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Again, this is linked to anti-Israel sentiment but ventures beyond opposition to Zionism to antisemitism pure and simple — “Kill the Jews” graffiti and Jewish students being spat on. Much as we would prefer to believe otherwise, it is now happening here.
Still, and here we get to the clashing answers part, this year we must also acknowledge: There are too many dead civilians in Gaza, too many dead or injured children, too many Gazans suffering from homelessness and hunger. To be true to our ethical compass as Jews, we are also called upon to keep in mind their suffering — and to temper our celebration accordingly.
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Israel was brutally invaded on Oct. 7; it had the right and the duty to defend itself. Had Hamas not attacked, none of these terrible consequences would have ensued. Had Hamas not embedded itself within, and underneath, the civilian population, many of these deaths would not have occurred; Hamas is the only combatant in the history of urban warfare whose strategy is to maximize the deaths of its own people.
But to say that does not go far enough to recognize Israel’s responsibility, in particular for its failure to facilitate the delivery of food and other humanitarian aid to the civilian population. I understand how difficult it is for Israelis to support providing this help while the hostages suffer, especially because of the real risk of supplies being diverted to Hamas. And yet, this resistance feels fundamentally un-Jewish.
The Haggadah, as it happens, suggests a better way. It opens with the words, “Let all who are hungry, come and eat; all who are needy, come and celebrate the Passover with us.” All, not only Jews.
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God, we are told, visited 10 plagues on the Egyptians, from turning waters of the Nile into blood to the slaying of the firstborn. At the Seder, we dip a finger into the second cup of wine to symbolically spill a drop of blood as we recite each one to reflect that our happiness cannot be complete. The Egyptians, also God’s children, suffered as well when the pharaoh hardened his heart. Hamas, perhaps, exists in every generation.
As Jews, we must open our hearts to the suffering of all. We must mourn every death. And that, God willing, will be the message of our Passover Seder, one on which we can all agree before digging into the gefilte fish and brisket.
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The challenge for our pandemic Passover Seder four years ago was how to celebrate the most communal of Jewish holidays while in isolation. The challenge this year, a wartime Passover, will be how to celebrate it together.
At every Passover Seder, we ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” This year, we must also confront the question, “Why is this Seder different from all other Seders?” and the inescapable reality that among our multitude there are different and clashing answers about Israel and Gaza.
At Thanksgiving, my family sidestepped our divisions by declaring the table an Israel-free zone. But that won’t work for Passover. The exodus of the Jews from Egypt and their arrival in Israel is the story. The concluding words of the Seder make the point, “L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim. Next year in Jerusalem.”
But that leaves the matter of what to do about this year. Even as we give thanks for the liberation of the Jews from Egypt, we must keep in mind that 1,200 were slaughtered on Oct. 7 and that others, who knows how many are still alive, are being held hostage in Gaza. There are too many Seder tables with empty chairs. Giving thanks for liberation has to make way for mourning those who are gone forever and for keeping top of mind those who may still be brought back.
There is a frankly uncomfortable part of the Passover Haggadah. “For not only one enemy has risen up to destroy us,” this passage reads, “but in every generation do enemies rise up against us, seeking to destroy us.” In ordinary years, at least for me, this has carried with it an anachronistic air of Jewish paranoia. This year, not so much.
American Jews have to grapple with two simultaneous truths. In Israel, Hamas is seeking to destroy us. And yes, destroy us as Jews, not simply Israel. Just read their charter. The continued existence of Israel as a Jewish state feels more tenuous than at any time in my life.
Meanwhile, in the United States, there is the parallel fact of rising antisemitism. Jewish Americans of my generation once thought our parents were alarmist and out of touch with modernity when they emphasized this passage. But were they? The Anti-Defamation League reports a 140 percent increase in antisemitic incidents in 2023, the highest level on record and more than the previous three years combined.
Again, this is linked to anti-Israel sentiment but ventures beyond opposition to Zionism to antisemitism pure and simple — “Kill the Jews” graffiti and Jewish students being spat on. Much as we would prefer to believe otherwise, it is now happening here.
Still, and here we get to the clashing answers part, this year we must also acknowledge: There are too many dead civilians in Gaza, too many dead or injured children, too many Gazans suffering from homelessness and hunger. To be true to our ethical compass as Jews, we are also called upon to keep in mind their suffering — and to temper our celebration accordingly.
Israel was brutally invaded on Oct. 7; it had the right and the duty to defend itself. Had Hamas not attacked, none of these terrible consequences would have ensued. Had Hamas not embedded itself within, and underneath, the civilian population, many of these deaths would not have occurred; Hamas is the only combatant in the history of urban warfare whose strategy is to maximize the deaths of its own people.
But to say that does not go far enough to recognize Israel’s responsibility, in particular for its failure to facilitate the delivery of food and other humanitarian aid to the civilian population. I understand how difficult it is for Israelis to support providing this help while the hostages suffer, especially because of the real risk of supplies being diverted to Hamas. And yet, this resistance feels fundamentally un-Jewish.
The Haggadah, as it happens, suggests a better way. It opens with the words, “Let all who are hungry, come and eat; all who are needy, come and celebrate the Passover with us.” All, not only Jews.
God, we are told, visited 10 plagues on the Egyptians, from turning waters of the Nile into blood to the slaying of the firstborn. At the Seder, we dip a finger into the second cup of wine to symbolically spill a drop of blood as we recite each one to reflect that our happiness cannot be complete. The Egyptians, also God’s children, suffered as well when the pharaoh hardened his heart. Hamas, perhaps, exists in every generation.
As Jews, we must open our hearts to the suffering of all. We must mourn every death. And that, God willing, will be the message of our Passover Seder, one on which we can all agree before digging into the gefilte fish and brisket.
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