In the story of the plagues, there is a key turning point that is easy to miss. In the first three plagues, Israel and Egypt face the same outcomes. Water turns to blood for everyone, frogs swarm for everyone, lice torment everyone. It isn’t until the fourth plague that something new happens: God makes a clear distinction. “I will set apart on that day the land of Goshen, where My people dwell…And I will place a pedut between My people and your people” (Exodus 8:18–19). The plagues are no longer just about punishment; from this point on, they also reveal a people who are being marked out, already halfway redeemed ,while still physically living in Egypt.
The Hebrew word used in the verse, pedut, is unusual and rich in meaning. Elsewhere in the Tanakh, it signifies redemption, ransom, or deliverance—such as, “He sent pedut to His people” (Psalm 111:9), and “With the Lord is kindness, and with Him is much pedut” (Psalm 130:7). Commentators observe that in our verse, it conveys the idea of a “division,” a distinction that functions like a protective boundary. The same root that elsewhere refers to God buying back or rescuing a people here appears as a line on the map of the Nile delta. The act of redemption does not start with a triumphant march out of Egypt but with a subtle yet decisive separation of destinies.
This leads to a powerful idea: before the Exodus as a historical event, there is pedut as a shift in relationship. Egypt and Israel now occupy the same geographic space but no longer share the same spiritual address. The hail, darkness, and locusts will fall differently because God has chosen to relate differently to these two groups. Yet, the Torah never states that Israel is smarter, kinder, or more deserving. The difference begins not in the moral superiority of the people, but in God’s act of choosing. Pedut is not a medal of honor that Israel has earned; it is a sign of responsibility that Israel receives.
That distinction—chosen but not “better”—is vital for understanding how Jewish tradition sees itself and how Jews are often misunderstood. Being set apart can easily be misinterpreted. From an internal perspective, a Jew might view this separateness as an obligation: more commandments, more boundaries, more history to carry. From an external view, others might only notice the difference, overlook the covenantal context, and assume that Jews are claiming some form of inherent superiority. The Torah’s language of pedut highlights the opposite. The separation is practical and purposeful, not hierarchical. It’s about a task rather than a status.
Reflect on Goshen during the plagues. Its protection is not meant to turn it into a gated community of the spiritually successful. Goshen serves as the incubator for a people who will soon be called to care for the stranger, the widow, and the orphan, precisely “because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The shield around Israel during the plagues is meant for preparation for service, not insulation from hardship. The Jew is set apart so they become more responsible for the suffering of others, not less. Being spared certain plagues means being drafted into the work of healing a world ravaged by plague.
Antisemitism often exploits the idea of Jewish difference. Sometimes it claims that Jews pretend to be “better than everyone else”; sometimes it insists that Jews are somehow uniquely dangerous or corrupt. Both versions perversely mirror the language of pedut while distorting its meaning. When the Torah speaks of a boundary that enables mission and responsibility, antisemitism interprets that boundary as arrogance or conspiracy. When the Torah refers to “My people” to describe a special relationship that entails extra commands and scrutiny, antisemitism perceives a hidden claim to power or a secret agenda. The distortion is significant: the same fact of difference, when reversed, becomes a reason for hatred.
A careful reading of the plagues can therefore serve as a powerful counter-narrative. In this story, Jewish difference is never framed as an innate value; rather, it concerns the covenant. God’s turn toward Israel brings with it higher expectations of justice, ethics, memory, and self-criticism. This explains why the same tradition that records the miracle of the Exodus also vigilantly documents Israel’s own failures, rebellions, and punishments. A people who see themselves as “better” would not preserve such a self-portrait. A people who understand pedut as responsibility must tell the whole story, even when it hurts.
In modern Jewish life, the idea of pedut raises an important question: How can Jews maintain their uniqueness—through mitzvot, language, learning, and community—without turning that distinctiveness into a barrier of superiority or a tool for antisemites’ fantasies? One answer points toward separation. During the plagues, God separates Israel for a reason: for the covenant, for Torah, and for a role in blessing the world’s families. Jewish difference that is expressed “for” others—through acts of chesed, ethical integrity, and a willingness to carry memory into a forgetful world—stays true to that original pedut. In contrast, Jewish difference that exists only “against” or over others betrays it.
There is another layer to this as well. When God draws a line around Israel, it also reveals Egypt. The plagues expose the cruelty and stubbornness of a regime that has enslaved and dehumanized an entire population. Once Israel is marked, Egypt can no longer pretend that its oppression is just “the way things are.” Similarly, the continued existence of a people who insist on their own story, practices, and sense of covenant can be uncomfortable in societies that favor complete sameness. The very presence of Jews often prompts questions about power, memory, and morality that some would rather avoid. Antisemitism, in part, is a way of silencing those questions by blaming the question‑asker.
The fourth plague, then, speaks in two directions. To Jews, it says: pedut means you are different, not better; you are chosen for a task, not crowned for your virtue. To the broader world, it says: Jewish distinctiveness is not a threat but a calling, and attempts to turn that calling into a crime are as old as Pharaoh. The challenge for a community or a reader today is to inhabit that space of Goshen with open eyes—grateful for the protection, honest about the responsibilities, and determined that this ancient boundary line be used not to distance Jews from their neighbors, but to deepen Jewish service to them.
On a website that discusses both Torah and antisemitism, this parashah presents a central message: the first visible sign of redemption is not victory, but separation. The goal is to ensure that this separation continues to produce holiness, compassion, and moral clarity, rather than resentment, fear, or fantasy. The story of pedut in Egypt becomes a call to say: yes, Jews are different—and that difference, properly understood, is meant to be a blessing, not a boast, and never an excuse for hate.
