Rejoice, young man, in your youthAnd let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth,And walk in the ways of your heartAnd in the sight of your eyesBut know that for all these thingsGod will bring you into judgment
–Samuel ibn Naghrillah, vizier to the Spanish Crown in Granada
As we recline and rejoice on Passover, we feel like royalty. Yet we are also called to remember the suffering of our ancestors and the extraordinary efforts made to bring them out of bondage.
The choice to speak and act – or to remain idle – can foster deep regret or exact a heavy toll. That toll, paid in judgment by God or the bestowed duty to lead a people, is inscribed in history and reflected upon for generations to come.
Throughout the ages, the Jewish people has employed various instruments to define its traditions and pass them to the next generation. During Passover, each generation is instructed to envision itself as if it were leaving Egypt, taking neither freedoms nor its flourishing for granted.
Two Jewish princes, separated by centuries but linked through their Judeo-Arabian commonality, faced the price of royalty: the cost of chosenness is responsibility.
Moses, former prince of Egypt and revered leader of the Israelites, and medieval Jewish philosopher Samuel ibn Naghrillah (Shmuel Hanagid), the prince of Granada and the highest-ranking Jewish courtier in all of Islamic Spain, both held scepters of power.
One had a staff, and the other held a pen, which they would each feel duty-bound to use, shaping their legacy and, in turn, that of their people.
What were the implications of the Jewish Exodus?
The implications of leaving Egypt – the life we leave behind, what we carry with us, and who will receive us in our new reality – are often overlooked.
Abandoning the comfort of the familiar and diving into unknown, mysterious waters often jolt us with the cold slap of uncertainty and sometimes danger, which may even make us grieve as we pursue freedom.
When Moses decided to abandon his Egyptian royal chambers for the pursuit of freedom, his defiance of Pharaoh severed close relationships and put a target on his back and that of his people.
Pleading with God to send anyone but him, Moses asks God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and that I should bring out the Israelites from Egypt?” Ibn Naghrillah, too, was forced to emigrate like his fellow Jews upon the Berber conquest of Cordoba, leaving behind his life as a successful merchant, scholar, and active member of the rabbinic community.
Both, through their departures, remained spiritually guided and committed to their leadership: As God told Moses, “I will be with you,” and they acted accordingly.
Jewish exile did not wane throughout the centuries. “I left my country, I left my house, my life, my sad life, hands around for no reason… a chain in the water, a flood of regret.” These disparate lyrics from French-Jewish singer Enrico Macias’s “Adieu Mon Pays” (Goodbye My Country), written after fleeing Algeria in the late 1960s, echo the pain of necessary departure. Yet, despite the sorrow in his words, the beauty of his melody elevated the song to a universal anthem among Jews and Gentiles around the world.
My friend Gabby, of Egyptian Jewish ancestry, shared that her father used to sing “Adieu Mon Pays” to her as a child.
One day, embodying the Passover Seder’s simple child, she asked him, “What is this song you sing to me?” curious to understand what the words meant.
He told her that it was too painful to tell her the family story, which Macias’s song reflected, and it was only possible to convey it through a pacifying, resonant melody.
This instrument of song brought Gabby and her father freedom; he took responsibility for passing on the legacy of his family and the history of the Jewish people.
“The truth hurts like a thorn at first; but in the end it blossoms like a rose,” Naghrillah once wrote. Indeed, the Jewish people, which has faced and embraced its truths through various trials, has blossomed into a vibrant field of flowers that enrich the world.
Responsibility is instrumental to navigating the halls of royalty, always ridden with adversity. External chains may bind us, but royalty means nothing if we are not free within.
Chosenness demands that, as we fulfill our duties, we take responsibility not only as an external obligation but as an internal principle. As Naghrillah tells us, “In times of distress, strengthen your heart.” We should not harden our hearts as God did to Pharaoh, but diligently cultivate our love for wisdom and self-improvement, reflecting on what it means to be free.
Yaron, a student at Queens College, is also a hazan. We met during a Shabbaton with Sephardi students just a week before Passover, where he read from the Torah in a graceful, melodic trance, following in the footsteps of his Iranian ancestors, who trace their Diasporic roots to the city of Isfahan.
While embracing the duty to tell the story of his people from the holy book that unravels it all, he told me that when reflecting on the Shabbat weekend, he started to regret not sharing his own meaningful family story that gave context to his hazanut (cantorial music). “The crying abruptly stopped, and the feeling that I was having turned into regret,” he expressed.
THE SEDER tradition of Magid – telling our story – is one of the highest commandments for the Jewish people. This is not only our collective story per the Haggadah but the deeply personal memories we carry.
When Yaron told me about how he would secretly record his uncle reading the Torah during the week, then spend hours listening and practicing until he could recite the Scriptures exactly the same way, it revealed how the inspiration of our ancestors lives on – passed down through generations – when we choose to listen, honor, and uphold our traditions.
Yaron’s cantillation that Shabbat weekend embodied one of Naghrillah’s instructions, which he wrote during his princeship: “And let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth, And walk in the ways of your heart, And in the sight of your eyes.” But in this joy, we must not lose sight of our story, or of those who do not know how to ask.
Magid, whether through a combination of hazanut, song, or stories, is a form of leadership and produces liberation. Magid prompts those around us and, most importantly, our children, to fulfill a sacred Jewish duty: to ask a question, however simply, wisely, or wickedly.
These nights of Passover are different from all other nights in many ways, but most of all because they bring lessons of freedom.
Freedom demands life-altering decisions and sacrifices – but the very first questions, and the culmination of many questions, pave each step closer to the freedom we seek individually and collectively.
Many survivors and refugees in the Jewish journey carry histories that demand to be told. Displaced and uncertain, some are left silenced by their pain, and they do not know how to begin. Even Moses, one of the greatest leaders of the Jewish people, had to gain the confidence to speak: “I am slow of speech and slow of tongue,” he told God (Exodus 4:10).
The power God gave Moses to speak, to demand justice for his people, should be embraced today. Magid meets people in their silence and gives them a voice.
As we open our doors this Passover – to Elijah, to friends and family – we are also called to open the inner windows of reflection. Am I uplifting my voice enough? Am I nurturing a culture of questioning that sparks meaningful, even liberating conversations?
In the silence of those who do not yet know how to ask, in the melodies of our ancestors, and in the courage it takes to carry memory forward, we encounter the heart of Magid.
Even as we recline like royalty this Passover, we are reminded of God’s judgment – and how we judge ourselves in a free society.
While bearing the price of responsibility, we may never know the fruits of our labor. And yet, we must act – for freedom’s sake and our own.
Under slavery and oppression, or restricted by the ropes of dhimmi status, both Moses and ibn Naghrillah broke through the bondage of their times.
Moses led his people toward freedom, though he never set foot in the Promised Land. Naghrillah, the first Jew to command a Muslim army, led for 17 years, and died one year before the sacking of Granada.
Their lives remind us that even when we do not live to see the end of the story, our part in it matters, for it inspires the future. Even if fruits remain unseen, the planting is holy.
The writer is to graduate next month from George Washington University, in philosophy with a public affairs focus and Judaic studies. This article was inspired by her experience at the 2025 Sephardi House Fellowship Shabbaton, organized by the American Sephardi Federation this month.
