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efore the seder

Tonight is a special night. Tonight we sit together to be together to remember together. Tonight we are not alone. Tonight we remember, because remembering makes us who we are, makes us more than who we are. We reach back to people who were exactly like us, who bore our name generations or centuries ago. Tonight is about them. And about us and them. But it is also about us and those unborn who will come generations and centuries after us and who will, on this same night, look back to us and say that we who are sitting here tonight and who bear their names were exactly who they are. Tonight we reach out to all those before us and after us, because tonight is about remembrance and time; tonight we are not alone. Tonight we sit together to be together to remember together. Tonight we remember, we rememorate. Tonight we remember remembering. Tonight we make memories for the afteryears. Tonight we repeat. We sit here as we sat last year, we say the same things and ask the same questions, eat the same foods, and if we’re lucky, will do all this with the same people we’ve done it with last year and the year before. Some may be elsewhere, some are no longer with us, and some we don’t even know yet. Some of us do not know what we repeat or to what purpose we are repeating. Some do not believe in what we repeat. Some have forgotten or do not wish to remember. Yet put together a group of people, give them a set of words and songs to repeat, cook a few dishes one cooks but once a year, practice a few rituals they’re all willing to say they share, make it ceremonial, maybe ask those present to believe in the illusion of a common history filled with a few miracles and the sense of persecutions overcome, and with repetition comes comfort, and with comfort comes warmth, and with warmth comes joy, hope, forgiveness, renewal. Perhaps we are better when we sit together and remember together. Symbol and figures will be our guide. Tonight we put aside our doubts, tonight we ask questions—but we do not ask too many questions, nor do we ask the hard questions. Tonight is about ritual and remembrance, not about answers. Tonight we look back at our past, as our ancestors in Egypt looked back to the land of Canaan long before Moses came. Then we look back to Egypt, and we look back to all the other lands where Jews stopped and labored, thrived and then fled, and we look back to yet other lands that would never be our homes either, and to so many lands where Jews are still today endangered and solitary except, perhaps, when they come together in makeshift homes and sit together to remember together. We remember for them, we remember so others will remember for us, so remembrance will not die. We remember because extinction is abhorrent, and Passover is about the struggle not to die, not to despair, not to abandon joy or the will to find it. Tonight we sit together to remember together. When every Jew in the world reaches to every other Jew in the world, alive, unborn or long dead, and says we are all one, then we stand outside of time. Tonight, but only tonight, time stops for every Jew. We count our blessings: our children, our loved ones, our health, our fortune, the gift of mind and life, our hopes. Tonight let’s sit together and remember together.

André aciman tabletmag.com

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Ofri Cnaani, Seder (The Days of your life), Ink on ceramic plate, 14” diameter, 2010

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I was born in Odessa, Ukraine. As a young boy I remember the time when I found out that I was Jewish. I asked my dad, “What does it mean?” He told me the story of our Exodus from Egypt, about Moishe our leader and the miracles that the Lord performed for us and our eventual arrival to the land of Israel. It was a story of hope and G-D’s love for the Jewish people. It inspired me very much and probably was responsible for lighting my Jewish flame, which was rekindled years later. My dad also brought home matzo for Passover. That was our only observance of Judaism. Still, the everlasting tradition of Passover and the Redemption of our people thousands of years earlier was still present in a Jewish home in the Soviet Union, where Judaism and Jewish traditions were banned for many years.-Perhaps eating matzo in Odessa foreshadowed our own exodus,

which followed a few years later. My family immigrated to Brooklyn on December 21, 1991. We slowly started to settle into American life. It was a difficult process, getting used to a new culture and a new life. Making a living required much toil from my parents. I remember a few years of long nights and early mornings. When I was 14 years old, my mom got ill. She was sharing a hospital room with a religious woman. On a visit to see my mom, I met the lady’s husband, who was an Orthodox Jewish man. He referred me to a shul close to my house called Chabad of Flatbush, where Rabbi Zalman

Liberow

welcomed me with open arms. I slowly started to learn about the history and traditions of my people. I had my first seder there. I was 15 years old.-Another key figure who inspired me to embrace my Jewish roots was Jimmy O’Pharrow, my mentor and trainer when I first started to box in Starret City boxing club so I could defend myself in the rough neighborhood where I grew up. Jimmy O is an 84-year-old black man who grew up during segregation. He told me of times when he, as a boxer, would have to enter the arena through the back door because of the color of his skin. As a teenager I saw Jimmy O as a real leader in his community, helping people in need regardless of their background and preaching black pride and leadership. That resonated with my own struggle and my search for personal identity as a Jew.When I was 18 years old I started to observe Shabbat. I won the U.S. Championships and the Golden Gloves while making sure that my fights would not be on Shabbat.

A Prizefighter’s Own Exodus-By Dmitriy Salita As a champion, I was given a chance to compete in the world cup in Budapest, Hungary. I decided not to go because one of the fights was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. Shortly thereafter I turned pro, and was told by boxing experts and promoters that I would never accomplish anything being a religious Jew and not fighting on Shabbat. That was my own personal Egypt. Thank G-D I was able to achieve great heights and fight for a world championship without compromising my beliefs.-To be Jewish and proud was the reason my family came to America,

to outlive the different Pharaohs that life presents us with, and to remain strong and proud, knowing that G-D loves the Jewish people. This year, I look forward to celebrating my first Passover as a married man. I wish everyone a happy and blessed Passover season. May we all, unique and special with our own deeds of goodness and kindness, merit the final and complete redemption. My wish to us all is to celebrate Passover with Moshiach in Jerusalem. Happy Passover!!!

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Dmitriy Salita is a professional boxer and the former holder of the North American Boxing Association’s light welterweight championship.

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T

he seder is unlike any other feast in the Jewish calendar: for its openness (nonJews are not only invited but encouraged to attend); its frank hedonism (the wine, the cushioned seats, the multi-course banquet); the welcome political arguments that inevitably ensue (usually avoided at dinner parties as a sure-fire spoiler, but de rigueur at this one); the exasperation with Jewish obstinacy in the Exodus (ignorant slaves, after all, all too ready to revert to idol worship); and finally the self-congratulatory celebration of the Israelites’ pliancy and persistence, as they reluctantly accept the basis of all future moral law (and who wouldn’t chafe at the Decalogue’s restrictions — Thou Shalt Not Kill, Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Wife — all broken at one time or another by the most illustrious Israelite kings?) and cross over into the Promised Land. It is the feast of lushness, of the triumph of light over darkness, spring over winter, life over death. Commentators write of a spiritual contingent among the wanderers who advocated remaining in the desert, like Bedouin, living off the dew, naked before their Creator. Why go to the Promised Land and endure the heartache and profanity of setting up house and developing a tribal identity? The danger of having land is that it becomes everything. In the desert, God is everything. Forty years in the desert: the length of the mature and productive portion of a person’s life. You are beautiful as Tirzah my love, At the seder no one cares if you believe comely as Jerusalem, in God or not. Doubt is Passover ’s terrible as an army with banners. theme. Moses doubted when the voice Turn away your eyes from me, of the Creator first spoke to him. The for they disturb me; Israelites doubted Moses when he told them he spoke to God. Pharaoh Your hair is like a flock of goats, doubted Moses when he tried to show moving down the slopes of Gilead. him the cost of inflicting suffering on Your teeth are like a flock of ewes, others. And during the dark years in that have come up from the washing, the desert, the Israelites doubted again, all of them bear twins, longing to return to bondage where at not one among them is bereaved. least life was ordered and one knew what to expect. The seder is when the Your cheeks are like the halves of a word “Jew” sheds its tribal significance pomegranate behind your veil. and becomes synonymous with the My dove, my perfect one, is only one, word “human.” the darling of her mother, I always end my seder with the Songs flawless to her that bore her. of Songs which I pass around to the The maidens saw her and called her happy. guests at random to read. They remind us that when we are free we have the “Who is this that looks forth like the dawn, luxury to suffer for love. fair as the moon, bright as the sun, terrible as an army with banners?” WRITTEN BY MICHAEL GREENBERG

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