Pharaoh and the ANC

The idea that G-d “hardened Pharaoh’s heart” has long been a source of debate at our seder table. One of my children, now an adult, but no less insistent, has always been deeply troubled by it. The question is simple and uncomfortable: what happens to free will if the central villain of the story is, at some point, no longer free to choose? 

And then, to make matters worse, he is punished. 

In previous years, I have offered explanations. None was particularly satisfying. Least of all to him. 

This year, however, I think I may have something better. And it comes from the most unlikely of places: the African National Congress (ANC). Well, them and the Rambam. But bear with me. 

In a recent conversation with former Democratic Alliance leader Tony Leon, I asked a question that has been bothering me. “In the quiet moments”, I pondered, “late at night, or early in the morning, when members of the ANC are alone with their thoughts, do they feel anything? Regret? Responsibility? Even a flicker of doubt about the damage done to South Africa? Do they genuinely believe that aligning with regimes like Hamas or Iran places them on the right side of history?” 

Leon’s answer was as predictable as it was correct: we cannot see into the hearts of others. Especially not politicians. All we can do is speculate. And that’s when something clicked. The words of the Rambam, the reality of politics, and the biblical narrative seemed to converge. 

According to Maimonides, Pharaoh absolutely had free will, at least initially. For the first five plagues, the Torah itself tells us that Pharaoh hardened his own heart. The choices were his. Repeatedly. Consistently. 

Only later does the language shift. Only later does G-d step in. 

Which raises a different, more unsettling possibility. 

Perhaps Pharaoh wasn’t stripped of his free will. Perhaps he exhausted it. 

Perhaps, through repeated bad decisions, through arrogance, ego, and the need to maintain power at all costs, he slowly closed off the possibility of choosing differently. Perhaps he surrounded himself with voices that reinforced his position. Or he created a system that made retreat impossible. Perhaps he received oodles of gold for his grand pyramid scheme. For whatever reason, he became, in effect, trapped inside his own narrative. 

Sound familiar? 

Consider an addict. The first decisions are voluntary. The early choices are theirs. But over time, those choices reshape the person. Until eventually, the ability to choose is diminished, sometimes almost entirely removed. At that point, intervention comes from the outside, from family, from circumstance, because the individual is no longer capable of reversing course on their own. 

Which brings us, somewhat uncomfortably, back to the present. 

The ANC may well be past its fifth plague. 

We have lived through the plagues of corruption, loadshedding, institutional collapse, economic decline, and international embarrassment. Each presented a moment to pause, to reflect, to change direction. And yet, the pattern has continued. 

At some point, it becomes less about individual decisions and more about a hardened position. A place where acknowledging failure is too costly. Where changing course is seen as weakness. Where the system itself resists introspection. 

And perhaps that is the answer to the question at our seder table. 

Pharaoh wasn’t punished because he lacked free will. He was punished because he used it repeatedly, stubbornly, and disastrously, until there was nothing left to choose. 

Which should concern us. 

The ANC may not be the victim of some external hardening or influence. It may simply be the author of its own. A movement that once stood for freedom, now unable, or unwilling, to choose it. Because, like Pharaoh, it chose badly for way too long. 

Chag Pesach Sameach.