“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1:8)
This verse, which we read this week in the Torah, is a warning—not because it announces cruelty, but because it announces forgetting. And it is a warning not only for our ancestors, but for us today.
How could a Pharaoh not know Joseph?
Joseph saved Egypt. He anticipated famine before it arrived, designed a national strategy, created food reserves, stabilized the economy, and ensured the nation’s survival. The people themselves say to him, “You have saved our lives.” (Genesis 47:25)
And yet, the Torah tells us that a new king arose who “did not know Joseph.”
The great medieval commentator, Rashi, explains that this was not ignorance. It was a decision. Pharaoh pretended not to know Joseph. Forgetting was political. Convenient. Useful.
Because memory creates responsibility.
As long as Joseph is remembered, Egypt must acknowledge who helped build its strength. Gratitude creates obligation. History places limits on power. So Joseph—and the people associated with him—must be erased from the story.
Once that happens, everything shifts.
The Israelites are no longer partners in Egypt’s success. They are reframed as a threat. Fear replaces gratitude. Suspicion replaces relationship. And Pharaoh never says, “Let us be cruel.” He says, “Let us deal shrewdly with them.” (Exodus 1:10)
This is the Torah’s warning: oppression does not begin with hatred. It begins with rationalization.
When injustice is described as practical, necessary, or protective, moral danger is already underway.
This pattern is painfully familiar to Jews.
Antisemites have long understood that before you can harm Jews, you must first distort Jewish memory. Erase our roots. Recast our presence as illegitimate. Portray Jewish survival as manipulation rather than resilience.
And here is the uncomfortable truth: Jews are not only victims of historical amnesia. We can also fall prey to it.
When we Jews forget our own history—when we fail to learn it deeply, downplay antisemitism to sound “reasonable,” or disconnect present danger from past patterns—we leave ourselves exposed. Forgetting does not make us safer. It makes us unprepared.
That is why moments like the recent ICE-related shooting in Minneapolis demand our attention. Not because they are simple, but precisely because they are complex. Much of the violence that plagues our country today has not emerged in a vacuum. It is preceded by rhetoric that turns people into symbols, institutions into villains, and fear into virtue.
Depending on where one stands, a different story is told—and those cast as the “threat” are stripped of complexity and humanity, much as Joseph was stripped of his history.
This is where the Torah presses us hardest: dangerous narratives rarely target only one group. We see immigrants portrayed as inherently suspect, Jews cast as manipulators or threats, and law enforcement reduced to abstractions rather than human beings. When societies insist on simple villains and simple solutions, forgetting has already begun its work.
The Torah is not asking us to ignore injustice or blur moral distinctions. It is asking us to notice how societies rewrite history and talk themselves into harm.
When memory is erased, fear rushes in to fill the void.
When fear governs, cruelty soon follows.
And when cruelty arrives, everyone insists it was unavoidable.
Some have suggested that the opposite of slavery is not freedom—it is memory.
Memory protects human dignity.
Memory keeps power accountable and makes law and order possible.
Memory reminds Jews—and the world—that survival is not a crime and presence is not provocation.
Every generation faces its own “new king.”
And every generation must ask: where is forgetting being weaponized? Which people or institutions are being reduced to threats instead of understood as human beings? And where are we tempted to forget our own story—in order to feel safer?
If we remember Joseph, gratitude remains possible.
If we forget him, fear becomes policy.
And history has taught us—again and again—where that road leads.
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