torah suggests otherwise. Egypt enslaved us without provocation. God promised Avraham centuries earlier that his descendants would endure slavery before emerging with great wealth. This raises a fundamental question: Do we want the exodus if it comes with the slavery? Couldn’t Hashem have found another way to make us His nation?

While I cannot explain why slavery was necessary, I can affirm that it became a defining part of our narrative, shaping our identity and mission. God created a nation from slaves—a people without governance, social customs, or philosophies of their own. Had a charismatic leader approached us while we were living in detached homes as members of the upper-middle class of society who enjoyed a good life and asked us to change our lifestyle, we might have resisted radical transformation. But a people who were powerless, who owed their very lives to God, were prepared to follow His commandments with absolute dependence and gratitude. Slavery may have been the crucible that fostered this total surrender to God, which has become one narrative of Yetziat Mitzrayim.

Additionally, our experience as slaves taught us profound lessons about compassion and justice. Nechama Leibowitz notes that we needed to taste slavery and humiliation to internalize the moral imperative to redeem others and to be kind, considerate, and compassionate. Throughout the Torah, we are reminded to treat the stranger kindly because we were slaves in Egypt. Even the concept of Shabbat—a spiritual and psychological necessity—is linked to our redemption from slavery, when such rest was unimaginable. This narrative imbued us with a deep sense of responsibility for the underprivileged. As Rav Soloveitchik writes, the Egyptian experience became the fountainhead of moral inspiration in Jewish society.

So, yes, when this is all over, it could mark the dawn of a glorious new Middle East with Israel in a stronger and safer position than before October 7th. But we must still ask: Why did we have to endure this? The truth is, I don’t know. But I do know that October 7th and its aftermath have become part of our collective narrative.

For the rest of the world, let them continue to see the barbarians that Hamas and its supporters truly are. Let them see the way they tried to humiliate our captives in Gaza City and the way a mob almost attacked Arbel Yehoud in Khan Younis. Let them continue to see the horrific pictures of October 7th and hear more and more stories of terror and suffering that our hostages endured for over a year. The rest of the world must constantly be reminded of the evil Israel faces. But for me, the October 7th narrative was encapsulated on Thursday in the image of Agam Berger sitting in a helicopter with her parents, holding a sign that read:

בדרך אמונה בחרתי ובדרך אמונה שבתי.
In the path of faith, I chose; and in the path of faith, I returned.

October 7th has become a narrative of faith. Amid tragedy, individuals like Agam have displayed unwavering emunah. Despite captivity, she observed Kashrut and Shabbat, even though halacha permits their violation to save a life. Her parents took on Shabbat observance during her 16 months of captivity. Agam and her friends fasted on Yom Kippur. At a time when many might question God, Agam and others who suffered unspeakable losses losing husbands and children in the battlefield elevated this tragedy into a testament of faith.

The second part of the sign reads:
תודה לכל עם ישראל וחיילי צה״ל הגיבורים.
Thanks to the entire nation of Israel and the mighty soldiers of the IDF.

This reflects unparalleled achdut. On October 7th and its aftermath, we felt as one people. Stories like Emily Damari asking her captors to release Keith Siegel before her or Liri Albag refusing to leave captivity without Agam Berger embody our unity. We all have been glued to our screens, watching freed captives embrace their families, feeling as though these were our sisters and brothers. We have truly felt like an Am Yisrael, one nation, or more precisely, one family.

The final line of the sign reads:
אין כמוכם בעולם.
There is nobody like you in the world.

This speaks to Jewish pride. The enemy paraded our hostages to humiliate us, but women like Karina Ariev and Daniella Gilboa walked onto that stage with calm and confidence, showing our strength and resilience. Emily Damari’s wounded hand missing two fingers with a “rock on” gesture became a symbol of Israeli pride and defiance. They cannot defeat us.

Thousands of years ago, our ancestors could not answer why they were enslaved, but they could confidently say they emerged from Egypt with a narrative of faith and compassion. Today, we are crafting a new narrative from our horrific, inexplicable tragedy—one of emunah, achdut, and Jewish pride. Let this holy narrative be the legacy we carry forward.