Each spring, as Jewish families around the world gather for Passover, we recount a timeless story of deliverance: the Israelites’ miraculous liberation from slavery in Egypt. It is a ritual of memory and meaning, a celebration of resilience and redemption that has defined Jewish identity for thousands of years. But this year, the ancient cry of “Let my people go” echoes with a piercing urgency—as Israeli hostages remain in captivity in Gaza, held by Hamas since the brutal attacks of October 7.

The Passover story begins in geographic Egypt and concludes with a people free, crossing the sea, guided by faith into a future of self-determination. That journey from bondage to freedom is not just history—it is a moral compass. It reminds us that liberty is sacred, that every human being deserves to live without fear, without chains, without terror. And it reminds us, too, that the fight for freedom is never over. We are commanded each year to see ourselves as if we personally were taken out of Egypt. That is not just empathy—it is responsibility.

Today, just across the border from ancient Egypt lies Gaza—a narrow strip of land where innocent Israeli civilians are still being held in the darkness of captivity. Men, women, elderly Holocaust survivors, and even children, taken from their homes by terrorists, remain in undisclosed locations, without sunlight, without contact with their loved ones, and without certainty of survival. The moral clarity of the Exodus story casts a long shadow over this horrific reality.

Passover is not merely about celebrating freedom achieved—it is about demanding freedom where it is still denied. That makes this moment particularly painful, and deeply relevant. When we speak of the bitterness of slavery through eating maror, the bitter herb, we are reminded of the bitterness those hostages and their families taste every single day. When we drink the four cups of wine symbolizing joy and deliverance, our cups are not full—because so many remain unredeemed.

The proximity is haunting: just miles from where the Israelites fled Pharaoh’s oppression, Israelis are once again waiting to be delivered. This is not metaphor—it is geography. And it is our call to action.

Our seders must not be comfortable this year. They must be purposeful. We must pray for the return of every hostage with the same fervor we pray for peace. We must demand their freedom with the same passion Moses once did. And we must remember that the message of Passover is not confined to the past—it is a cry of conscience for our present.

This year, the story is not only about what was, but what is. Let our prayers ascend with the promise of Passover. Let our voices rise like the ancient song at the sea. And let us not rest until every soul in bondage is free.

Because until they come home, the Exodus is not complete.