The Plagues of Yesterday and Today: Parashat Bo

Parashat Bo places us at the very heart of the drama of the Exodus. The final three

plagues—locusts, darkness, and the death of the firstborn—are not merely spectacular

punishments preceding liberation. Rather, they form a pedagogical process, a profound

confrontation with the ways power, indifference, and denial dehumanize both the

oppressed and the oppressor.

God says to Moses:

“Bo el Par´oh” — “Come to Pharaoh” (Exodus 10:1).

The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 13:3) lingers on this unusual wording. It does not say lech =

“go,” but bo = “come.” As if God were saying: You will not confront power alone; I enter

with you.

Confronting evil is never done in isolation—but neither is it merely external. It is an entry

into the very heart of darkness.

Judaism never understood the plagues as a closed chapter of the past. The Talmud

teaches that “in every generation, a person must see themselves as if they are personally

leaving Egypt” (Pesachim 116b). This line, which we read in the Passover Haggadah,

suggests that the Exodus is ongoing—because Egypts still exist. Parahos still exist. And

with them, new plagues.

In my understanding, the plagues are not only supernatural events. Often, they are moral

consequences, systems that collapse when human dignity is denied.

War is one of the great plagues of our time and of every time.

Not only because of its physical destruction, but because it numbs moral sensitivity. The

Midrash (Tanchuma, Shoftim 19) teaches that when human blood is shed, the Divine

Presence withdraws. Constant violence creates spiritual darkness: the life of the other

becomes expendable, collateral, a statistic.

Sforno, the Italian Rabbi, physician, philosopher and commentator from the beginning of

the 16th century, comments that the true punishment is not the plague itself, but the loss

of the ability to hear the suffering of others. Modern warfare follows the same logic: when

another’s pain no longer moves us, we are already in the midst of the plague.

Never in history has there been so much food—and yet, so much hunger.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 92a) associates hunger with societies in which mutual

responsibility has collapsed.

The manna that will later appear in the wilderness is Egypt’s correction: no one could

hoard, and no one could deprive another. Today’s hunger is not a lack of resources—it is a

lack of ethics.

Injustice, inequality, and unlimited ambition for power are also evident plagues of our

time. Egypt was not poor. It was an advanced, powerful, well-organized civilization.

Precisely for that reason, its sin was greater. The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 1:8) notes that

the Egyptians knew how to organize labor—but chose to organize oppression.

Egypt was also a dictatorship. Not only because of physical enslavement, but because

power became absolute. Pharaoh recognizes no limits and no accountability. Sounds

familiar to us?

Pirkei Avot warns us: “Do not place blind trust in rulers” (Avot 2:3)—not as a rejection of

authority, but as a call for moral responsibility.

Rashi explains that Pharaoh’s heart hardened gradually: first, he chose not to listen. In the

same way, societies grow accustomed to silence, fear, and inequality before they

recognize oppression for what it is.

Ramban teaches that the plagues intensify because injustice left uncorrected, only

deepens. When a society normalizes inequality and abuse of power, darkness becomes

structural.

It is easy to recognize dictatorships in distant places. It is far harder to recognize them at

home.

The ninth plague, that of darkness, causes no physical destruction—yet paralyzes.

The Midrash describes a darkness so dense that people could not see one another. And

then adds something unsettling: for the children of Israel, there was light in their

homes (Exodus 10:23).

The modern form of darkness is indifference. We are hyperconnected, yet increasingly

isolated. We watch the suffering of the world on screens—and keep scrolling. Rav Kook

warned that the greatest moral corruption is becoming accustomed to evil without

rebelling against it.

Egypt is a symbol of accumulation. Pharaoh measures greatness by what he owns and

controls. Pirkei Avot teaches:

“Who is wealthy? One who is content with their portion” (Avot 4:1).

Unchecked ambition is a silent plague: it never satisfies, always demands more, and leaves

environmental, social, and spiritual devastation in its wake.

The Zohar explains that before redemption, Israel had to empty itself of Egypt’s values.

Physical departure was not enough; unlearning was required.

There are many other plagues we could add to this contemporary list: loneliness, even

when surrounded by people; the violence of language, when words cease to build; the

dehumanization of the other, including discrimination, racism, and antisemitism; and

despair, which is yet another form of slavery.

Parashat Bo introduces the first mitzvah given to Israel as a free people: the sanctification

of time. Before crossing the sea, before receiving the Torah, Israel learns to count time

with meaning. Freedom begins when we stop being enslaved to fear, consumption, and

indifference.

Redemption does not arrive all at once. It is a process—perhaps one we never fully

complete—but one we approach whenever we stop hardening our hearts, when we

recognize our own plagues, and when we dare to enter—bo—and confront them.

May we transform the memory of the Exodus into responsibility.

May we refuse to be satisfied with our own freedom while others remain trapped.

May we have the courage not to harden our hearts when reality challenges us.

And may we, in every generation, understand that leaving Egypt is a moral decision