A glimpse of the greatness of Miriam Haneviah — her courage, the beauty of her actions, and the greatness of her spirit

"And Miriam called to them, ‘Sing to Hashem… He is highly exalted, the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.’ ” (Shemos 15:21)

The guttural tones of the king’s messenger wafted in through the doorway. I sheltered in the shadows nearby, straining to hear his words.

“Every male child that is born, you shall cast into the Nile!” he called. I drew in my breath sharply. So this is the latest decree from Pharoah’s palace. Is it not enough for him that he’s deprived us of our freedom, that he’s wounded our bodies? This… this is unthinkable.

What mother could throw her newborn child to his death, could see him tossed among the Nile’s waves, as the long, dark shapes of the crocodiles lurking within move through the water? This will rob us of the last vestiges of sanity we still possess in the nightmare that is our lives.

The world is silent to our pain — ignoring our slavery, ignoring the backbreaking labor we are sentenced to. Our lives are of no value to them. Will they care when the Nile runs red with the blood of innocent babies?

Later, when I went out to the courtyard, the women were all murmuring about this new decree. They said that Pharoah passed it because he fears that a Jewish savior will be born.

A savior? What can he be thinking? For over a hundred years now, Jewish babies have been born into lives of deprivation and degradation. A savior? He is mad, this king, mad and cruel, to even imagine that a nation so oppressed could dream of redemption.

Abba returned from his work on the field, his face drawn. He sat on the low stool that we save for him, and my mother sat down near him. They spoke in low tones, then my mother went white and turned away, retreating to the corner where the baby slept. Abba sighed heavily, a heartrending sound.

“Do your cuts and bruises hurt?” I whispered. Abba didn’t answer. It was a long moment before he lifted his eyes and looked at me. I was frightened by the tormented look in his eyes. “What happened?”

Abba’s lips quivered. “My child, did you hear about the new decree?”

I nodded.

“And what are we going to do? Can we become murderers, can we kill our children with our very own hands? This is impossible!”

“So what are we going to do?”

Abba pressed his lips together, then continued talking, averting his gaze. “The gadol hador, Amram from Shevet Levi, left his wife, and everyone is following his lead. Only until the decree passes. What difficult days… too difficult to bear. His wife, Rebbetzin Yocheved, is alone now with their three-year-old son Aharon and their five-year-old daughter Miriam.”

I looked up at him in fright. “Are you leaving the house too?”

Abba cried.

So did I.

When I went out to our yard this morning, I saw Miriam standing alone in the distance. Poor girl. It was hard to look at her. Immediately after she was born, she came down with a serious illness that left her features disfigured. Who would ever marry her, even with her yichus?

No wonder her father called her Miriam. Our nation has been immersed in bitterness from the moment she was born, and then she has her difficult personal nisayon, knowing that no man will want to marry her.

But as I stared at her, I realized that Miriam did not carry herself like a sad and lonely girl. I saw light, serenity, and an inner strength. She walked slowly, nobly, like a queen, and there was something about her bearing that made everyone stop and listen. Perhaps her incredible strength makes up for her appearance.