By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
A Rebbe once read to his students the verse from Exodus 10:23:
“They did not see one another, nor did any rise from his place for three days; but all the people of Israel had light where they dwelt.”
A youngster asked: Why didn’t the Egyptians simply light lanterns?
The Rebbe replied: This plague was not darkness in the eyes alone. It was a deeper darkness—a numbness of the heart where no one cared for their neighbor. No one felt the pain of another. No one rose to help the hopeless or answer cries of despair. In that profound apathy, society descended into terrifying isolation. That is the terror of such darkness.
We witness a similar plague today in Iran. Since late December 2025, the people—women, youth, merchants, workers—have risen in unprecedented numbers against economic ruin, hyperinflation, currency collapse, and decades of tyrannical rule. Building on the “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement sparked by Mahsa Amini’s 2022 murder, protests swept all 31 provinces, demanding an end to clerical domination, corruption, and the regime’s plunder of resources for foreign adventures while citizens face starvation and despair.
The response was savage: live fire on crowds, hospital invasions, mass detentions, torture, and a near-total internet blackout concealing the horror. Human rights monitors (Amnesty International, HRANA, exile networks) report thousands killed—estimates from 2,000 to over 16,000 in the crackdown’s bloodiest waves—tens of thousands injured, and families denied even burial rights for their dead. The regime declares “calm” restored through force, yet the streets remain patrolled, threats linger, and swift executions loom for the captured.
Amid this, a chilling parallel: the apathy of the Western press and nations. Coverage has been muted, delayed, or framed narrowly as “economic unrest” rather than a desperate struggle for human dignity and life. Videos of shootings and mass casualties receive hesitant verification, while governments offer tepid “concern” and calls for restraint without decisive action. Diplomatic notes are exchanged, but urgency fades in the face of geopolitical caution, escalation fears, or inconvenient narratives.
This is the hardened heart of Pharaoh—anesthisized, numb to suffering. Ezekiel prophesies the need to replace the “stony heart” with one of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). In our time, this hardness shows as selective blindness: failing to “see one another” or rise when distant kin suffer.
Martin Luther King Jr. once preached powerfully on this biblical archetype: “Egypt was the symbol of evil in the form of humiliating oppression, ungodly exploitation, and crushing domination. While Egypt struggled to maintain its oppressive yoke, Israel struggled to gain freedom.” In his sermon “The Death of Evil upon the Seashore,” King drew from the Exodus to affirm that the universe bends toward justice, with evil’s forces ultimately doomed—as the Egyptians drowned at the Red Sea. Yet he warned that oppression persists where good people remain silent. Today, Iran’s people embody that struggle for freedom against a modern “Egypt” of repression—while Western silence risks prolonging the yoke.
Hazrat Inayat Khan’s metaphors resonate: Our hearts become iron (needing fire to soften) or frozen water (unable to flow). Not all are gold—soft and responsive—but Judaism calls us to tune our hearts like violin strings. Loose strings make no sound; apathy (apathos in Greek, “without feeling”) deafens us to oppression.
Martin Niemöller’s words pierce anew: “When the Nazis came for the Jews, I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
We might paraphrase this perspective in a modern voice: When Iran’s regime slaughtered its people—women defying mandates, merchants bankrupted, children gunned down—I stayed silent, because it was distant. When Western media quieted, and nations averted their gaze, I did not protest, because it felt remote.
The Torah rejects such isolation. We are our brother’s and sisters’ keepers (Genesis 4:9). Community unites us in shared destiny—no one is an island. Duties of justice (tzedakah) and kindness (chesed) reach all, especially the oppressed crying out.
C.H. Spurgeon once wrote: “I put it to the consciences of many silent Christians who have never yet made known to others what God has made known to them—How can you be clear from guilt in this matter? Do not say, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ for I shall have to give you a horrible answer if you do. I shall say, ‘No, Cain, you are not your brother’s keeper but your brother’s killer. If, by your effort, you have not sought his good, by your neglect, you have destroyed him.”
C.H. Spurgeon’s indictment stings: Silence in the face of Iran’s fight for life is not innocence—it is complicity. Neglect destroys.
The plague of darkness starts in an unfeeling heart. When we ignore cries from Iran—risking all for freedom—our hearts harden like stone. As individuals, societies, and humanity, we must awaken. Tune empathy’s strings. Let compassion flow like living water.
The Exodus teaches: Bring light to darkness. Eradicate injustice. Israel had light because hearts stayed open. In these times, kindle that light—for Iran, and within us. Rise. See. Respond—before it is too late.
May the Holy One soften stony hearts, revive feeling amid numbness, and hasten redemption for the oppressed. Amen.
Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California