A New Name in the Court
It began with whispers again — his name carried through the marble halls of the palace and echoed all the way to the gate:
Haman son of Hammedatha the Agagite.
At first, I paid it little attention. Court titles change often, and those who rise swiftly often fall even faster. But this man — he did not rise like the others.
He ascended like smoke. Quiet, curling upward, filling the lungs of power until everyone was breathing him in.
The king honored him above all nobles. He gave him a seat above princes, authority above commanders. He wore the favor of the king like a second robe. And with favor came the command:
All who pass by Haman must bow.
Why I Could Not Bow
They say pride is a sin of the powerful.
But sometimes, obedience to God looks like defiance to men.
When Haman passed through the gates, others lowered themselves. They bowed low — some with sincerity, others with fear.
But I remained upright.
Not out of arrogance. Not out of stubbornness. But because I knew who he was. An Agagite. A descendant of the ancient enemies of our people. The line of Amalek. The same line King Saul failed to destroy — and paid dearly for his disobedience.
I had bowed to kings. But I would not bow to a man who symbolized everything that had tried to destroy us.
And so I stood.
His Eyes Found Mine
At first, he didn’t notice. Haman was too absorbed in himself to pay attention to a solitary Jew at the gate. But power always searches for enemies. And soon, he saw me.
He passed again.
Everyone bowed.
I didn’t.
He stopped.
Our eyes met — briefly, but it was enough. There was no anger at first. Only curiosity. Like a man sizing up a mark he planned to destroy slowly.
Later that day, one of the palace officials approached me.
“Why do you defy the command?”
I offered no excuse. I simply said, “I am a Jew.”
That was all I gave them.
And it was more than enough.
The Spark That Lit the Fire
Word reached Haman quickly after that, and his rage burned hotter than I expected. But it was not just about me. No — he wanted more.
If one Jew could stand in defiance, what would happen if others followed? If I reminded him of our history, he would write a new chapter in blood.
So he began to plot — not just against me, but against my people. Not a man, not a family — a nation.
In his fury, he crafted a proposal wrapped in cunning.
He went to the king not as a man seeking revenge, but as a steward of loyalty.
“There is a people,” he told Xerxes, “scattered and different. They keep to their own laws, and they do not obey the king’s commands. It is not in your interest to tolerate them.”
He never said “Jews.”
Only “a people.” That is the language of oppression — vague enough to dehumanize, sharp enough to justify genocide.
And the king?
He removed his signet ring and handed it to him.
“Do as you please,” he said.
Just like that.
The Edict of Death
Within days, I heard the clamor. Messengers riding out on swift horses. Town criers reading from scrolls. Faces in the streets going pale.
The edict had gone out to every province of Persia:
On the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, the Jews — young and old, men and women — were to be destroyed, killed, and annihilated. Their possessions plundered.
And as the ink dried on our death sentence, the palace?
They drank.
They feasted.
Haman dined with the king.
And I?
I tore my robe.
Sackcloth and Silence
I did not return home that night.
Instead, I clothed myself in sackcloth and ashes and sat at the king’s gate weeping, mourning, wailing with every fiber of my being.
Not for myself.
For them — for the child who would not see the next year, for the mother who would hide her baby and pray it died before the sword reached them, for the father who would stand in front of his door with a kitchen knife, hoping to protect his household from an empire.
All because I did not bow.
All because Haman could not stand tall while another man remained upright.
Esther Still Within
Word reached Esther, though I know not how.
She sent garments to cover me — to shield me from the shame of mourning in public.
But I refused them.
Because there is a time for dignity, and there is a time for truth.
And the truth was that we were not safe — not in Susa, not in any province, not behind any wall, not even in a palace.
She sent Hathak, her servant, to ask what had happened.
And through him, I told her everything.
About Haman.
About the decree.
About the date of our destruction.
And I made a request that would change everything.
The Time for Silence Is Over
I told her,
“Go to the king. Plead for your people.”
She hesitated — of course she did.
To approach the king uninvited was death. Even a queen could perish for such a thing.
But I said the words I didn’t know would echo for generations:
“Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone will escape. If you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place… but you and your father’s house will perish.”
And then, softer:
“Who knows but that you have come to your royal position… for such a time as this?”
And So We Waited
She agreed.
But not before asking this:
“Gather the Jews. Fast for me. Do not eat or drink for three days.”
And we did.
Not just in Susa — but in our hearts, in our hope, in our memories of the Red Sea, of Jericho, of deliverance before.
We fasted not because we feared, but because we believed.
And I returned to the gate, this time in silence — not watching for messages, but for mercy.
