The story of the Exodus doesn’t begin with plagues or miracles. It begins with a single moment, when one man decides to put his life on the line.
The Rise of Khomeini
These days, thousands of people are taking to the streets of Iran in protests and demonstrations. They are trying to overthrow the current regime—and, in a sense, to reverse the revolution their parents carried out more than forty years ago. That revolution is the story I want to share with you.
There was a Jewish man who grew up in Iran in the 1970s. He studied at an ORT vocational school and earned certification as an electrician. He later served in the Iranian army, in the medical corps, and afterward was hired by a large industrial factory. He did well there—so well that the company sent him to England for professional training. When he returned in 1977, he was appointed to a senior position.
In 1978, the Islamic Revolution began. The streets of Tehran turned into a battleground: supporters of Khomeini versus supporters of the Shah. One day, when he arrived at the factory, his boss said to him, “What are you still doing here? I don’t have another country—but you do.” Still, he stayed.
In 1979, things got really bad. Stores that sold alcohol were burned. American civilians were kidnapped. Inside his own factory, the Muslim workers organized themselves, elected a new workers’ committee loyal to Khomeini and his thugs—essentially expelling the owners from their own business.
In a newspaper interview, the new committee chairman publicly mocked the former owner, calling him an American sympathizer and worse. The Jewish employee approached the new chairman and objected. He said the former boss was a good, honest man and did not deserve this humiliation.
The next day, the chairman accused him of insulting Khomeini. That was all it took. Other workers immediately joined in. They beat him—kicking, slapping, punching him. In the chaos, someone shouted, “Let’s hang him!”
He now found himself being dragged outside the factory, where there was a huge crane that loaded heavy objects onto trucks. A steel cable was produced out of nowhere and everything was ready for a lynching.
But then, as they were arguing over exactly how to hang him, gunshots were heard.
Revolutionary forces loyal to Khomeini suddenly appeared on the scene and told the chairman of the board to take our man down from the crane. It was ironic—the very same soldiers who turned Iran into an anti-Semitic regime were now those who had shown up at just the right moment to save the life of a Jew.
His family realized they could not stay. That same day, his father and brother sold their shop—and immigrated to Israel. But he remained behind.
Escaping Iran
In the meantime, he met the woman who would become his wife. They got married, and he stayed in Tehran.
Then the Iran–Iraq War broke out.
Iran’s borders were sealed. After that, non-Muslims were technically allowed to leave—but only on one condition: they had to leave the rest of their family behind. Muslims, on the other hand, were issued special identification papers tied to the regime, documents that opened doors in government offices. Jews became second-class citizens overnight.
It took him a year and a half just to secure passports for his family. By 1986, he finally understood the reality: he would never be allowed to leave Iran together with his wife and children.
So he decided to try something else.
At work, he had a Muslim friend—someone he trusted. During Ramadan, when his friend was fasting, he would quietly sneak him food. Now he went to him and said, “I want to ask you for something very dangerous. If you’re afraid, I’ll understand.” Then he made the request: he asked to borrow his friend’s Muslim identification card.
The next morning, the friend brought it.
That night, he took the card home. He carefully removed the photo and replaced it with his own. Over several sleepless nights—without even telling his wife—he worked on it until he had forged a convincing Muslim ID.
With that document, he went to the Iranian Interior Ministry to apply for a passport. But just as he reached the counter, he recognized the clerk—the same man who had handled the earlier application for his wife and children. Panicking, he rushed to the restroom, turned his coat inside out, and approached a different clerk. The official barely looked up. He stamped the form and told him to return in ten days for his passport.
He immediately bought a ticket to Istanbul—for himself. Two days later, he bought tickets for his wife and children.
And it worked.
He left Iran under a false name, officially a Muslim. His wife and children left as Jews. They reunited in Istanbul and went straight to the Israeli consulate—with three Jewish passports and one Muslim passport.
He asked for a visa to immigrate to Israel.
The consulate staff were suspicious. They questioned him closely. “What was the last Jewish holiday?”
“Passover,” he answered.
“What do you eat on Passover?”
More questions followed. One after another.
Finally, they asked him to recite the first paragraph of the Shema. When he said it fluently, from memory, they were convinced.
He was Jewish.
How the Redemption from Egypt Began
A very similar story appears in this week’s Torah portion.
Early in the Book of Exodus, we read that Moses “grew up and went out to his brothers and saw their suffering” (Exodus, chapter 2). How old was Moses at the time? The Midrash records several opinions: some say he was twenty, others forty, and one view says he was already sixty years old (Bereishit Rabbati, R. Moshe HaDarshan pg. 13).
The Torah then describes how Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Jewish slave—clearly intending to kill him. Moses looked around and saw that no one else was stepping in to defend the helpless Jew. So Moses acted. He killed the Egyptian and buried him in the sand.
Moses knew exactly what he was doing. He understood that he was putting his own life at risk. In modern terms, this was like killing an SS officer in Berlin in 1942. And indeed, Pharaoh heard about it and sought to have Moses executed. Rashi comments that Moses was already handed over to the executioner. Moses himself later says, “G-d saved me from Pharaoh’s sword” (Exodus 18:4). According to Rashi, a miracle occurred—Moses’ neck turned rigid like marble, and the execution failed.
Like the story of the Jewish man in Iran, Moses was saved at the very last moment. He then fled to Midian. Immediately afterward, the Torah tells us that Moses became a shepherd—and soon after that, G-d appeared to him at the burning bush. There, G-d says: I have seen the suffering of My people in Egypt. I have heard their cries, and now their pain has reached Me (Exodus, chapter 3).
This raises an obvious question: after centuries of slavery, why did redemption begin then? What suddenly changed?
The Rebbe explains that although Moses grew up in Pharaoh’s palace, the moment he went out to his people, he truly saw their suffering. Their pain affected him so deeply that he was willing to risk—and even give—his life to save a fellow Jew. As the Torah and Midrash describe, Pharaoh tried to kill him, forcing him to flee.
Moses’ act of killing the Egyptian, the Rebbe says, an act that forced him into exile—directly led to the revelation at the burning bush, which ultimately brought about the redemption of the Jewish people (Shabbat Parshat Va’era 5731; Sichot Kodesh, vol. 1, p. 375).
In other words, it was Moses’ self-sacrifice to save a Jew—despite knowing it would bring a death sentence upon him—that opened the channel for redemption. His willingness to give everything for another person is what triggered the process that led to the Exodus.
We see this pattern throughout history—not only among Jews. Real change requires someone willing to sacrifice for it. That is why Moses’ selflessness became the catalyst for redemption.
The lesson for us is clear. The Rebbe often explained that mesirut nefesh—self-sacrifice—does not mean risking one’s life. It means giving up one’s comfort, one’s preferences, one’s will. No one is asked to endanger themselves. But if we want real change—especially in our families—it has to begin with personal sacrifice and living by example.
When we give up what we want—for example, skipping personal entertainment on a Friday night in order to sit down to a real Shabbat meal with our children—we open a channel. That channel allows G-d to bring a personal redemption into our families, inspiring our children to want to connect to Judaism themselves.
And that, in turn, becomes a preparation for the ultimate redemption—may it come speedily in our days.
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