We Were Slaves. Now We Are Free.

That’s the essence of what we say each year at the seder, the Passover meal.

It’s a lot to process.

The Exodus isn’t just a story; it’s a ritual meant to be personal: “In every generation, a person must see themselves as if they had come out of Egypt.”

It always felt metaphorical—until now.

Because there are real chains, real captivity, real fear.

Some of these chains are literal, like the Israeli hostages still held in Gaza. Others are subtler: the quiet erosion of rights, the normalization of surveillance, the slow drift from democratic values we once took for granted.

We used to believe the arc of history was long and uneven but bent toward freedom.

That belief is harder to defend today.

We’ve watched authoritarianism evolve: less brute force, more disinformation, manipulation, and manufactured consent. Sometimes the violence is obvious; other times it wears a suit and speaks the language of progress.

The names—Putin, Xi, Erdoğan, Orbán—are familiar. But the shift runs deeper than a few strongmen. It’s cultural. Structural. Insidious.

Examples of self-censorship are evident in various industries, including the NBA, Hollywood, and big law. Some call it strategy. More often, it feels like surrender.

Key tools of freedom—speech, technology, even elections—are increasingly being repurposed to control rather than liberate.

We’ve seen what happens when truth becomes negotiable, dissent becomes dangerous, and identity is weaponized. This type of violence spreads quickly, and even the most stable democracies aren't immune.

Pressure to conform, fear of speaking out, and the erosion of nuance don’t arrive shouting. They appear disguised as safety and order.

Then people begin to forget what freedom actually feels like.

That’s what haunts me.

And it’s why the story of Exodus matters—not just to Jews, but to anyone who believes freedom is both fragile and worth protecting.

Rabbi and scholar, Meir Soloveichik, wrote this week in The Free Press that the Exodus wasn’t merely spiritual inspiration—it was the founding fathers’ political fuel. Jefferson, Adams, and Franklin didn’t just reference the story; they lived by it. Franklin even proposed that the national seal depict Moses parting the Red Sea alongside the motto: “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.”

They believed freedom was not granted by man but was God-given. No ruler, system, or Pharaoh had the right to stand in its way.

This isn’t just historical trivia; it reminds us how deeply liberation was once woven into the fabric of American society.

This raises an uncomfortable question: if we’ve lost our connection to that story, what else have we lost with it?

I’ve had to face that question myself, but in a different way.

Fourteen years ago, I lost my own freedom—suddenly, traumatically, and without warning. One moment, I was cycling down a quiet road; the next, I was paralyzed, hit by a drowsy driver who veered into my lane.

My body no longer moved as it once did. No more running. Skiing. Or walking unnoticed into a room.

Initially, the loss felt purely physical. But it soon became emotional. Psychological. Existential.

When your body stops cooperating, you begin asking different questions about what freedom truly is.

I used to think that freedom meant independence, autonomy, and control—the ability to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without help.

Over time, my understanding shifted. Freedom wasn’t autonomy but agency. It meant having a say in my story, even as it veered wildly off course. It meant choosing connection over isolation, purpose over despair, and refusing to let circumstances dictate who I was.

It’s not the freedom enshrined in constitutions, but the kind written deep into character.

Which brings me back to the seder table.

We say the words—we were slaves, now we are free—and they hang there, often recited but rarely reckoned with.

Yet this story isn't merely about events from three millennia ago. It reminds us just how fragile freedom can be and how quickly things can change. We must remember not only what we escaped, but what we’re obligated to protect.

We don’t retell the story of Exodus to feel good about history. We retell it to stay awake in the present.

We retell it so we don’t forget what it feels like to be powerless—or what it takes to safeguard freedom.

Most of all, we retell it to remind ourselves that even when the path is uncertain, even when the sea hasn’t yet parted, we belong to something larger: a shared story, a deeper struggle, and a common hope.

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