From the moment I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at age 11 in 1967, I’ve grappled with the commandment:

בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרָיִם
“In every generation, a person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.”

For many years, I’ve wrestled with this—not because I fail to feel the weight of the Exodus, but because I’ve never felt myself at Sinai. Instead, I’ve always imagined I was among those who didn’t make it. Those who died in the wilderness. The ones who were lost on the way.

In every parashah, every commentary—from Rashi to Ramban—I could trace myself in the journey. But not at the mountain. I saw myself collapsing somewhere between Egypt and Sinai, lost in the heat, the thirst, the dust. Forgotten.

Each year, as my family celebrates freedom around the Seder table, I remain in that wilderness. Not in........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)