The story of Amalek is usually interpreted in the context of the commandment:

in proximity to Purim and the link that the Sages established between Haman the Agagite and the Amalekites, as well as the great struggle between Haman and Mordechai, and between Amalek and Israel.

Traditional interpretations explain that Amalek attacked those who were too weak to continue walking due to sheer exhaustion (Ibn Ezra): a weariness stemming not only from the harsh journey through the wilderness but also from the lingering fatigue of slavery in Egypt (Or HaChaim). Perhaps, as Rashi interpreted, “attacked your stragglers” suggests something even more sinister—that Amalek

This was not just physical abuse but an attempt to break the covenant between the people and their God, or even sever their connection to their ancestors—an effort to separate individuals from themselves.

In understanding Purim as a continuation of Amalek’s attack, Purim tells the story of a battle between good and evil, between the forces of life and the forces of death. A holiday of “reversal” carries deeper meaning within a binary narrative structure—absolute good versus absolute evil, an innocent and pure victim versus a cruel and impure aggressor.

But life is rarely binary, and certainly not in matters of the soul and spirit. Like every other people, we are not an innocent and pure nation in the biblical sense of the word: we carry wounds, blemishes, and both visible and hidden pain.

There is an echo here of another ancient myth about death, resurrection, and the price we pay for this process:

great demons like shelter reeds, cling to her side.” The Descent of Inanna into the Underworld, from In the Distant Days: An Anthology of Ancient Near Eastern Poetry, Sh. Shifra and Jacob Klein, Am Oved, 1998, p. 363.

Like the great goddess Inanna in the Sumerian myth, the people of Israel also emerged from Egypt after generations of enslavement, daily encounters with death, and the obliteration of selfhood. The suffering was unbearable:

Now, in the wilderness, these people were expected to conduct themselves as free individuals, with the maturity and responsibility of those who are masters of their own destiny.

Yet the demons of slavery followed our ancestors into the wilderness—demons of fear, hunger, thirst, loneliness, and profound insecurity in the world. Similarly, demons accompany us as a people: demons from exile, the Holocaust, Israel’s wars, and the past two years of growing wounds—wounds inflicted upon us and wounds we inflict on others.

Emerging from the abyss (let alone prolonged dwelling in it) inevitably brings forth emissaries of the forces of death and destruction. These are not actual people but psychological forces that operate on and within us, forces we must be aware of lest they take hold of us. This is Amalek.

This year, as I revisited the story of Amalek, I was particularly struck by the nation’s appearance in Exodus 17, which offers us a way out of the framework of good versus evil and into the realm of faith and action.

The war against Amalek begins with the Israelites’ question:

A profound question, spoken here as defiance but ultimately expressing a serious existential cry:Is there meaning to our actions and suffering? And almost in response, Amalek appears.

Israel’s battle against Amalek unfolds simultaneously on the physical and spiritual planes:

Moses' hands become a character in this sacred drama before us—his heavy hands symbolize the burden of a life devoid of meaning. When they fall, despair grows, and Amalek gains strength. On the other hand, when Moses’ hands embody emunah (faith), the people prevail—that is, they find purpose and meaning in their existence.

In his translation and commentary on the Bible, Robert Alter suggests that “Moses’ hands were faith” means that his hands themselves became a representation of the concept of faith. This implies that whenever Israel saw Moses’ hands, their own hands turned toward faith, and their actions regained meaning.

Rashi interprets the final verse of the story:

“For the hand is on the throne of God” (Exodus 17:16), noting that the word kiseh (throne) is incomplete, and God’s name is also abbreviated:

“The Holy One, Blessed Be He, swore that His name would not be complete, nor His throne whole, until Amalek’s name is completely erased.”

Based on these ways of understanding Amalek, we can infer that the ability to persist in faith is a struggle unlike any other, sometimes requiring an exhausting internal battle against all the demons that rise against us to destroy us. In the version of the story in Exodus, God takes on the task of erasing Amalek’s memory, while our only human duty is to remember and remind—to participate in the struggle to find meaning, to heal, to restore the throne, and to manifest the holiness of creation among our people and the world.

Returning to the Book of Esther: “Esther put on royalty… and the king sat on his royal throne” (Esther 5:1). Once Esther is able to embrace her own royalty, the King sits on His throne. This is the struggle of the Israelites, and this is what we must remember on Shabbat Zakhor. As long as Amalek—the force of despair and meaninglessness—pervades our actions, God’s throne remains incomplete. To restore it, we must cling to faith and trust and remind ourselves of our values.

May we remember in order to increase goodness and life in the world, and may the spirit of v’nahafoch hu ("reversal") bring days of feasting and joy to us, to all humanity, and to all beings of the world.

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