What do we become when we decide to execute?

On the eve of Passover, the festival of freedom, this question becomes sharper than ever.

The debate over capital punishment in Israel rarely begins with abstract principles. It begins with names. With buses and cafés, with kibbutzim and roads. With the memory of the Gilad Shalit prisoner exchange, in which hundreds of prisoners were released, including Yahya Sinwar, who would later become one of the architects of the October 7 massacre.

And, of course, it begins with October 7 itself. A day after which doubt about the state’s right to impose the ultimate punishment began to feel, to many, almost indecent.

In such a reality, the argument for the death penalty no longer sounds like theory. It feels like instinct. If the threat returns, it must be eliminated permanently.

We mark Passover as the festival of liberation. But the Haggadah does not allow us to forget that the Exodus from Egypt was not only a gift of freedom. It was also the beginning of responsibility.

A people that has been freed must decide what it wishes to become.

“Remember that you were slaves in the land of Egypt” is repeated in the Torah not as a reminder of past humiliation, but as a foundation for present responsibility. Freedom obligates. Especially the freedom to exercise power over the life of another.

The question of capital punishment is therefore not only about policy. It is about identity. A people that survived the Holocaust, an experience of the radical devaluation of human life, and established a sovereign state now faces a renewed choice: to use power as retribution, or to restrain it within a principle that once protected us from that very devaluation.

In a country without a formal constitution but with a strong Supreme Court, the passage of any radical law is not only an act of legislation. It is also, in effect, an appeal to the judiciary.

The logic is clear. The political system enacts a deeply controversial law. The public conflict is transferred to the legal arena. The final decision is left to the court.

Such a move may serve several purposes. It can mobilize political support by framing the court as an obstacle. It can erode the legitimacy of the judiciary. It can create the groundwork for future institutional changes.

This is not necessarily cynical manipulation. It can also be understood as an attempt to resolve a conflict that cannot be settled within ordinary politics. But the cost is real. The court ceases to be only an arbiter and becomes a participant in the struggle.

Supporters of the death penalty often emphasize deterrence and the prevention of future harm. Given Israel’s experience, particularly the return of some released prisoners to violence, this argument cannot be dismissed lightly.

Yet it has limits.

Terrorism is not only a matter of individuals. It is also a system of ideas, networks, and symbols. Eliminating the perpetrator does not eliminate the conditions that produce him. In some cases, execution may even amplify the symbolic power of the individual, turning him into a martyr and attracting further support.

Israel already has experience with a different model. The death penalty exists in law but is almost never implemented. The execution of Adolf Eichmann in 1962 was perceived as a singular historical exception, not a precedent.

This creates a tempting compromise: to legislate the death penalty, but in practice not carry it out.

Politically, this is convenient. It signals resolve while avoiding an irreversible act. But it creates a dangerous dissonance. Law begins to drift away from reality. And rhetoric, especially when it invokes death, is not neutral. It reshapes the political climate and normalizes extremes.

Viktor Frankl, who survived the concentration camps, wrote that everything can be taken from a person except one thing: the freedom to choose one’s attitude.

That idea applies even to those who have committed terrible crimes. As long as a person lives, the possibility of reflection, responsibility, and even change remains.

The death penalty closes that space. It does not only end a life. It ends the possibility of that final human freedom.

And this raises a difficult question. Can a state, in the name of protecting life, eliminate that possibility without altering something fundamental about itself?

The Haggadah presents four sons, each asking a different question about the same story. The wise asks, “What does this mean for us?” The wicked asks, “What is this to you?”

The debate over the death penalty is also a question of who “we” are.

A state that executes in the name of protecting life must ask what happens to it in that moment.

Israel does not exist in isolation. The introduction of the death penalty would invite criticism from democratic allies, pressure from international bodies, and potential legal consequences.

One may object: why should a country engaged in an existential struggle defer to those who live in relative safety?

It is a fair question. But the answer is not simple. Principles are not tested when they are easy to uphold. They are tested when doing so carries a cost.

The death penalty is not only a response to terrorism. It is a response a state gives to itself.

It asserts one of two positions. Either there is a point at which life loses its inviolability. Or even at that point, we refuse to abandon that principle.

On the eve of Passover, this question carries particular weight. Because freedom is not only about leaving something behind. It is about deciding what kind of society we are becoming.

Perhaps the most honest position in this debate is to acknowledge that it cannot be fully resolved.

Security demands firmness, because it is shaped by fear and loss.
Law demands limits, because without them power becomes arbitrary.
Morality demands doubt, because excessive certainty can justify almost anything.

None of these logics can fully prevail without diminishing the others.
To force a final resolution is not to solve the tension, but to lose balance.

And perhaps the hardest task is to live within that tension without denying it, without replacing it with easy answers.

The real question, then, is not whether we have the right to execute.
It is what we become if we decide that we do.

And perhaps that question will never have a definitive answer.

Dr. Haim Ben-Yakova is the Director General of the Euro-Asian Jewish Congress