Passover conjures up a flood of memories, particularly because it is such a family-oriented holiday.
Memories of my mother, a Holocaust survivor, crying during the Seder before we opened the door for Elijah and sang “Ani Ma’amin” (“I Believe in Perfect Faith”) to honor the six million. Memories of the sadness and discomfort my sister and I always felt at that moment, watching our mother cry. Memories of also inserting a special prayer on behalf of Soviet Jewry at that same poignant point in the service.
Memories of the surprise we felt every time my paternal grandfather, who didn’t talk a lot and hardly ever spoke about his past, would read from the Haggadah in the perfect Hebrew he apparently learned in Czarist Russia, while the rest of us there in Denver fumbled over the words.
Memories of the food, and the tunes, and the food, and the food.
Memories of the first Seder the Wife and I held in our own home, arguing – well, debating – over which melodies should be sung: the ones she grew up with or the better ones that I brought to the table from my youth.
Memories of struggling as new parents to keep our young kids both awake and interested in the Seder. Memories, again as young parents, of trying to control our temper when the kids would misbehave around the table, disturbing what we thought should be the appropriate atmosphere. What do you do? Do you admonish them – er, yell at them – and destroy the mood, or do you just let it slide and realize that reality does not always live up to your ideal?
In other words, there is the ideal Seder in your mind– with the kids behaving prim and proper and asking piercing questions about the ancient Haggadah text – and then there is the real Seder in your house with impatience, rolling eyes, spilled wine, siblings quibbling, and – yes – a lack of the children’s interest, despite the saltwater, parsley, hard-boiled eggs, and all the assorted props there to pique their interest.
The COVID Seder
And, of course, there are memories of the great COVID Seder of 2020.
REMEMBER THAT Seder??
That was the first Seder after COVID hit, and the pandemic was spreading exponentially. This was when we were all instructed to stay indoors and away from other people, and when then-defense minister Naftali Bennett said memorably that if you love your grandparents, stay away from them.
This was a Seder unlike any other because it was one where, like so many other people in the country and around the world, The Wife and I were alone – no kids, no family – just the two of us. But because of that, it was memorable.
I thought about that Seder and COVID the other night while watching the television screen as attack drones and cruise and ballistic missiles were headed our way from Iran. There was something unreal – movie-like – about watching live images of swarms of attack drones designed to kill us flying in our direction. COVID, too, had an unreal quality to it: the masks, the hazmat suits, the forced mass quarantine.
What is worse and more unnerving, I wondered – the uncertainty of the period we have lived through since Oct. 7 with all its casualties, or the dreadful days of COVID with all its casualties?
It’s been a tough patch these past five years.
First, the political turmoil caused by two inconclusive elections in 2019, then COVID that started in 2020, then the judicial reform upheaval of 2023, then Oct. 7, and now April 14. It’s a lot to take in; much to absorb.
Every period – both in the life of individuals and in the life of a nation – has its challenges. Consequently, every Seder – both in the life of individuals and in the life of the nation – has its unique challenges as well.
There is the challenge of Seders as kids, sitting through all the prayers and explanations until the food is finally served. Then there’s the challenge of Seders as parents, trying to keep the children engaged, behaved, interested, and involved. Then there’s the challenge of Seders as grandparents, trying to keep the grandchildren – and their parents – engaged, behaved, interested, and involved. Those are the challenges in the individual’s life.
Then there are the Seders during national and global traumas: the challenge of the Seder during the COVID era and the challenge of the Seder today.
This week’s Seder was an enormous challenge: balancing a sense of deep grief for the nation and that part of the nation feeling intense pain over personal losses with gratitude for personally being spared that direct pain and suffering. My heart ached for those mourning losses and not able to celebrate the Seder with their families as they did in the past; yet at the same time, I also felt an enormous sense of relief and gratefulness that my sons and son-in-law were out of Gaza and we were able to be together.
THE SEDER this year posed other challenges as well.
First, how to mark the tragedy of Oct. 7 and the fact that 133 people are still held hostage. The exodus marked the Jewish people’s birth as a nation; it created a sense of solidarity that tied this people together. It is incumbent, therefore, when marking the birth of the nation to acknowledge the pain and agony so many members of this nation are experiencing today. How best to do that, to acknowledge that, is one challenge.
Then there is an even bigger question: How can we celebrate the Seder, indeed the entire holiday, when there is such pain around?
A relative of one of the hostages said in a radio interview that he would not be celebrating the holiday this year but rather marking it – for what is there to celebrate?
That is a wholly understandable sentiment for that individual, but not necessarily for the collective. For the collective, there is still what to celebrate: notably that this year – not Next Year, as the Haggadah reads – we are in Jerusalem, even if, like so many of our personal Passover Seders, the reality doesn’t always live up to the ideal.
At least not yet.
