This Shabbat is not only Parshat Tetzaveh; it is also Shabbat Zachor. The reason it is called that is because we read a passage from Deuteronomy and the haftarah from I Samuel 15:1–34. The two texts relate to the necessity of remembering Amalek and never forgetting what he did to us.

“Remember—זכור– what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when your God יהוה grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that your God יהוה is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget--לא תשכח !” (Deuteronomy 25:17–19).

Notice the paradox. We are told to blot out the memory—and simultaneously commanded not to forget. Erasure and recollection live side by side. What that means is that we are commanded to remember Amalek—and also never to forget what he did to us when we were at the lowest time of our lives. The command is not only historical; it is emotional. It asks us to recall vulnerability, to remember what it feels like to be weary and exposed.

I am sitting here in my new home–having slept very well—looking around at my familiar furniture. I took too much. Much of it is replete with memories. My daughter and son-in-law went all out and arranged the furniture that the movers brought, and everything is in its place. It will probably take me months to reorganize and make it livable to my standards, but I am full of gratitude to them.

Unlike the people of Israel, I am not at my lowest point. I am appreciative of having arrived safely and having everything fall into place. This retirement home is like a hotel. On the table greeting us was a bottle of wine, a box of chocolate, and a bathrobe with the insignia of the home. I did not stagger into this next chapter depleted and afraid. I arrived welcomed.

Unlike the people of Israel wandering for forty years and grumbling all the time, I am making do. I did not slink out of Egypt taking nothing with me except the clothes on my back and what the Egyptian women gave them from the kindness of their hearts. I was sent on my way with love—from my community and my closest friends. I do not prepare to look back and “remember the fish [they] ate in Egypt …also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic” (Numbers 11:4–6). I plan to embrace my new life.

And yet, Shabbat Zachor, which comes right before Purim, insists on memory. It interrupts comfort. As I was throwing out a lifetime of remembrances, I reread my sister’s beautiful letters to me; my mother’s letters; my old report cards; the list of books I read in my sophomore year of high school. Even my diaries of that time. Most of it went into the recycle bin. Here and there I saved things; I brought all the photo albums with me—but I have a feeling that they too will one day end up in someone’s trash can—if not mine, then after I am no longer here.

It was actually my mother who put all the pictures into those albums when she went into a retirement home at the same age I am now. She also moved to be near us in Omer, just as I have moved to be near my daughter in the Galil. But her move was from the U.S.; mine was simply a two-and-a-half-hour drive. I arrived in the evening, and by 1 PM the next day I had internet and TV connected. The place is amazing in terms of service and kindness. By Purim I will already be part of a new synagogue, where I will read two chapters from the megillah.

I am not wandering in a desert. I am not under attack. And yet, memory is still demanded of me. Not because I am at my lowest point—but because remembering shapes who we are at every point.

WE ARE COMMANDED TO REMEMBER WOMEN ON SHABBAT ZACHOR: PARSHAT TETZAVEH

And since March is also Women’s History Month, I should point out that Miriam appears in the previous chapter of Deuteronomy:

“Remember what your God יהוה did to Miriam on your way out of Egypt” (Deut 24:9).

She too is remembered—through punishment, through affliction, through a story that is uncomfortable. Women, too, are woven into the fabric of sacred memory, though not always gently.

As I sort through my own past—deciding what to keep and what to discard—I am living that paradox. Blot out. Do not forget. Recycle the papers. Keep the albums. Release the past. Carry it forward.

When we come to this week’s parsha, Tetzaveh—which means “command”—we find that Moses’s name is not mentioned once. In contrast to the previous parsha, Terumah, which began with God telling Moses what to do—וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר—and Moses’s name was repeated again and again, here he disappears. The parsha begins simply:

“You—וְאַתָּ֞ה—shall further instruct—תְּצַוֶּ֣ה—the Israelites.”

It is full of commandments, but without Moses’s name.

Much has been written about this absence and about the fact that his brother Aaron receives the priesthood. Leadership, authority, command—these are not static possessions. They shift.

And when we turn to the Megillah, we notice something similar. In the early chapters, Mordecai commands Esther:

“Esther did not reveal her people or her kindred, for Mordecai had commanded– צִוָּ֥ה— her not to reveal it” (2:10).

“Esther still did not reveal her kindred or her people, as Mordecai had commanded her; for Esther obeyed Mordecai’s bidding, as she had done when she was under his tutelage” (2:20).

Later: “[Mordecai bade the eunuch] to command her– וּלְצַוּ֣וֹת עָלֶ֗יהָ –to go to the king and to appeal to him and to plead with him for her people” (4:14).

But once she understands the stakes, the command structure reverses:

“So Mordecai went about [the city] and did just as Esther had commanded him–וַיַּ֕עַשׂ כְּכֹ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־צִוְּתָ֥ה עָלָ֖יו אֶסְתֵּֽר” (4:17).

Esther becomes the one who commands.

As I sit here in my new apartment, dependent on my children to arrange my furniture, to connect the television, to guide me through forms and passwords, I feel that reversal in my own life. There was a time when I issued the instructions. Now I am the one receiving help. Authority shifts. Roles evolve. It is not humiliation; it is simply life. And perhaps that, too, is part of what it means to remember.

But before Esther, there was Vashti.

“On the seventh day, when the king was merry with wine, he told his seven eunuchs… to bring Queen Vashti before the king wearing a royal diadem, to display her beauty… But Queen Vashti refused to come at the king’s command… The king was greatly incensed, and his fury burned within him” (1:10–12).

Instead of asking why she refused, he consults his advisors:

“What shall be done… to Queen Vashti for failing to obey the command…? … For the queen’s behavior will make all wives despise their husbands… and there will be no end of scorn and provocation!” (1:15–18).

And the result: “Dispatches were sent… that every man should wield authority in his home…” (1:22).

The irony is thick. An empire trembles because one woman says no. The narrator of the Megillah makes clear that when women gain power, they know what to do with it. The rabbis, perhaps uncomfortable with that fact, demonized Vashti in midrash rather than praising her courage. It is striking to me that both Amalek and Vashti are remembered through threat. Amalek attacked the weak. Vashti threatened male dominance. In both cases, power reacts defensively. Esther, however, survives because she understands timing. She reads the volatility of Achashverosh. She works within the system in order to overturn it.

TODAY’S BACKLASH AGAINST STRONG WOMEN

Today, when patriarchy is again asserting itself loudly and unapologetically, there is much to learn from Vashti and Esther. We are living in a moment when strong women are often framed as dangerous, disruptive, unfeminine, or disloyal. When women claim authority over their own bodies, their own voices, their own destinies, the reaction can be swift and harsh—legislative, cultural, religious.

The fear is the same fear articulated in Persia and Media: If she gets away with this, what will happen next?

What will happen next is that women will speak. Women will lead. Women will refuse humiliation. Women will command.

And as I begin this new chapter of my life—older, perhaps quieter, but not erased—I find myself thinking about what I will and will not forget. I will not forget the women who came before me: my mother carefully placing photographs into albums; my sister writing beautiful letters; Miriam standing outside the camp; Vashti refusing; Esther commanding.

Shabbat Zachor tells us: Remember. Do not forget. Even when you are comfortable. Even when you have arrived safely. Even when the wine and chocolates are waiting on the table. Memory is not only for moments of crisis. It is what gives dignity and direction to the life we are still living.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)