What if the Exodus Never Happened?

Each year at Pesach, we gather around the Seder table to retell a story of liberation. We recall our ancestors’ suffering in Egypt, their miraculous escape from bondage, and their journey towards freedom. But what if it never happened?

The question may seem unsettling, even sacrilegious. Yet it is one that many contemporary Jews—especially those engaged in historical scholarship—cannot avoid. The overwhelming consensus among archaeologists today is that there is no clear material evidence to support the biblical account of the Exodus: no signs of mass migration through the Sinai, no evidence of Israelites dwelling in Egypt in the numbers or under the conditions described in the Torah.

This tension between tradition and archaeology was dramatically brought to light over twenty years ago when a prominent rabbi in Los Angeles raised the issue in a Pesach sermon. He asked his congregation whether it would matter if the Exodus were not historically true. The reaction was so intense that it landed on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. [1] Clearly, the question touches a deep nerve.

Scholar Richard Elliott Friedman, in his book The Exodus, offers an intriguing possibility. While acknowledging the lack of large-scale archaeological evidence, he suggests that a smaller group of people—possibly Levites with Egyptian connections—might indeed have left Egypt and brought with them a memory of slavery and divine liberation. This memory, over generations, became the Exodus narrative we know today.

Whether or not such a proto-Exodus occurred, Friedman’s point is crucial: the power of the story lies not in its provability, but in the moral and spiritual truths it conveys.

At its heart, Pesach is not only a celebration of freedom, but a call to responsibility. “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” This commandment appears over and over in the Torah, and it is grounded in the Exodus experience—not as a historical report, but as a foundational narrative that shapes Jewish ethics.

The enduring power of Pesach is not in whether archaeologists can confirm it, but in its demand that we identify with the vulnerable and refuse to become Pharaohs when we are in positions of strength.

This year, may our storytelling renew our commitment to justice.

Chag haCherut sameach. Happy Festival of Freedom!

[1] https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2001-apr-13-mn-50481-story.html

Of Words, Symbols, and Resistance

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "De palavras, símbolos e resistência")

Several years ago, I visited a religious temple in the Chicago area, where I was startled to find a design carved into the walls that strongly resembled a swastika. When I questioned the person guiding our tour of the space, I was informed that this design had been a religious symbol long before it was appropriated by the Nazis as the emblem of their party. lthough I understood the guide’s explanation, it was difficult to grasp how, in that building—whose construction had been completed in 1953—the widespread and painful meaning that this symbol had acquired in the twentieth century had not been taken into account, and thus avoided in the decoration of the walls.

Just like graphic symbols, words can also take on a life of their own, as poets have long attested. In some contexts, words are chosen precisely because of their double meanings, sometimes creating humorous situations; in others, they are avoided for fear of being misunderstood.

This week’s parashah, Tsav, returns to the theme of animal sacrifices, their contexts and regulations. One type of offering made to God was the olah, in which an animal was entirely burnt on the altar. The term was translated into Greek as holokauston—a concept already familiar in Hellenistic religions—meaning complete (holos) burning (kaustos), and it was later rendered into English as “holocaust”.

By the late nineteenth century, the word holocaust began to be used by the American press to refer to large-scale massacres, such as the Armenian genocide of 1915–1917. After the Second World War, when the full extent of the Nazi atrocities began to be revealed, Holocaust—now written with a capital ‘H’ and often preceded by the definite article—came to refer specifically to the near-extermination of the Jewish population of Europe through the brutal and systematic murder of six million people.

Just as I was startled to find a swastika in a religious temple, many people are shocked to encounter the word holocaust in a translation of the Torah—especially when referring to a religious practice. The systematic murder of human beings and the disposal of their bodies in crematoria stands in complete opposition to the pursuit of a relationship with the Divine. For this reason, many reject the term Holocaust to describe this tragic chapter of Jewish and world history. Among the alternative terms proposed, Shoah—a biblical word meaning “catastrophe”—has become the preferred term in Jewish contexts when referring to these events.

While the Shoah was still ongoing, a group of young activists from Jewish-Zionist youth movements led an uprising against the Nazi forces emptying the Warsaw Ghetto and deporting its residents to extermination camps. On the eve of Pesach in 1943—which this year will fall tomorrow (11 April)—when SS forces entered the Ghetto, they were met with armed resistance from Jewish fighters, who managed to hold out for nearly two months. This act of defiance was extraordinary in the face of a far larger, better-trained, and better-equipped army. Commenting on the meaning of the uprising, one of its leaders, Itschak Cukierman, said:

“I do not believe it is really necessary to analyse the Revolt in military terms. This was a war of fewer than a thousand people against a mighty army, and no one doubted the outcome. This is not something to be studied in military academies. (...) If there is a school for studying the human spirit, this should be a central subject. What truly matters was the inner strength demonstrated by Jewish youth after years of degradation—to rise up against their destroyers and choose how they would die: Treblinka or Revolt.” [1]

May this Shabbat bring us the strength to reclaim the power of words, the meaning of symbols, and the control over our own narratives—to cherish life and the resilience shown in its defence.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag haCherut Sameach, happy Holiday of Freedom!

Podcast 5.8 - Episódio 13: Com o olhar para o futuro: o judaísmo ibérico e holandês no Nordeste do Brasil

(Oiginalmente publicado em http://5ponto8.fireside.fm/13)

"Quem segue a pé de Chinatown em direção ao Distrito Financeiro de Nova York talvez passe inadvertido, à altura do número 55 da St. James Place, diante dos 22 metros de comprimento de uma mureta feita de pedras superpostas, encimada por grades pontiagudas e enferrujadas. Por trás dela, nada de excepcional parece chamar a atenção no pequeno descampado estabelecido metro e meio acima do plano da calçada, o solo coberto de musgo e ervas daninhas. À primeira vista, aparenta ser apenas um terreno baldio, simples vazio urbano dando para os fundos deteriorados de prédios populares de três e cinco andares.

Assim de passagem, só mesmo uma dose singular de atenção e curiosidade irá discernir a placa retangular ao rés do chão interno, as letras em alto-relevo recobertas de pátina própria ao tempo: Primeiro Cemitério da Sinagoga Espanhola e Portuguesa Shearith Israel da Cidade de Nova York 1656-1833”

Nossos convidado de hoje é Lira Neto, escritor e jornalista, recebeu o Prêmio Jabuti de Literatura em quatro ocasiões (2007, 2010, 2013 e 2014) e uma vez o prêmio da Associação Paulista de Críticos de Arte - APCA (2014). Graduado em Comunicação Social pela Universidade Federal do Ceará (UFC), é mestre em Comunicação e Semiótica pela Pontifícia Universidade Católica de São Paulo (PUC-SP). Doutorando em História pela Universidade Nova de Lisboa. Lira Neto está publicando nestes dias o livro “Arrancados da Terra” pela Companhia das Letras, no qual ele trata dos processos que levaram a comunidade judaica portuguesa a se refugiar na Holanda e, de lá, fazer parte da invasão holandesa no nordeste brasileiro.

Dicas Culturais:

• Thimothy Brook - O chapéu de Vermeer - https://www3.livrariacultura.com.br/o-chapeu-de-vermeer-30171043/p

• Evaldo Cabral de Melo - Brasil Holandês - https://www3.livrariacultura.com.br/o-brasil-holandes-2012994272/p

• Richard Zimler - “O último cabalista de Lisboa”, https://www.estantevirtual.com.br/livros/richard-zimler/o-ultimo-cabalista-de-lisboa/1577869466

Com Rogério Cukierman e Laura Trachtenberg Hauser.
Créditos da Música de Abertura: Lechá Dodi, da liturgia tradicional de Shabat | Melodia: Craig Taubman | Clarinete: Alexandre F. Travassos | Piano: Tânia F. Travassos.
Edição: Misa Obara

Ticún da Virada de Shavuot 2020: Modelos judaicos para os desafios do dia