1 week Ago By Eli Federman
Growing up, the Passover holiday commemorating the Israelites’ liberation from slavery in ancient Egypt meant consuming ritual foods such as matzo, grape juice and horseradish, while counting down the pages in the Haggadah (the book that guides the seder , the retelling of the Exodus story), until we could dig in to the festive meal. Occasionally, the seder would also include conversation on how to overcome our own “personal Egypts”: stress, doubt and struggle. But this year at our seder table, I’ll also be thinking about others in real systems of exile and silencing, not just in a metaphorical Egypt.
In particular, I’ll be thinking of foreign students studying legally at American universities who have been detained and face deportation from the U.S. for expressing unpopular views.
Scores of students have had their visas revoked. Among them are pro-Palestinian protesters, now facing the threat of removal, who have not been charged with clearly criminal actions but instead with vague offenses that seem related to speech but that the government has described as supporting the terrorist group Hamas. Like former Columbia University student and lawful permanent resident Mahmoud Khalil , Georgetown postdoctoral fellow Badar Khan Suri and Tufts student Rumeysa Ozturk .
And this week, the government announced it will screen the social media accounts of immigrants for evidence of what it deems antisemitic activity, which some fear could include mere criticism of Israel, as grounds to potentially deny benefits. I firmly support Israel’s right to exist and defend itself, so I obviously abhor these protesters' views and support punishing activists who engage in documented criminal behavior such as vandalism and harassment. But free speech is only meaningful when it protects those we disagree with.
These cases reveal a chilling trend of using immigration enforcement to punish dissent and redefine lawful activism as a threat to national security. When protected speech becomes grounds for deportation, freedom is in jeopardy. Jay Parini April 2, 2025 In the Haggadah, we read about four children during the seder: the wise, the wicked, the simple and the uninformed.
But modern commentators speak of including a fifth child who isn’t at the table at all. Traditionally, this child represents estranged and assimilated Jews, or those who perished in the Holocaust. To me, this child also signifies anyone silenced or excluded.
This year, that child might be a Jewish student activist who speaks up for Palestinian rights and feels alienated in their own communities because of it. Or Mahmoud, Badar or Rumeysa – detained and shut out of the conversation. They’re not absent by choice.
We’ve closed the door on their voices. The Torah, or first five books of the Hebrew Bible, commands us at least 36 times to care for the stranger – because we Jews were once strangers in Egypt. That commandment is mentioned more than any other in the Torah, including the one to “love God” or your neighbor.
In other words, moral responsibility begins with helping those most likely to be excluded. In the Exodus story, the link between exclusion and silencing is made clear. Pharaoh, the Egyptian king who oppresses the Jews, didn’t just enslave bodies.
He suppressed voices by refusing to acknowledge the Israelites’ cries and suffering. The story is also a tale about the dangers of dehumanizing speech. The etymology of Pharaoh’s name – peh ra , meaning “evil mouth” in Hebrew – has even been read as a warning against hate speech and slander.
And the Torah describes that when Moses was chosen to confront Pharaoh, he hesitated because he was “slow of speech.” Perhaps this shows how deeply oppression disables expression. The story is not just a tale of physical liberation, but a defense of the right to speak.
After all, even before the plagues, the first act of redemption was Moses declaring, “Let my people go.” That simple act of speech sparked the most enduring liberation story in history. One we’ve seen echoed again and again, when Martin Luther King Jr.
dreamed aloud on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, when Malala Yousafzai demanded education for girls, when Nelson Mandela spoke from a prison cell. Liberation begins when someone dares to speak. Ross Haenfler April 3, 2025 Jewish tradition teaches that one of the reasons that the Israelites merited deliverance from Egypt was that they preserved their language during slavery.
Even in servitude, they refused to assimilate through silence. Holding onto their voice became a form of resistance – and ultimately, redemption. That legacy makes it all the more urgent that we defend speech today.
Not just our own, but the voices we fear, disagree with or are tempted to erase. When the Israelites finally left Egypt, they didn’t leave alone. The Torah tells us a “ mixed multitude ” joined them.
Freedom wasn’t reserved for one people. Even the “wicked” child in the Haggadah – the one who questions the tradition of Passover – still has a seat at the table. Shouldn’t that same standard apply to those challenging our politics or worldview even when they represent views deemed wicked? Passover reminds us that freedom is not a zero-sum game.
Welcoming refugees doesn’t weaken a nation – it strengthens it. Protecting controversial speech doesn’t erode democracy – it sustains it. Advocating for others’ rights doesn’t mean forfeiting our own – it’s how we preserve them.
Passover doesn’t ask us to romanticize the past. It demands moral clarity in the present. This year, when we open the door at the end of the seder to symbolically welcome Elijah the prophet, maybe we can open it a little wider – for the immigrant, the protester, the refugee, the uncomfortable voice we disagree with.
Because the seder isn’t just a symbolic retelling. It’s a call to action. Eli Federman has written for USA Today, Reuters, The Wall Street Journal and others on religion, the First Amendment and the Middle East.
X: @EliFederman.
