One week ago, I was preparing our family’s annual Passover seder, a ceremony that commemorates both the bitterness of 400 years of Jewish slavery in Egypt and the sweetness of liberation. The theme is a familiar one, “They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat.”
To many Jews, retelling the story of Passover is a vehicle for celebrating God’s role in rescuing the Jewish people. Working through Moses, when diplomatic efforts failed, God attacked the Egyptians with a series of plagues, until Egypt’s king finally relented, and freed the Jews.
For others, Passover has a universal meaning, imploring us to take action to free those who are currently enslaved. This year’s Passover preparations created a sense of urgency for me, brought on by the election of Donald Trump. In less than 90 days, this administration has threatened our democracy. Deportations, unjustified arrests of immigrants, violations of privacy rights, a Supreme Court majority that could end Roe v. Wade and legitimize Trump’s Muslim ban, and policies that diminish workers’ rights are only some of the assaults on freedom that threaten the foundational principles of our society.
My Passover seder challenge this year was to make the story of the Exodus more than a lead-up to a four-course Passover feast. I have attended seders where we are asked the question, “What keeps each of us enslaved?” The most common answer? “We are slaves to our technology addictions.”
Preparing the Passover seder had been my idea of being enslaved in the kitchen. We still have the luxury of making light of the notion of slavery. I wanted to create a seder that connected us to modern-day slaves: innocent children forced to become soldiers or child laborers; girls around the world sold into sexual slavery; workers employed for long hours in hazardous conditions, earning slave wages; incarcerated people working for pennies as a source of cheap labor for multi-billion dollar corporations.
The seder plate contains food symbolic of the story of the Jews’ enslavement – a paste of apples, nuts and wine called charoset recalls the mortar Jewish slaves used to build the pyramids. Horseradish is a reminder of the bitterness of slavery. We dip parsley into salt water to taste the tears of those enslaved.
New symbols have been added: an olive symbolizing the hope for peace between Israelis and Palestinians, an orange as a response to the idea that Jewish women as synagogue leaders is as ludicrous as an orange on a seder plate. It has also become a symbol of LGBT inclusion. A small piece of fair-trade chocolate emphasizes the importance of fair labor practices.
The seder plate implores us to feel the pain of our ancestors’ slavery. We are also challenged to extend our compassion to those outside the “tribe,” recognizing John F. Kennedy’s words, “Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free.” While we gather together to celebrate freedom, what is our obligation to those who aren’t free?
This seder of self-examination, requires us to ask ourselves the questions posed by the sage Hillel, “If I am not for myself who am I? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?”
Truth be told, I needed a seder to fuel my activism, which has sometimes been hard to sustain in these challenging times. Getting the brisket ready for the oven was an excuse for not calling my state reps to advocate for the Massachusetts Safe Communities Act. The day before, making matzo ball soup got in the way of sending a postcard to Congressman Neal asking him to demand that Trump release his tax returns. My daily practice of legislative advocacy was waning.
Debate exists about whether the Jewish exodus from Egypt ever happened. Does it matter? The Passover story can serve as a powerful metaphor about the anguish of slavery and the responsibility to challenge injustice. These lessons exist not only across religious traditions, but are central to what makes us truly human.
Passover ends Tuesday evening. Next Sunday evening and April 24, Jews will revisit the theme of slavery as we light memorial candles to remember those murdered in the Holocaust in observance of Yom Ha Shoah, the Hebrew words for Holocaust Day.
I need to remember to pack a memorial candle in my bike bag, because on Sunday, I’ll be pedaling with a group of local activists to Washington, D.C., for the People’s Climate March.
One of my cycling companions will be Andrea Ayvazian, whose ancestors were killed in the Armenian genocide, though her father survived. Both remembrance days are commemorated on April 24 this year. As we travel to Princeton that day on our own steam, I look forward to holding each others’ sorrow, while sharing ideas about how memory can help us create a better future for those who inhabit our fragile Earth.
Sara Weinberger, of Northampton, is a professor emerita of social work and writes a monthly column.