We often think of the Israelites, finally free after generations of slavery. But what if Pharaoh himself was the one shedding tears?

That's the surprising question raised in Shemot Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus. This particular passage, from Shemot Rabbah 20, hangs on the phrase, "it was when Pharaoh let [the people] go" (Exodus 13:17). But instead of focusing on the Israelites' joy, it asks: when Pharaoh let the people go, who shouted woe? The answer, surprisingly, is Pharaoh himself.

The text uses a powerful analogy, a mashal, to illustrate this point. Imagine a king whose son is staying with a wealthy man in a distant province. This wealthy man, honored by the prince's presence, receives him with open arms. The king, knowing his son is in this man's care, sends letters regularly, checking in, making requests. He needs the wealthy man.

But then, the king decides he's had enough. He travels to the province himself and takes his son home. Suddenly, the wealthy man starts wailing. His neighbors ask, "Why are you screaming? You hosted royalty!" He replies, "I was honored! The king wrote to me constantly, he needed me! I enjoyed his respect. Now that his son is gone, he doesn't need me anymore. That's why I'm screaming!"

That, Shemot Rabbah argues, is precisely what happened with Pharaoh. As long as Israel was enslaved in Egypt, Adonai, the Holy One, blessed be He, needed Pharaoh, in a sense. He was constantly sending messages through Moses: "So said the Lord, God of the Hebrews: Let My people go" (Exodus 9:1). Pharaoh was hearing, in effect, "Let My son go." He held all the cards, or so he thought.

But when Adonai finally "descended to deliver it from the hand of Egypt" (Exodus 3:8) – when Adonai intervened directly and took Israel out of Egypt – Pharaoh began to scream: "Woe is me that I let Israel go!"

Why? Because with Israel gone, Pharaoh was no longer needed. He no longer received those divine "letters." He was no longer the unwilling, yet essential, partner in Adonai's plan. He lost his (perceived) importance.

It’s a fascinating twist, isn't it? We tend to see the Exodus solely from the perspective of the liberated Israelites. But this passage from Shemot Rabbah invites us to consider the story from a completely different angle: the perspective of the oppressor, suddenly irrelevant. It reminds us that even in moments of great liberation, there can be unexpected losses and regrets—even for those who seemingly held all the power. What does it mean to be needed? And what happens when that need disappears?