We are told that not every Hebrew left the narrow place of Egypt, following Moses in pursuit of liberty and self-determination. Many chose to stay behind even after witnessing the miraculous power of the divine, to embrace the comfort of what was known over the uncertainty of the unknown. They chose a life of slavery over the promise of a land to call their own. But even those who followed Moses to the desert, who had seen water turned to blood and the sea parted, continued to voice reasonable doubt. And they had questions that reverberate down generation to generation – dor l’dor. Difficult questions they were afraid to ask, questions that called for courageous self-reflection.

“Are we safer today than we were before?”

When Israel was attacked on October 7, 2023, the entire Jewish world held its breath. Not for 50 years had a foreign adversary been able to successfully surprise the IDF and inflict such a devastating blow. The cascading failures that led to that tragic day included a systemic misconception of how to keep Israelis safe. While the IDF recovered, dismantling the “ring of fire” of proxies Iran had built over decades to surround the Jewish State and decapitating their leadership, the cost for our soldiers has been steep. Since October 7, 927 have paid the ultimate price. The homefront isn’t fairing better. Hundreds of thousands of families have struggled with a parent deployed in reserves for hundreds of days. Twice in one year, millions have come under rocket and missile fire from three different fronts.

The Israelites knew the dangers of slavery in Egypt, but chose to enter a desert riddled with unknown threats. They chose to endure new hardships in pursuit of better days. We, too, must ask if we are truly safer now than we were before.

“Do our leaders know where they are heading?”

More than a month ago, Israel and the United States began striking targets across Iran, killing key leaders of the Islamic Republic who had been instrumental in the oppression of their own people and funding terror groups around the world. It has since been an exhausting month of endless alerts. A month of destructive disruptions to daily life for everyone from kids missing school to parents floundering at work to senior citizens struggling to reach shelter in time. A month of too many lives tragically lost and vile antisemitic attacks wherever Jews simply exist in public.

Living in the fear of a rising tide of violent antisemitism is not normal. Not when the institutional response feels ineffective and short-sighted. Running to shelters multiple times a night, living in the shadow of the possibility of indiscriminate death by intercontinental ballistic missiles, by interception debris – resisim – the size of a car is not normal. Not without clear communication about pragmatic goals. The Israelites followed Moses for decades through the desert because he told them they were heading to a land of milk and honey. It seems sensible to ask if our leaders know where they are heading.

“Will we survive?”

Many publications have referred to the massacres on October 7 as existential. For many Jews, it was the first time they ever questioned if Israel was safe. The existence of a Jewish state was a miracle for their grandparents and for their parents, but to them, Israel was a reality. The horrific inhumanity on display on October 7 shook a pillar of their Jewish identity that had been taken for granted. The boundless barrages of ballistic missiles and medium-range rockets threatening everyone living between the river and the sea are a daily reminder that Israel is under threat. But we have been threatened before, by empires and kingdoms, by crusades and inquisitions, by killing squads and pogroms. And we survived.

As the Israelites traversed the desert, they had every reason to question, “will we survive?” But the Jewish nation triumphed precisely because their leader carefully considered how to survive.

“How do we tell the story?”

Since the exodus from Egypt and for thousands of years, we have been commanded to tell the story of our liberation. In each generation, we are told to relive the exodus, to believe we are also in pursuit of liberty. We are not instructed to remain in the narrow place, to wallow in our victimhood, to be frozen in our trauma. The people of the Golden Calf – those still burdened by the psychological shackles of slavery – did not enter the Promised Land. Only those born free were deemed worthy by the divine to inherit their lot. And they were instructed to tell the story of the liberation from generation to generation.

How are we going to tell those who come next about this chapter of the Jewish story? What questions are we afraid to ask in 2026?

As we look back at the last few years, do we want to harp on the constant refrain of our pain and suffering? Do we want to push away potential allies by incessantly asserting that Jews stand alone? Do we want to be known as eternal victims motivated largely by vigilance and vengeance?

And even when we face inwards, are we content with patting ourselves on the back for the generous crowdfunding campaigns to rehabilitate the released hostages instead of demanding that responsibility be fulfilled by the government that allowed them to be kidnapped in the first place?

For years, we have faced choices between security and our values, drifting closer to “living by the sword” than to the Biblical dream of “swords turned into plowshares.” Is this not also a morally narrow place worth examining?

The people of forever can never be afraid of asking difficult questions. We are asked to take an accounting of our soul – cheshbon nefesh – every single year. Once ahead of the new year. And again, when we sit at the Seder table and relive our liberation. Let us ask these difficult questions. Let us each answer in our own way. And may we continue to build a Promised Land whose story we can proudly regale dor l’dor – from generation to generation.