Exodus starts with a disturbingly familiar story. Before any plagues or miracles happen, and before Moshe even appears, the Torah depicts a powerful society that turns on a small Jewish minority within its midst. The pattern described in Exodus 1:7–10 closely resembles the dynamics of antisemitism throughout history, making it almost a kind of ancient origin story.
The Torah first reminds us that “the Israelites were fruitful and increased greatly; they multiplied and grew exceedingly strong, so that the land was filled with them” (Exodus 1:7). This is covenant language: the fulfillment of God’s promise to Abraham that his descendants would be many. It also sets the stage for a backlash.
Erasing gratitude, rewriting the story
The next verse signals a change: “Then a new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8). The point isn’t that he has never heard of Joseph, the man who once saved Egypt from famine. It’s that he chooses not to let that memory influence his politics. Gratitude becomes inconvenient.
That king tells his people, “Look, the Israelite people have multiplied and become more numerous than we. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, or they will increase and, in the event of war, they may join our enemies, fight against us, and go up from the land” (Exodus 1:9–10). In a few words, he has taken a story of shared survival and turned it into a story of threat.
The Torah’s template of antisemitism
Pharaoh’s brief speech already includes several elements that will recur throughout the history of antisemitism.
- Demographic panic: Pharaoh inflates their numbers—“more numerous than we”—despite ruling a large, powerful empire. Throughout history, antisemitic movements have claimed Jews are close to “replacing” the majority population, regardless of their actual small numbers.
- Fifth-column fantasy: “In the event of war, they may join our enemies.” A vulnerable minority is portrayed as secretly siding with foreign powers; their loyalty is always in question. From medieval accusations about Jews collaborating with enemies to modern claims that Jews are never truly loyal citizens anywhere, this is a familiar pattern.
None of this demands that the Israelites do anything wrong. Their mere existence as a distinct and visible people is enough to make them a problem.
Dara Horn: loving dead Jews, fearing living Jews
In People Love Dead Jews, Dara Horn illustrates how much of the non-Jewish world prefers Jews as memories rather than as neighbors—honored in museums and memorials, but resented when they are vibrantly present, assertive, or particular. She observes how institutions eagerly ask her to write about Jewish suffering and death, yet seldom about living Jewish life.
Horn also makes a helpful distinction—often summarized by others—between “Purim antisemitism,” which aims to remove or kill Jews, and “Hanukkah antisemitism,” which is willing to include Jews—as long as they abandon or hide what makes them Jewish. However, Jewish history shows that whether Jews refuse those demands and insist on remaining visibly and uniquely Jewish, or even when many try to hide or abandon what makes them Jewish, Hanukkah-style antisemitism often deepens over time into Purim-style antisemitism, as pressures to erase Judaism shift toward attempts to erase Jews themselves. Exodus 1 starts in this Hanukkah mode: “deal shrewdly with them,” impose labor, control their growth. Only later does it escalate into something more like Purim: decrees against Jewish baby boys.
Pharaoh’s policy clearly states: You are only welcomed if you stay weak, controlled, and non-threatening. Your strength and uniqueness are issues to be managed. This is similar to modern societies that honor murdered Jews but become uncomfortable when living Jews demand visible, unapologetic Jewish life.
Sarah Hurwitz: rejecting a Judaism built from shame
Sarah Hurwitz, reflecting on antisemitism and Jewish identity in her recent work, As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story from Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us, describes antisemitism as a “neural groove” in Western culture: a deep track of assumptions that cast Jews as powerful, depraved, and conspiratorial. She argues that this groove is so old that it influences not only how non-Jews perceive Jews but also how many Jews see themselves—defensively and apologetically, as if their story is mainly about other people’s hatred.
Hurwitz emphasizes that “anti-antisemitism” is not enough for a meaningful Jewish life. Combating hatred is essential, but it cannot replace Torah, mitzvot, community, and joy. She suggests that Jews need to reclaim a story of who we are that is not written by Pharaoh—whether ancient or modern.
Reading Exodus 1 in our moment
Seen through Horn’s and Hurwitz’s perspectives, Exodus 1:7–10 is not merely context for the Exodus story; it is the Torah’s first analysis of antisemitism.
- The text shows how a regime erases gratitude, inflates numbers, projects disloyalty, and then calls its plan “shrewdness.” The Torah reveals this as fear and cruelty, not realism.
- It also warns how easily these stories become accepted as normal. Pharaoh’s speech is calm, reasonable, and almost bureaucratic. That is the core of the danger.
In a time when antisemitic rhetoric and violence are again rising worldwide, it is tempting to let Pharaoh’s words define us—to see ourselves mainly as potential victims, as “too much,” as people who should be quieter, less visible, more acceptable.
This parasha offers a different invitation. It reminds us that our story begins not with Pharaoh’s fear but with God’s promise: “the Israelites were fruitful and increased greatly” (Exodus 1:7). Antisemitism may be as old as Exodus 1, but it is still not the main plot. The main story is that a small people, repeatedly asked to disappear, stubbornly chooses to live: to learn, to teach, to light candles in public windows, to tell its own story.
On a website like this, that choice is already clear. Each d’var Torah, each teaching, is a refusal to be merely “dead Jews”—just a problem in someone else’s speech. It’s a way of responding to Pharaoh—then and now—by emphasizing that the Jewish people will not be defined by those who fear us, but by the God who calls us, and by the life we continue to build together.
