Freedom Begins with Dignity
Words of Wisdom with Rabbi Efrat Zarren-Zohar
This Dvar Torah was written by Yehudis Smith, Director of CAJE’s Robert Russell Early Childhood Department.
Photo by Kalea on Unsplash
There’s an idea I return to often: the word “Torah” comes from the root for the Hebrew word hora’ah, which means instruction or teaching.
In other words, the Torah isn’t only a story we read - it’s something meant to teach us, again and again, in every generation. There is always something to learn, if we’re willing to listen closely.
In this week’s parsha, Va’era, we are still at the very beginning of the Exodus story.
The Israelites are enslaved in Egypt. Their labor is relentless. Their lives are tightly controlled. And Moshe has only just stepped into his role as a leader.
Hashem sends Moshe back to Pharaoh with a message we all recognize: “Let My people go.” But at this point in the story, nothing dramatic happens. There is no sea splitting. There is no mass exodus. In fact, things don’t improve at all. Pharaoh refuses. The system tightens. The people remain trapped.
Then the Torah tells us something striking: When Moshe tries to speak to the Israelites, they cannot hear him - not because they don’t believe him, but because of kotzer ruach and hard labor.
Kotzer ruach literally means “shortness of spirit.”
In simple terms, it describes what happens when people are so worn down that they don’t have the emotional space to hope, to listen, or to imagine that things could be different.
It’s not that they don’t care; it’s that they don’t have room to care right now.
That detail matters because it tells us what the Torah understands oppression to be.
Slavery is not only about physical restraint. It is about the erosion of dignity - the loss of breath, imagination, and inner capacity. The people are not just bound; they are worn down.
So, when the Torah says, “Let My people go,” it is not only a demand for physical freedom from the constraints of captivity; it is a demand to stop a system that strips human beings of their humanity.
The request is not yet for independence; it is for relief from dehumanization.
I personally don’t believe in coincidences, and I find it meaningful that Parshat Va’era so often aligns with MLK Day.
I believe there is something deeper being asked of us when these moments meet.
Martin Luther King Jr. taught that injustice is not only about laws or rights, but about systems that quietly communicate whose dignity matters - and whose does not.
Harm is not only done by what systems deny, but by what they demand without regard for human limits.
What’s especially powerful in Parshat Va’era is how redemption begins.
Hashem does not wait for the people to be organized, hopeful, or articulate.
Hashem listens to their groans. Pain itself becomes enough to merit response.
The Torah reminds us that suffering does not need to be polished or eloquent to be worthy of attention.
There is a quiet lesson here for all of us.
When people around us seem disengaged, resistant, or unable to “hear” new ideas, the Torah invites a different question.
Not what’s wrong with them, but what has been compressed? What dignity has been worn down? What system might be asking more than a human being can reasonably give?
Parshat Va’era reminds us that freedom is not just about breaking chains, it is about restoring dignity; it is about creating conditions where people can breathe, listen, imagine, and be fully human again.
As we enter Shabbat, may we take the Torah seriously as hora’ah - as a teaching - and ask ourselves what this moment is trying to teach us.
May we be attentive to where dignity is being protected, and where it may need restoration, in ourselves, in our communities, and in the systems we shape together.
