The Two Sarahs
A Project Presentation for the Research Centre for Religion and Transformation
Introduction
What happens when a victim gains power? When someone who has been oppressed finally gets a chance to be in control? Today, I invite you to explore the story of Sarah from the book of Genesis - a narrative that illuminates a persistent pattern in human relationships: how victims of oppression can become oppressors themselves, especially when they are facing systemic oppression, such as, for example, women. Sarah's tale is both deeply personal and universally relevant, demonstrating how power transforms those who hold it, and how the experience of victimhood can shape decisions when positions of authority are attained. As Alice Bellis powerfully observes: "Sarah's story is replayed wherever and whenever the oppressed oppress those who have less power.” (Bellis, Helpmates, Harlots, and Heroes, 62.)
Historical Context and Power Dynamics
To fully appreciate Sarah's narrative, we must understand what it meant to be a woman in the ancient Near East. A woman's value was predominantly measured by her ability to bear children and continue the family line. She existed under the authority of her father, then her husband. Even a woman of high social status, like Sarah, who had slaves for her own service, possessed limited autonomy over her own life.
The social structures of the time created complex hierarchies among women themselves. While all women lived under patriarchal authority, factors like social status, fertility, and relationship to male authority created intricate power dynamics. An infertile wife of high status might simultaneously experience both privilege and vulnerability. A fertile slave might find herself with unexpected influence despite her lower social position. These nuanced power relationships played out within the confined spaces where women exercised what limited authority they had.
Sarah's Journey: From Security to Vulnerability
Consider Sarah's initial position: a woman who enjoyed relative security in her father-in-law's house in Haran before everything changed. She abandoned her home, her safety, her known world in response to God's call to Abraham. The promise was magnificent - they would become a great nation - but the journey would demand extraordinary sacrifice from Sarah.
Her first encounter with acute vulnerability comes during a famine. The woman who left a comfortable home in Haran now faces survival in a foreign land. At Egypt's border, Abraham presents her with that devastating request: "Say you are my sister." (Gen 12:13) This moment crystallizes Sarah's powerlessness. Having already sacrificed her home for Abraham's God, she must now sacrifice her dignity for Abraham's safety. She enters Pharaoh's house not as a guest or wife, but as potential property. The text records Abraham's compensation: sheep, cattle, donkeys, servants - including, significantly, Hagar - and camels. Sarah's body becomes currency in a transaction that enriches her husband.
This pattern repeats with Abimelech, king of Gerar. The second occurrence carries even greater bitterness. Sarah recognizes the familiar sequence: being handed over, silenced, waiting for divine intervention. Again, she must rely not on her husband's protection but on God's intervention for salvation. These episodes reveal how even a woman of Sarah's status could be reduced to property when political and economic pressures mounted.
The sister-wife narratives expose the layered nature of Sarah's vulnerability. Though wealthy enough to own servants and respected as Abraham's wife, she remained vulnerable enough to be traded away at a moment's notice. Each entry into a foreign ruler's household carried not only personal fear but the weight of Abraham's survival. The text's silence about Sarah's emotional response speaks volumes about the expected female submission to male authority.
Yet an even deeper struggle defined Sarah's story - her infertility. Abraham's sterility remains unexamined; in the Hebrew Bible, women alone bear the stigma of childlessness. In a society that primarily valued women as mothers, Sarah's barrenness represented not just personal sorrow but social stigma threatening her status. The divine promise to Abraham of countless descendants must have seemed a cruel irony. Her laughter at the angels' prediction of pregnancy encapsulates years of pain and disbelief.
Yet even her eventual triumph - Isaac's birth - comes with complications. When God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, Sarah's voice vanishes from the narrative entirely. The same woman who orchestrated Hagar's fate has no say in her own son's destiny. This silence is particularly poignant: Sarah bore the blame for childlessness, but once she produces the promised heir, she has no authority to protect him. She is rendered mute in what might be considered the most crucial moment of motherhood, highlighting the paradoxical nature of her power and powerlessness.
The Transformation: Victim to Oppressor
Sarah's transformation from victim to oppressor reveals itself most clearly in her relationship with motherhood. In her desperation for a child, she turns to a common solution of her time - using her slave as a surrogate. "Go, sleep with my slave," she tells Abraham, "perhaps I can build a family through her." (Gen 16:2) The woman who experienced objectification now objectifies Hagar as a vessel for her ambitions.
The aftermath reveals how quickly power dynamics can shift. When Hagar conceives, everything changes. The text states she "began to despise her mistress" (Gen 16:4) - a daily reminder of Sarah's failure. Though social hierarchy remains unchanged, biology creates new power dynamics. The infertile mistress watches her fertile slave carry the child she craved. The text's silence about the intimate dynamics between Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar masks what must have been a complex web of emotions, jealousies, and shifting alliances.
Sarah's response demonstrates the intricate connection between motherhood and power. She “deals harshly” with Hagar, forcing her into exile (Gen 16:6). The Hebrew word for “dealt harshly” ('nh) is the same word used to describe the Egyptians' treatment of Hebrew slaves and the same word for a rape - a deliberate parallel suggesting the severity of Sarah's actions. The Laws of Hammurabi, a contemporary legal code from ancient Mesopotamia, explicitly prohibited the casting out of surrogate mothers and their children, providing them with specific legal protections and inheritance rights. Sarah's dual expulsion of Hagar - first during pregnancy and later with Ishmael - violated these established legal and social norms, indicating that her actions exceeded even the accepted practices of her time. This detail is particularly significant as it suggests that Sarah's treatment of Hagar wasn't just personally harsh but transgressed the legal and ethical boundaries of their society, perhaps reflecting how deeply her own experiences of powerlessness influenced her use of power.
The complexity of this power dynamic becomes even clearer when we examine the Hebrew text closely. The term סמח employed in Sarah's accusation encompasses meanings of evil, outrage, and robbery, with both sexual and legal implications. Scholars like Pamela Reis suggest that the sexual relationship between Hagar and Abraham continued beyond conception, potentially explaining Sarah's intense reaction (Reis, “Hagar Requited”, 83–87). When Sarah declares "May the wrong done to me be on you!" (Gen 16:5) to Abraham, the feminine suffix in the Hebrew text suggests she might have caught them in an intimate situation. This adds another layer to understanding Sarah's harsh response - she was dealing not only with the threat to her status from Hagar's fertility but also with the possible ongoing intimacy between her husband and her slave. The power dynamics in the household had shifted in ways that threatened Sarah's position on multiple levels.
Even after Sarah finally experiences the joy of motherhood with Isaac's birth, the power dynamics remain fraught. She cannot tolerate seeing Ishmael, her surrogate son, playing with her biological child. The text's ambiguity about whether Ishmael was merely playing or "mocking" Isaac suggests Sarah's deep-seated insecurity about her position. Her demand for Hagar and Ishmael's permanent expulsion - "Get rid of that slave woman and her son, for that woman's son will never share in the inheritance with my son Isaac" - reveals how completely motherhood defines power in this narrative. A deeper look at the Hebrew text reveals additional complexity in this scene. English translations of Genesis 21:9 disagree on the use of the Hebrew participle קחצמ. While some translations suggest Ishmael was simply 'playing,' others indicate he was 'mocking.' The term could mean both laughing with or laughing at. Some scholars suggest Ishmael was 'Isaacing' - a wordplay suggesting he was not merely playing with Isaac but potentially 'substituting' him. This linguistic ambiguity illuminates Sarah's deep-seated fears about succession and power, explaining her seemingly harsh reaction to what might have appeared as innocent child's play.
Biblical Power Dynamics in Modern Context
Through centuries of interpretation, the Sarah-Hagar relationship has been read through various lenses, each reflecting its historical moment. While postcolonial scholarship often views their story as a paradigm of racial and class dynamics, their conflict centered primarily on power - specifically, how women navigate and exercise authority within patriarchal structures.
The interpretation of these relationships has evolved significantly over time. While modern scholarship often focuses on racial dynamics, historical interpretations viewed Hagar through a different lens. In antiquity, Hagar's Egyptian origin didn't inherently imply a lower status - her identity was considered more 'oriental' than 'African' (Junior, Reimagining Hagar, 90–106). Throughout the centuries, her identity was viewed through the prism of cultural sophistication rather than racial hierarchy. This historical perspective supports focusing our analysis on power dynamics rather than anachronistic racial interpretations, allowing us to better understand the universal patterns of power and vulnerability in women’s relationships.
The dynamics between Sarah and Hagar find striking contemporary parallels in modern anthropological research, particularly in studies of women's relationships in shared domestic spaces. Janet Seeley’s extensive research on cohabiting women in polygamous households in Uganda and elsewhere in Africa reveals how relationships between women evolve and change over time, depending on context and needs (Seeley, “The Changing Relationships of Co-wives,” 74–5). At times, women collaborate in common struggles, such as childcare or caring for one another during illness. At other times, they compete for resources and status, particularly concerning their relationships with the male authority figure. These complex dynamics mirror the biblical narrative, where Sarah and Hagar's relationship shifts from mistress-servant to rivals, influenced by their relative positions of power and vulnerability.
Just as Sarah and Hagar's relationship was complicated by issues of fertility, status, and access to patriarchal power through Abraham, modern studies show how women in shared households navigate similarly complex power structures. Seeley's research demonstrates that women's relationships are not static but fluid, shaped by changing circumstances and needs. This insight helps us understand how Sarah and Hagar's relationship might have contained more nuance than the biblical text reveals, including possible periods of cooperation before their eventual conflict.
What makes this ancient narrative so compelling is how it illuminates patterns we continue to see today. In academic institutions, we observe how senior female scholars, having fought their way through male-dominated hierarchies, sometimes perpetuate rather than dismantle oppressive systems. In corporate environments, women who have broken through the glass ceiling may find themselves reinforcing rather than challenging toxic workplace cultures.
The phenomenon of lateral violence - aggression directed at one’s peers rather than at the actual source of oppression - particularly resonates with Sarah’s story. In academic departments, we see how scarcity of resources and positions can pit women against each other, recreating patterns of competition and exclusion.
Breaking the Cycle: Contemporary Applications
The persistence of this victim-to-oppressor cycle raises crucial questions about power and its exercise. It’s telling that imposter syndrome was first identified among high-achieving women in 1960s academia - another manifestation of how power and vulnerability intertwine in women’s experiences. When individuals who have experienced marginalization gain authority, they often face a double bind: use power in ways they once criticized, or risk appearing “weak” and losing their hard-won position.
In professional settings, we see how women who achieve positions of authority sometimes adopt traditionally masculine leadership styles they previously criticized, believing this necessary for maintaining their status. The parallel to Sarah is striking - both cases show how the experience of powerlessness can lead to rigid exercise of power when it's finally obtained.
However, understanding this pattern also offers hope for breaking it. When we recognize how our own experiences of powerlessness might influence our use of power, we can make conscious choices to act differently. This requires acknowledging our capacity to be both victim and oppressor - sometimes simultaneously - and accepting the responsibility that comes with authority.
Conclusion
Sarah's story holds up a mirror to our own experiences with power and powerlessness. Her transformation from victim to oppressor isn’t just an ancient tale – it’s a pattern we can recognize in our institutions, our relationships, and sometimes in ourselves. Understanding this pattern represents the first step toward breaking it. Every one of us will face moments of transition from powerlessness to power. The question is: will we recognize Sarah’s pattern in ourselves? And will we choose differently?
The challenge lies not in avoiding power - power itself is neutral - but in exercising it differently than those who oppressed us. This requires conscious awareness of our own histories of vulnerability and deliberate choices about how we treat those over whom we have authority. It demands that we examine our instincts for self-protection and consider whether our actions truly serve justice or merely perpetuate cycles of oppression.
I open my presentation by citing Alice Bellis and I will close it by coming back to her, “Sarah is not a hero. She is someone with whom we can perhaps empathize, if we are honest” (Bellis, Helpmates, Harlots, and Heroes, 62). In this honesty lies our hope for breaking the cycle. By understanding how our own experiences of powerlessness might shape our exercise of power, we can work toward creating institutions and relationships that break, rather than perpetuate, cycles of oppression.
The relevance of Sarah's story extends beyond gender dynamics to any situation where power shifts hands. It challenges us to consider: When we gain power, will we use it to protect and empower others, or will we recreate the very systems that once oppressed us? The answer to this question shapes not only our personal relationships but the very nature of our institutions and societies.
Sarah's story reminds us that the journey from victim to power-holder is complex and fraught with moral challenges. Her narrative invites us not to judge but to reflect, to recognize these patterns in our own lives, and to consciously choose a different path forward. In doing so, we might begin to break cycles of oppression that have persisted since Sarah’s time, creating spaces where power serves not to dominate but to uplift, not to exclude but to embrace.
