Between Palace and People: Moshe's Test of Privilege

Do you know people who move around a lot, whether by choice or necessity? Diplomats and their children, people with international careers, "expats", and their families, people in the military, and sometimes rabbis and their families too. Johannesburg is the ninth city in which I have lived. When my daughter finished primary school, she had already attended seven schools across three continents. It might sound glamorous on paper, but in real life it often means instability, constant goodbyes, and having to rebuild a sense of home from scratch.

People who move that much often develop two traits that seem to pull in opposite directions. On the one hand, they become skilled at beginning again: starting new relationships, adapting quickly, learning new social codes, and discovering new ways of seeing the world. On the other hand, they often remain outsiders even while they are welcomed in. They question accepted norms more than most, not necessarily out of rebellion, but because they have seen that "normal" changes from place to place. They carry a slightly different perspective, even when they love the community they are part of.

To some extent, that is also a summary of the Jewish historical experience. There were extraordinary periods, in many lands, when Jews were accepted, even celebrated, woven into the fabric of society. And there were periods of persecution that were frequent enough, and intense enough, to train us into a kind of readiness. We kept boxes for the next move. We invested in what could be carried. We learned how to restart. Yet we also integrated. We became business leaders, politicians, artists, intellectuals. We were invited into circles of influence, until the wheel turned again. Paradoxically, we became, in the imagination of others, both the stereotypical insider and the perpetual outsider.

This week's parashah, Sh'mot, gives us the origin story of Moshe, a person formed by that tension. He is raised in Pharaoh's palace, the definition of an insider. When he flees Egypt and reaches Midian, Yitro's daughters identify him as an Egyptian because he looks, speaks, and behaves like one.[1] Yet when God speaks to him for the first time, God does not simply say: "I am the God of Israel." God says: "I am the God of your father, the God of Avraham, the God of Yitzchak, and the God of Yaakov."[2] Moshe belongs, even if his belonging is complicated.

That complicated belonging is not a footnote. It is the engine of Moshe's leadership. An insider can enter rooms others are kept out of. An outsider can notice what insiders learn not to see. Moshe is both: shaped by the empire's etiquette, yet able to hear a suffering that the empire treats as background noise.

The Torah captures his awakening in one short scene: "Moshe went out… and he saw their burdens."[3] He leaves the comfort of the palace, and he allows himself to look. That first act matters more than we think, because every system of oppression depends on cultivated blindness. It needs decent people to avert their eyes, to get used to what should never become normal. Moshe refuses to get used to it.

And then he risks something. He intervenes when he sees violence. However we judge his actions, the direction is clear: he does not use privilege as a shield from responsibility, but as a reason to step in. Privilege, in Sh'mot, is not merely an advantage. It is a test. Will access soften his conscience or harden it?

But we should be careful not to read Moshe as the lone hero who brings redemption to a passive people. Resistance was already underway before Moshe ever left the palace. Shifrah and Puah, the midwives, had already defied Pharaoh's murderous decree.[4] The Israelites had been surviving, sustaining one another, and resisting in ways the text only hints at. Moshe does not initiate liberation, he joins a struggle already in motion, finding partners like Aharon and Miriam and bringing with him resources and access that can amplify what others have begun. 

This instinct to join the fight follows him everywhere. In Midian, Moshe might've been called an "Egyptian," yet he still sides with the vulnerable at the well. His moral reflex is not only tribal. It is ethical. In each setting, he uses whatever standing he has in that moment, insider or stranger, citizen or guest, to push back against humiliation. This capacity to move between worlds, to understand power's language without being seduced by it, helps explain why he can confront Pharaoh. He knows how the palace thinks, how power speaks, how it rationalizes itself, how it expects people to obey. But he is no longer impressed by it. He has trained his ear to a different voice, the voice of those whose pain is usually unheard. An outsider's sensitivity, paired with an insider's access, becomes a dangerous combination for any unjust regime.

Most of us live with layered belonging. We speak the language of our countries, share their culture, are committed to their future, and show up as citizens and neighbours. We also carry distinct memories and commitments. That can create tension, but it can also create moral clarity. We can be "inside" enough to act, and "outside" enough to notice what the majority normalizes.

Sh'mot suggests a measure of leadership that is demanding, but also hopeful. Not perfection. Not certainty. Not heroic self-image. Leadership can begin when someone crosses the boundary, listens to the cry, and is willing to spend privilege (and sometimes, even to lose it) to join the fight for dignity and liberation.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Ex. 2:19

[2] Ex. 3:6

[3] Ex. 2:11

[4] Ex. 1:15-21