Can You See Me? The Relevance of Darkness, Light, and Community Life
by Joan Myles
What is it about sudden darkness that makes the penultimate plague in Parashat Bo so terrifying for the Egyptians? And what was the nature of the light that sustained the Israelites within their dwellings? Reading the parashah through the lens of sight loss, certain verses cry out to me—verses that reflect my own lived experience and may open pathways to more meaningful conversations about the relevance of disability within the Jewish community.
At this point in the Torah, Moses continues to plead with Pharaoh to free the Israelites. God has already made His position clear through dramatic signs and wonders. The Nile has turned to blood. Frogs have invaded households and palaces. Lice, wild animals, pestilence, boils, and hail have afflicted the Egyptians, their livestock, and crops. Most recently, locusts have descended upon the land, devouring any remaining fruit trees and grasses of the field, hiding “the surface of the whole land until the land was black.” Despite this devastation—“nothing green was left of tree or grass of the field in all the land of Egypt”—Pharaoh’s heart hardened all the more, and he refused to let the Israelites go.
Then the darkness. In Exodus 10:21-23 we read, “Then the Lord said to Moses, “Hold out your arm toward the sun, that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.” Moses held out his arm toward the sky, and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days. People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where they were; but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.”
When I was twelve years old, I awoke one spring morning, readied myself for school, and attended my classes as usual. But as the day progressed, I became aware that something was terribly wrong. I could no longer read the chalkboard. My own handwritten notes had become illegible. As time passed, familiar faces faded from view, and the world became a very dangerous place.
The doctor’s diagnosis was bleak and definitive. The list of challenges grew by the hour.
Stairs loomed large as hidden cliffs. Walls and furniture seemed ready to jump out and assault me. The halls of my school, the bushes and trees in my neighborhood, and the books I cherished all became strangers. How would I continue my education? Maintain friendships? Care for myself? Find my place in the world? I was suddenly thrust into a whirlwind far beyond my parents’ protective embrace, into a plague of deep darkness and fear.
I imagine the Egyptians felt similarly, seized by fear and isolation. Their world was unraveling. They had watched locusts obscure their land entirely. Then, without warning, they were plunged into darkness—deep, oppressive, tangible darkness. It would subside after three days, but they did not know that.
The Hebrew text’s use of the singular ish amplifies the depth of isolation imposed on the Egyptians. Each person could not see their brother or friend, not a single beloved or familiar soul. The darkness was so present, so overwhelming, that it could be touched. Yet no friend could be seen.
Physical blindness imposes a similar kind of isolation, from familiar faces, from places and objects, from opportunities to learn, to be self-reliant, to walk a neighborhood sidewalk, to participate fully in daily life.
Over the years, I have come to realize that adjusting to blindness is not only about reshaping my interactions with the physical world. It has also required me to redefine and reclaim my sense of personal dignity. Like other disabilities, sight loss can render someone invisible—to strangers, in medical offices, at social events, and even to family and friends.
So who’s truly blind now?
Like the Egyptians, I have often felt stranded in cold, desolate uncertainty – alone, unable to see the world around me or recognize friend from foe. Unable to imagine the first step forward.
But, unlike the Egyptians, desperation moved me to reach out. I discovered people and organizations dedicated to assisting newly blind individuals. Over time, I learned to navigate with a white cane, then a guide dog. I became literate again using English and Hebrew Braille. I connected with other blind people, joined a welcoming Jewish community, and resolved to share my own light wherever possible.
Jewish tradition teaches me that the interplay of light and darkness is a vital teacher. If I pay close attention, it can open the way to deeper understanding—of both the natural and the divine. My prayers at sunrise lead me into gratitude for the reawakening of my senses, heightening my awareness of the living, moving, singing tapestry of the world. At sunset, my prayers invite reflection on my words and deeds, on the vastness of the cosmos, and on the intimacy of hearth and home. And with every spark I kindle for Shabbat or Havdalah, I ignite my part in the universal flame of life.
This flame originates from the eternal light of God’s presence, Shechinah, the light I encounter in Jewish community. It is the same light that illuminated the Israelites’ dwellings in Egypt, sustaining them through every plague of darkness in history. It is the light each Jew carries like a torch to illuminate the path for others, even in personal darkness and fear.
Rabbi Yosei in Megillah 24b understood this light. He recounts: “All my life, I was troubled by this verse, which I did not understand: ‘And you shall grope at noon as the blind man gropes in the darkness’ (Deuteronomy 28:29). What does it matter to a blind person whether it is dark or light? He cannot see in any event. I continued to ponder the matter until the following incident occurred: I was once walking in the absolute darkness of night, and I saw a blind man walking with a torch in his hands. I said to him: My son, why do you need this torch if you are blind? He said to me: As long as I have a torch, others see me and save me from the pits and thorns. Even a blind man derives benefit from the light.”
The light of the torch I carry despite my blindness is the same light I experience among community members. It is the Divine spark shimmering within each of us, the perpetual beam that vibrates with love. It is the light that enables me to discern the face of a friend, even in darkness.
But this light becomes humanly evident only as we embody it—when we welcome a stranger, listen to the needs of a sight-impaired member, and find meaningful ways to include them in communal life.
This is the light that sustains us all. It is the light of Torah, the light illuminating the stars of the cosmos, the very essence of God.
As Psalm 121 reveals to me:
I will lift my eyes to the hills
before the light appears—
the light which rises in the east,
and radiates from Jerusalem.
I will lift my eyes,
my heart, my hopes,
from the depths of my sorrow,
from pain that clouds my senses,
from feelings of isolation.
To the hills I will reach out for solace—
to upward currents of spirit,
to the greenness of life.
I will lift my eyes to the hills,
to the One
who never fails to appear.
Joan Myles has been an active member of Temple Beth Sholom for over twenty years, chanting Torah, leading services, teaching and tutoring Benai Mitzvah students. After earning her M.A. in Jewish Education, Joan founded the nonprofit Yismehu , and instructed dozens of blind adults across the country, teaching Hebrew Braille and other topics via distance learning for seven years. She has self-published three volumes of poetry, and lives with her husband and guide dog in Oregon near their four grown children.
