There are moments in history when time itself seems to change shape—when days no longer feel like days, and weeks stretch into something heavier, something more enduring. Since the horrors of October 7, in what is now widely referred to as the October 7 attacks, many in Israel have begun to speak not in the language of weeks or even months, but in years. This is not a war people expect to end quickly. It is not a campaign with a clear horizon. It is, increasingly, understood as a prolonged struggle—one that will demand not only military endurance, but emotional, spiritual, and national resilience.

And with that realization comes something even more difficult: the quiet, unspoken fear that some may not be able to endure it. That the weight of constant threat, the drumbeat of sirens, the uncertainty about the future, may drive people to leave. Not out of lack of love, but out of exhaustion. Not out of abandonment, but out of desperation.

This is not the first time Jews have faced such a moment.

The Torah tells us that the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt for 400 years. Four centuries. It is almost impossible to comprehend that span of time—not just the physical suffering, but the psychological toll. Generations were born into bondage. Generations died without ever seeing freedom. Hope itself must have felt fragile, even foolish.

And yet, the story did not end there.

The book of Exodus opens with a cry that reverberates across time:“וַיֵּאָנְחוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִן־הָעֲבֹדָה… וַתַּעַל שַׁוְעָתָם אֶל־הָאֱלֹהִים”“The Israelites groaned from the labor… and their cry rose up to God” (Exodus 2:23).

The Torah does not sanitize the experience. It does not pretend that faith erased suffering. It tells us plainly: they groaned. They cried. They despaired. And still, something in them reached upward.

That tension—between despair and hope—is where we find ourselves now.

For many Israelis today, life has taken on a new and unsettling rhythm. The sounds of ordinary life are punctuated by alerts and interruptions. Parents carry a heightened awareness for their children’s safety. Soldiers—many of them reservists pulled from civilian life—move between worlds, from home to front and back again. The question is no longer “when will this end?” but “how long can this go on?”

And beneath that question lies another: what does it do to a society when war becomes not an episode, but a condition?

There is a rabbinic teaching in the Talmud that says:“לא עליך המלאכה לגמור, ולא אתה בן חורין להיבטל ממנה”“It is not upon you to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16).

This teaching is often understood as a call to perseverance in the face of overwhelming tasks. But in this moment, it carries an added layer of meaning. It acknowledges something deeply human: that we may not see the end. That the work before us may extend beyond our own lifetimes. And still—we are called to continue.

That is a hard truth. It is also a sustaining one.

Because one of the most disorienting aspects of the current war is precisely this sense of open-endedness. Wars with clear beginnings and endings allow for a narrative arc. There is mobilization, conflict, and eventually resolution. But what happens when the arc disappears? When there is no clear resolution in sight?

In such moments, people begin to ask whether they can live this way indefinitely. Some begin to consider leaving—not because they do not believe in the cause, but because they are unsure they can carry the burden.

And here, again, Jewish memory speaks.

The Israelites, too, knew moments when the burden felt unbearable. When Moses first approaches Pharaoh and conditions worsen, the people turn on him in anguish:“יֵרֶא ה’ עֲלֵיכֶם וְיִשְׁפֹּט”“May God look upon you and judge” (Exodus 5:21).

They lash out not because they lack faith, but because suffering has eroded their capacity to hold onto it. This is one of the Torah’s most honest insights: that prolonged oppression does not just wound the body—it distorts the spirit.

And yet, the story moves forward.

As we approach the festival of Passover, we encounter one of the most radical commandments in all of Jewish tradition:“בְּכָל־דוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרָיִם”“In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally went out from Egypt.”

This is not a call to historical memory alone. It is a demand for existential identification. We are not merely to remember slavery—we are to feel it, to recognize the ways in which we, too, live under forms of constraint and fear.

In our time, one of those forms is terrorism.

Terrorism is not just about physical danger; it is about psychological imprisonment. It seeks to shrink the boundaries of life, to make ordinary acts—sending a child to school, gathering in public, traveling from place to place—feel fraught with risk. It is, in a very real sense, a form of enslavement.

And so, when we sit at the Seder and speak of Egypt, we are not only telling an ancient story. We are naming a present reality. We are acknowledging that freedom is never absolute, never guaranteed. It must be fought for, protected, and, at times, reclaimed.

But the Seder does something else as well. It insists on hope.

We drink four cups of wine—not because redemption was easy, but because it was possible. We ask questions—not because we have all the answers, but because questioning itself is an act of engagement, of refusal to surrender. We break the matzah—symbol of affliction—and transform it into something shared, something meaningful.

In other words, the Seder teaches us how to live in the tension between what is and what could be.

For Israelis facing the prospect of a long war, this tension is acute. The reality is harsh: a conflict that may stretch on for years, a sense of vulnerability that cannot be easily dispelled, a future that feels uncertain. And yet, alongside that reality is another truth: that the Jewish people have endured prolonged struggles before—and have emerged from them not only intact, but transformed.

This does not mean that everyone will stay. It would be naive, even unfair, to expect that. People have limits. Families make decisions based on safety, opportunity, and well-being. The Torah itself recognizes human frailty; it does not demand perfection.

But it does offer a framework for understanding endurance.

In the book of Deuteronomy, we read:“כִּי לֹא עַל־הַלֶּחֶם לְבַדּוֹ יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם”“Man does not live by bread alone” (Deuteronomy 8:3).

Physical sustenance is necessary, but it is not sufficient. What sustains a people over time is something deeper: a sense of purpose, of identity, of connection to a story larger than oneself.

That is what has carried the Jewish people through centuries of exile, persecution, and uncertainty. And that is what continues to sustain those who remain in Israel today—not a denial of reality, but a commitment to something beyond it.

There is a powerful midrash that imagines the moment before the crossing of the Red Sea. The waters do not part immediately. The people stand at the edge, trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the sea. According to the midrash, it is only when Nachshon ben Aminadav steps into the water—when it rises to his neck—that the sea finally splits.

The message is clear: redemption often requires a leap of faith taken before the path is visible.

Today, Israel stands in a moment not unlike that shoreline. The path forward is unclear. The waters have not yet parted. And yet, life continues. People go to work, send their children to school, celebrate holidays, mourn losses, and hold onto the fragile threads of normalcy.

This, too, is a form of courage.

And perhaps this is what the Seder ultimately asks of us: not to deny the reality of our circumstances, but to refuse to let them define the entirety of our existence. To acknowledge the presence of “Egypt”—of constraint, fear, and suffering—while also affirming the possibility of “Exodus”—of movement, change, and redemption.

As we gather around our tables this Passover, we will tell a story that is both ancient and immediate. We will speak of slavery and freedom, of despair and hope. And in doing so, we will connect ourselves to a chain of generations who have faced their own versions of prolonged struggle—and who have found ways to endure.

The war in Israel may last longer than anyone wishes. It may test the limits of patience, resilience, and faith. It may lead some to leave, seeking safety and stability elsewhere. These are real and painful truths.

But there is another truth as well: that the Jewish people have lived through “years” before. That we have known what it is to feel trapped in a reality that seems unending. And that, time and again, we have found ways to move forward—not because the path was easy, but because the alternative was unthinkable.

In every generation, we are called to see ourselves as if we left Egypt.

Perhaps this year, that call feels more urgent than ever.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)