And their story, as told in Shemot Rabbah, is a powerful reminder of resilience, faith, and the strength of community.
Pharaoh, you see, wasn't just content with enslaving the Israelites. He wanted to control their very ability to be. The Midrash tells us he issued four decrees designed to crush them. The first was deceptively simple: work them so hard they wouldn't even have time to go home and sleep with their wives! He figured, logically, less sleep, less… procreation.
The taskmasters piled on the pressure, saying, "If you go home, you'll lose precious work time and won't meet your quota!" So, they slept on the ground, exhausted, their families distant.
But, as the Midrash points out, God had already promised Abraham that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars (Genesis 22:17). So, Pharaoh’s plan was a direct challenge to the Divine promise. The text asks, rhetorically: "We will see whose matter prevails, Mine or yours?" And the answer, of course, is resounding. "But the more they would afflict them, the more they would increase…" (Exodus 1:12).
Rabbi Akiva, a towering figure in Jewish tradition, offers a stunning insight: Israel's redemption from Egypt was due to the righteous women of that generation. What did they do? This is where the story truly takes flight.
Imagine this: The women would go to draw water, and miraculously, God would fill their jugs with small fish. Half water, half fish! They'd bring this bounty home to their weary husbands, setting up two pots on the fire – one with hot water, one with fish. They would feed them, bathe them, anoint them with oil, and give them drinks. And between the pots – shefatayim – they would reconnect, reaffirming their love and hope. It’s a beautiful image of domesticity as resistance.
The text even connects this to a verse in Psalms (68:14), "Now you may lie within the sheepfolds [shefatayim], wings of the dove covered with silver," suggesting that in reward for their actions, Israel would merit the loot of Egypt, symbolized by the "wings of the dove covered with silver."
And when these women conceived, they would venture into the fields to give birth, specifically under apple trees. "Under the apple tree I roused you," says the Song of Songs (8:5), "there your mother was in childbirth."
But here's the most incredible part: God would send an angel to care for them and their newborns, tending to them like a mother animal tends to its young. Ezekiel 16:4 is quoted, describing a birth without midwives or proper care, emphasizing that God Himself was their caretaker: "As for your birth, on the day you were born [your umbilical cord was not cut, and you were not washed in water for cleansing…and you were not swaddled]." Instead, God bathed them, rinsed them, and anointed them. He dressed them and wrapped them.
They would even take two round vessels of earth, one containing oil and one containing honey, echoing the verse in Deuteronomy (32:13): "He suckled them honey from a boulder [and oil from a flinty rock]."
When the Egyptians discovered these hidden births, they tried to kill the babies. But a miracle occurred! The earth would swallow them up. The Egyptians, in their cruelty, would plow the land above them, as it says in Psalms (129:3): "Upon my back plowers plowed." But after they left, the children would sprout forth like grass, as Ezekiel (16:7) describes: "I caused you to increase like the growth of the field."
And when they grew, they would return home in herds – adarim – a wordplay in Hebrew connecting their beauty to their numbers. The verse "You came to have great beauty [ba’adi adayim]" (Ezekiel 16:7) is re-read as be’edrei adarim, "in herds of herds."
Finally, when God revealed Himself at the Red Sea, these children – miraculously saved and nurtured – were the first to recognize Him. "This is my God, and I will glorify Him!" (Exodus 15:2). They remembered Him from the miracles He performed for them in Egypt.
This passage from Shemot Rabbah is more than just a story. It's a testament to the power of faith, the resilience of the human spirit, and the vital role of women in preserving hope in the face of unimaginable adversity. It reminds us that even when we feel most vulnerable, most oppressed, there is always the potential for miracles, for growth, and for redemption. And perhaps most importantly, it’s a story that tells us that even small acts of kindness and connection can become acts of profound resistance.