Passover and Antisemitism: Three Chilling Insights

Pharaoh’s propaganda campaign might seem distant but look a little closer and you’ll see something chilling: the script hasn’t changed much in 3,500 years.

Here are three enduring lessons from the Exodus that can help us better understand the real nature of antisemitism—then and now.

1. Antisemitism Isn’t About the Stated Reasons—It’s About the Jewish Spiritual Threat

Pharaoh didn’t say, “We hate the Jews because they believe in one God” or “They make us uncomfortable because they won’t assimilate.”

No—he claimed the Jews were a national security threat. “The Israelites are becoming too numerous… If war breaks out, they might join our enemies and fight against us” (See Exodus 1:9–10). Really? A group of shepherds and laborers, who had lived peacefully in Goshen for generations, were suddenly a military threat capable of starting a war? This excuse is as flimsy as it sounds.

Antisemitism rarely presents itself honestly. The real issue is much deeper.

It was a lie. A pretext. And that’s the first insight: antisemitism rarely presents itself honestly. It hides behind superficial grievances—economic anxiety, political conspiracy, military suspicion – even the idea that Jews are easy scapegoats – but these are fig leaves. The real issue is much deeper.

The deeper truth, as the Torah reveals, and Hitler expressed (I show this in great detail in my book Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Jew?), is that antisemitism is rarely about the superficial reasons given—it’s about the Jews being a spiritual and ideological threat. Hitler said that all of World War II was “ideologically a battle between National Socialism and the Jews.”

The Jews have always posed a spiritual and ideological challenge to the dominant culture. In medieval Europe, Jews were blamed for economic woes, accused of usury or poisoning wells, but the real threat was our stubborn adherence to Torah values. Today, we hear antisemitic tropes about Jewish power or wealth, we see passionate protests against Israeli colonialism and committing genocide, but reasonable people know that the Jews are not the greatest violators of human rights on earth. Whether in ancient Egypt, Nazi Germany, Soviet Russia, or today’s radicalized Islamic world led by the Palestinian Hamas, the accusations shift—but the double standards reveal the underlying discomfort with Jewish values, impact and distinctiveness.

Jew-hatred is not about what Jews do. It’s about what Jews are and what they represent.

Antisemitism is not your run of the mill racism; it’s about the Jewish soul, a light that refuses to be extinguished, threatening those who want to dwell in spiritual darkness. Jew-hatred, in the end, is not about what Jews do. It’s about what Jews are and what they represent.

2. The Tragedy of Self-Hating Jews—Then and Now

Only 20% of the Jews actually left Egypt. The other 80% perished during the plague of darkness (Rashi on Exodus, 12:38). The Exodus story thus reveals a second, more painful truth about antisemitism: it doesn’t just come from external enemies; sometimes, it’s fueled by Jews who turn against their own people, driven by self-hatred or a failure to embrace their Jewish identity.

Why did 80% not join? Because they did not want to leave! Perhaps they opposed Moses and the vision of Jews performing a special mission in their own land, or they lacked faith in God’s promise and preferred the familiarity of Egyptian slavery to the uncertainty and responsibility of freedom.

Some actively worked to undermine Moses. The Midrash teaches that there were Israelites who collaborated with the Egyptian taskmasters and would inform on their brethren to the Egyptians. Others mocked Moses and Aaron when they came with news of the redemption. One can imagine the mainstream media, if there was one, ripping on them on a daily basis.

This has been a tragic pattern in Jewish history: some of the sharpest attacks on the Jewish people—especially in moments of crisis—come from fellow Jews.

We see this today in the phenomenon of Jewish activists aligning with our enemies, joining campus protests that demonize Israel while it defends itself from terrorism. Groups like Jewish Voice for Peace march under banners that might as well have been written in Tehran or Moscow, accusing Israel of genocide while remaining silent about the atrocities of Hamas. Joining the naive students, misguided professors and JVP leaders are self-hating leaders like George Soros, Bernie Sanders, Noam Chomsky, and Peter Beinart.

But this internal betrayal is nothing new.

In the days of the Maccabees, we meet the Hellenists—Jews who actively opposed Jewish observance, embraced Greek culture, and persecuted their own brothers for observing Judaism. In medieval Europe, we saw prominent apostates—baptized Jews—leading anti-Jewish campaigns, helping fuel the Inquisition and blood libels. These were not fringe exceptions.

Where does this self-hatred come from? I believe it’s a deep psychological response to subtle cultural siege, where Jews live in environments that pressure them – openly or subconsciously – to either conform or be crushed.

For many, it’s easier to join the mob than to stand apart.

When society teaches you to be ashamed of your Jewishness, some will run from it—and some will turn against it. On many campuses today, supporting Israel or expressing Jewish pride makes you a target. For many, it’s easier to join the mob than to stand apart. Young Jews often reject their Jewishness to gain acceptance in a ‘progressive’ world that demands we “check our Jewishness at the door”—a pressure I’ve witnessed on campuses where supporting Israel can lead to social ostracism. Going a step further, self-hating Jews choose to oppose Israel and gain bona fides for being on the left side of history.

But the Exodus reminds us: when redemption came, it was only for those who still knew they were Jews. You didn’t have to be perfect but you did have to belong.

3. Antisemitism as a Divine Tool to Awaken Our Unique Identity

The third insight from the Exodus story is both humbling and profound: antisemitism often serves as God’s tool to remind us of who we are. The Midrash teaches that the Jews were redeemed from Egypt because they maintained their distinctiveness—they didn’t change their clothes, names, or language, even in the face of slavery (Shemot Rabbah 1:28). On the surface, this seems like a small detail, but its meaning runs deep. Even in the depths of oppression, the Jews understood they were different—a family with a unique role, even if they weren’t fully “doing it all” in terms of observance. This awareness of their special identity was the crucial step that paved the way for redemption.

In Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Jew?, I explore how Jew-hatred often jolts Jews back to consciousness. The yellow star Jews were forced to wear in Germany in 1935 was meant to humiliate and isolate us, yet, for many, it awakened a sense of pride and solidarity. And on October 7th, in a world where many Jews felt safe, indistinguishable, and post-tribal, the masks came off.

Like the Nazis, Hamas didn’t ask who was “religious.” They didn’t check denominational boxes. They reminded us that in the eyes of our enemies—and in the eyes of Heaven—we are one people. As the name of my new film Tragic Awakening (based on the book) expresses, the tragedy of October 7, 2023, and the global antisemitism that followed has awakened and galvanized Jews worldwide to reconnect with their heritage.

Jew-hatred, as painful as it is both physically and spiritually – as a jarring reminder that we were never meant to blend in – often becomes the crucible through which we rediscover our unique role in the world.

That’s not a comforting thought. But it’s a clarifying one.

So, what do we do in the face of such hatred? The Exodus story doesn’t just diagnose the problem—it offers a solution. When the Jews cried out under the weight of their oppression, God heard their plea and sent Moses to lead them to freedom (Exodus 2:23-25). But liberation wasn’t the end goal; it was the beginning of a mission. At Sinai, God gave us the Torah and declared us a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6), tasking us with being a light unto the nations.

The first step out of every Egypt—whether ancient or modern—is the rediscovery of who we are.

Our response to antisemitism must be to double down on our identity and mission. In Egypt, the Jews didn’t assimilate into Egyptian culture, even under immense pressure. The horrors of October 7 resulted in Jews everywhere returning to their roots, lighting Shabbat candles, and standing prouder as a people. Jew-hatred may try to dim our light, but our response must be to shine brighter, illuminating the world with the eternal truths of the Torah.

Conclusion: The First Step Out of Egypt

We were redeemed from Egypt because we remembered we were different. We didn’t earn it by perfection. We stepped into redemption because we stepped into identity.

And so it is now. The Haggadah asks us “in every generation to feel as if you personally left Egypt.” The first step out of every Egypt—whether ancient or modern—is the rediscovery of who we are. Antisemitism, as horrific as it is, has a strange spiritual function. It pulls away the illusion of safety, of sameness, and forces us to ask: What does it mean to be a Jew? And more importantly: What are we here for?

If we can remember that—not just in pain, but in purpose—then even the darkest chapters of our story can become part of the Exodus.

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