The youthful Moshe has grown up in the Royal Palace, far removed physically and psychologically from his brethren, the Hebrews, now enslaved in Egypt. He has undoubtedly received an Egyptian education and is part of the Egyptian elite – having been cared for by none other than Pharaoh’s daughter. While we, having read the rest of the book, know the end of the story, Moshe does not. There is every reason to believe that Moshe is conflicted. Is he an Egyptian or is he a Hebrew? Can one be both? Can those who are part of the privileged class identify with the oppressed? Or has his being raised in the Royal palace since he was an infant made him as Egyptian as Pharaoh?
Moshe was not the first to face this dilemma. Some 75 years earlier his great-great uncle, Yosef, reached the pinnacle of power in a very similar Egyptian palace. His brothers came to Egypt for food and while Yosef “recognized” them it was unclear whether he would reunite with them.
It did not look promising. He had named his eldest son Menashe, “for God hath made me forget all my toil, and all my father’s house” (Breisheet 41:51) and made no effort to contact his family. He had changed his name, dress and language and had fully assimilated into Egyptian culture. Yet what must clearly have been a shock to many, Yosef eventually identifies himself as the brother of the Hebrew, the people with whom eating bread is for the Egyptians an abomination (see Breisheet 43:32).
Yosef paid a heavy price for such “betrayal”. While he was granted permission to bury his father in Egypt – something that surely confirmed his outsider status – he lived the last 54 years of his life in obscurity. His wish to be buried in the Land of Israel would have to wait a long, long time.
Did Moshe know about his great-great-great uncle or did he, like Pharaoh “not know Joseph”? And if he did know of Joseph would it really matter? Why should it? What logical reason is there to identify with the Jewish people? Is it worth risking his status, position and maybe even his life to identify with a bunch of slaves?
“And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown up, that he went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens; and he saw an Egyptian man smiting a Hebrew, one of his brethren” (Shemot 2:11).
That an Egyptian would be hitting a Hebrew is not surprising – I imagine it was a daily occurrence, and more than once a day. It hardly merits mention. What is surprising is that Moshe noticed, he saw the suffering of the Jewish people. We have a tendency to turn away from the suffering of others. It is much easier to “pretend” we did not know. Because if we know we have to do something about it – and that is not an easy thing to do.
Moshe was different. He noticed the suffering of “others”, of those lowly slaves. Remarkably, he saw the slaves as his brethren, identifying wth them as his own.
The Torah is silent on how that might have happened. Was it bat- Pharaoh who raised him – “she [bat-Pharaoh] brought him unto Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son” – with knowledge of his roots? Did his mother and sister maintain a relationship with him? Did he possess a deep sense of right and wrong, of compassion for the downtrodden – a central, perhaps the central, theme of the Torah[1] he would eventually give to the Jewish people? We do not know. But what we do know is that he saw, he took notice and he did something about it.
Moshe’s sense of justice was not limited to helping the underdog. Seeing two Hebrews fighting each other – there is little more can do to ensure continued oppression than to fight amongst ourselves – he once again intervened, but without success. Instead of resolution he was forced to flee for his life, escaping to Midian. There he sees seven sisters being chased away from the well by the male shepherds. Demonstrating that his sense of justice extends far beyond his brethren, and that even, perhaps especially, when one is unsuccessful one dare not be deterred, Moshe once again intervenes. And not only does he help the sisters he gains a wife. The man of justice settles down in Midian, living the pastoral life of a shepherd.
One day, as Moshe is tending to his flock, G-d appears to him, tasking him with the mission to redeem the Jewish people. Moshe is not interested in the task. His first words to G-d are “mi anochi, who am I” (Shemot 3:11). Moshe has spent many years – perhaps as many as sixty – in Midian. He has moved on, no longer connected to his brethren in Egypt. His wife is a Midianite woman and his father in-law, with whom he is close, is “priest of Midian”. Is Moshe his follower?
Why is G-d asking me, Moshe is surely wondering, to take His nation out of Egypt? They may be G-d’s people, but they are not my people. Or are they? Mi Anochi? Who am I? Am I an Egyptian? A Hebrew? A Midianite? “Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?” Why would I be disloyal to Pharaoh in whose palace I was raised? Am I still a Hebrew having not seen one in 60 years? And why should a Midianite be the saviour of the Jewish people?
Mi anochi, is a question not only for Moshe but for all of us. Who are we? When push comes to shove with whom do I most identify? What are our responsibilities? We can spend a lifetime avoiding the question but eventually, maybe when we least expect it, we are forced to answer that question.
Who am I? Moshe, after a lot of convincing, understood that he – the one who championed justice – was destined to lead his (and His) people for the rest of his life. He was to become Moshe Rabbeinu. May we, his students, be able to preperly answer the question, Mi Anochi?
[1] The command not to oppress the stranger appears no less than 36 times in the Torah – more than any other.
