During the Passover Seder (dinner), a fun part is that children race through the house looking for the Afikomen - a portion of matzah. The winner gets a prize. Although, at any Seder I have been to, every child receives a gift of some sort. The Passover Seder, which is the retelling of the exodus from Egypt, along with various commandments, parables, blessings, and songs, is actually meant to be for children. However, children, under Jewish law, do not have any obligations. Adults are obligated to tell the story. The reason that it is often boring, if you do find it boring, is because the adults end up just reading it word for word, salivating at the smells of brisket and potato kugel.
In Israel this year and in the diaspora Jewish community, there is a pall on the Seder as there are possibly 25 living hostages in chains in Gaza, starving, unable to breathe, with possibly days, maybe weeks left to live. “Let my people go” is not the cry of the ancients, but rather our cry for the last five hundred and fifty three days since the horrors of October 7. Rachel Goldberg-Polin, the mother of the brutally slain American-Israeli hostage Hersch Goldberg Polin, said recently the question that we must ask at our seders is, “Why are [the hostages] still there?”
At the Passover Seder children ask the four questions and then the adults answer them with the story of the Exodus from Egypt. But the answer to Ms. Goldberg-Polin’s question begs more questions: where are the 2025 versions of Moses, Aaron and Miriam? Where are humble leaders who will risk saving the lives of their people instead of their careers? In addition, where are Mussas, Haruns and Maryams? Where are the leaders who can influence Hamas to end this war right now?
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While these questions are legitimate and important, along with others, I would argue that tonight we must focus on our own ancestral narrative heroes. There is no story like the story of the Exodus.
And yes, that last plague, the most horrible, is one that we wince at. It’s the one that when a child asks, “Did that really happen?” we might say, “It’s a metaphor,” or something like that or “Why don’t you have some grape juice?” If you’re at a table of adults, perhaps you might want to talk about Gaza. With children, the choice is ours.
With children, though, remember to finish the story. Leave Egypt with unleavened bread. Cross the Red Sea.
We are not our stories, but our values are defined by how we teach our children about them. We are living in difficult times. Spend tonight talking about the narrative about escaping from slavery. How you do so will shape your children much more so than your rant on instagram about the latest political mishap. (I should know!) The tragedies, inequalities, and incompetent men & women will be there after Seder. Tonight, give your children Moses: an imperfect, but humble, and dedicated leader. Give your children the belief that they too can change the world. One day, we will need them to.
This morning I woke up to the news that Hassan Nasrallah, Secretary-general of Hezbollah, was killed in Lebanon during an Israeli air strike in Beirut. Nasrallah was an avid hater of Israel and was responsible for making much of the north of Israel unlivable since October 8, 2023. He was the head of Iran’s proxy, Hezbollah, a Shia Islamic terrorist organization based in southern Lebanon. A perpetrator of misery, I certainly wasn’t mourning him. However, I was displeased getting off the exit on a beautiful Saturday morning after dropping my son off at a friend’s to see three young men handing out candy to cars, wearing Israeli flags.
Most people didn’t roll down their windows, but some did.
I thought this behavior strange because it is Shabbat, so why would religious people be doing this on Shabbat, and it’s just not really this neighborhood’s typical behavior. Also, I know in Judaism it is forbidden to celebrate another person’s death: “When your enemy falls, do not rejoice, and when he stumbles, let your heart not exult, lest the Lord see and be displeased, and turn His wrath away from him” (Proverbs 24:17).
I dropped off some groceries and told my husband and daughter, I have to run an errand. Lior looked at me suspiciously, “Where are you going?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Now I do want to know,” he said.
So, I told him. He rolled his eyes and asked me to please not to. But the man has been married to me long enough to know that I could not be deterred.
“I don’t want our kids seeing people celebrating death. At least I can say I tried talking to them. I know it will do nothing,” I said.
So, I walked to the corner, about 200 feet from our apartment. It is the same corner where there have been protests trying to save Israel’s democracy; protests begging to bring the hostages home. Now, here I was, wearing a purple “Bunny Rock Run 5K Egg Hunt” going to talk to these three guys.
I crossed two streets to the grassy median which housed their, to my surprise, chocolate wafers, not candy, and asked the leader if I could speak to him and if he could speak in English. He was about 5”10, had blond hair and blue eyes, was shirtless, and wearing the Israeli flag as a cape.
“It’s a glorious day,” he said with a wide grin.
“I see that you think that, but I don’t agree with what you are doing,” I said politely.
As I took out my phone to show him the Biblical verse, he said it in Hebrew at breathtaking speed. “Yes, I know, but this is not about religion, this is about my country.”
And then I saw. He and his friends were not wearing head coverings (kippot). They were not religious, as I had assumed.
“But don’t you think this makes your country look ugly by celebrating death?” I asked him.
“Listen, I have hated Nasrallah since I was a very little boy,” he said. “There is no one that I have hated more. Him being dead is the best thing that can happen. This is a glorious day. It is a day to celebrate.”
“It’s hard for me to understand,” I said.
His wide smile narrowed. “My father died in the Second Lebanon War. Nasrallah killed him. I’ve been waiting for this day my whole life.”
“I am very sorry for the loss of your father,” I said. “That must have been very hard.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I was told he was a good man.”
With those words, I looked down at the ground. I saw that there was a lot of trash from their boxes of wafers.
“Do you want me to throw those away for you?” I asked.
“No, you don’t have to,” he said. “The police took my ID number. They told me if there is even one piece of garbage I will be fined.”
I picked up the garbage and put it in the plastic bag that they had there and went on my way. I stuffed it in the garbage can next to where the protests will be tonight to bring the hostages home.
I should have recycled the empty wafer boxes, but I didn’t feel like it.
A few hours later, I brought my daughter to pick up my son. When we returned they were still out there handing out wafers.
My friend came right up to the car.
The kids became excited seeing the wafers.
I smiled and waved at him, but did not roll down the windows.
We do not celebrate another man’s death, and besides, we have ice cream at home.
Nine years ago, we were asked to leave our first apartment in Israel. Our landlord's son had just moved back to Israel with his fiance, and after living with them for a few weeks she asked us to vacate the rental so that she could give it to them because she did not care for her daughter-in -aw to be.
The cost of our inconvenience would be for our landlord to pay for our move. Since our lease would be up in a few months anyways, we agreed to the terms. Back then, our neighborhood had fewer buildings. Today, it is 20 times the size, but when we had to move out, there were only three apartments for rent.
We chose the apartment that we live in to this day. To be honest, I've never loved it, but I will be here until the landlord wants it for his annoying daughter or son-in-law, the rent is too high, or we leave Israel. The price is right, and I hate moving. Besides, nothing is perfect, right?
My son was born five months after we moved in to this brand new building. It was so new that not all of the elevators were functioning. Immediately, the occupants of the building viewed us with some skepticism. They did not like that we were renters. However, I adopted Lior's life's attitude (that's their problem), and most of them were appeased by my children's beautiful eyes, dimpled cheeks, and the fact that we paid our bills and were not very loud.
There is always an exception to being well liked, and that exception was our next door neighbors. From the second we moved in, our next door neighbors despised us. They spoke poorly about us to our babysitters, saying things like, "How can you stand those people?" One summer, after my nephew and I had cleaned out the storage closet and left a thin line of dust, the scary owner left a note on my door that read in menacing, broken English, "You dirty, dirty woman." There were more threats there. I have that note, but I don't feel like finding it. Life is to short to look through my Google photos.
When Maya was home sick from school one day with Lior, the woman got into a physical altercation with our cleaning woman. The conflict had been brewing for months and climaxed when our cleaning woman called her a "Russian whore." Our neighbor attacked her and she attacked back - all in front of Maya. The police were not called. No injuries were reported. (This is a really nice neighborhood - I swear). We had to, sorry, Lior had to, fire our cleaning woman, who sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. We paid her a hefty severance that one pays in socialized country. I knocked on our neighbor's door to tell her the news. Her response was not one of gratitude but of surprise, "It's so difficult to find someone you trust to clean your home."
Fast forward several years later to today. I was heading out to the car and there she was at the elevator. (Lior just shuts the door if he sees her waiting there). I usually stare at my feet avoiding her gaze as she avoids mine. Unexpectedly, she begins a conversation in Hebrew.
"The elevators move so slowly. Why do they move so slowly?" she asks.
I hesitate, but say hesitantly, "At least it's better than previous years when only one was working."
She nods knowingly as if we are friends. The doors to the elevator open. I let allow her to enter first. She asks, "Do you know that I am a nurse?"
"No, I didn't," I say truthfully. "I knew your husband was a doctor." I knew that because she once screamed at me because her husband "a very important physician" was asleep and she said the kids were being too loud.
"Yes." she continued. "I work in the ICU at Ichilov Hospital. The 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift. Last night was very difficult with the soldiers. Tonight will also be very difficult."
I looked at her in the eyes for the first time in nine years and said, "Thank you for all the you do."
In the recent marches against Israel, one of the chants heard is "“Khaybar, Khaybar, oh Jews, the army of Mohammed will return."
I'm in the middle of my Islam unit, and I know the context of this line from the Koran, and these protestors are ignorant and antisemitic.
The prophet Muhammed was cool with the Jews, except for a group that betrayed him. He was also cool with Arabs, except ones that betrayed him. It wasn't about their religion, it was about their betrayal.
The way you deal with betrayal in the 7th century, whether you were Christian, Muslim, or any religion, is to kill your betrayers. Religion had nothing to do with it.
It would be great if they tried chanting this: "Whoever does not judge by what God has sent down (including the Torah), they are indeed unbelievers" (Koran 5:44).
I guess it's not as catchy.
Prime Minister Netanyahu also did some bad cherry picking.
On October 28, he quoted "Remember what Amalek did to you" (Deuteronomy 25:17).
For those schooled in the the Hebrew Bible, Jews are commanded not to just fight Amalek, but to wipe out Amalek, which would mean to wipe out the Palestinians, not Hamas. You can say a lot of things about Netanyahu, but he's not stupid. He had to know the meaning of the quote and its significance. There are many, many better Biblical quotes that he could have used like:
“Don’t give me over to the desires of my enemies, because false witnesses and violent accusers have taken their stand against me” (Psalm 27:12) or "Be strongand of a good couragebe not afraidneither be thou dismayedfor the Lord thy Godis with thee whithersoever thou goest" (Joshua 1:9).
During these difficult times, the words and images that are chosen by leaders, by media, and by protestors carry great weight.
This post is dedicated to Shani Louk, who just wanted to dance on October 7, 2023 May her memory be for a blessing.
It has been a year since you have been gone, but this week you were with me.
....
I helped two friends in the same way that you would have. That's all I can say about that.
Ben scored two goals today. When he scores, he imitates Messi, who takes his fingers to his lips and then to the sky. Benjamin says Messi does that to remember his grandmother. So Benjamin does the same motion in honor of you. He did it twice and looked back at me with his million dollar smile. You would love seeing him smile.
I wish you were here for Maya. I feel like I'm not equipped for this next difficult phase of her life. I know you'd tell me to calm down, to not over-parent. I need you to tell me that she will be okay. We turned out okay, after all. And then you'd laugh and make a joke saying, "maybe not."
....
If you were alive, I wonder if I would be home right now. I wonder if you would have really pressured Lior or me. I wonder if we would have argued. It was very hard to say no to you. You did so much for everyone in the world. How do you say no to Abe Marcus? You would have said "do me this one favor, please." On the other hand, I wonder if you would be proud that I'm here. I haven't stayed because I'm a zealot. I've stayed because it makes the most sense for my family. It's safe where I am. It's stable. It's best for my health. I can be the best teacher possible here. It's best for my family economically. What brought you the most pride was that I had made smart decisions in my life, even though they took me so far away from you, mom and the rest of the family.
It couldn't have been easy for you when you left your family. In 1961, Indiana was practically Israel for someone from New York State. I never asked you that. I wish I would have...
...
In class today, I was teaching about the Islamic Golden Age. We talked about the Muslims innovations in terms of finance including business partnerships and credit. I asked the class, (17 12th graders half asleep, looking at their phones, or doing other homework on Zoom) who was familiar with the concept of credit, credit cards, and interest. None of them really knew much about it and those who volunteered answers were off in their understanding.
Obviously, this unit is very important, but so is a 17 or 18 year old knowing the basics of credit. I pleaded with them to listen. "What I'm about to teach you could save you thousands of dollars in the future!" This peaked their interest (great joke, right dad?) So I taught it to them including the importance of building your credit, but paying off your credit card every month so you don't have credit card debt. We looked at the math so they could see it for themselves. I told them that you taught me to pay off my credit card every month, and that maybe, just maybe, this lesson had come up because it was the anniversary of your death.
For some students, that kind of emotion makes them uncomfortable. For the ones who've known me for a while, they were touched. Teaching in this way is just impossible, dad. I know you would be impatient with my complaining, you'd tell me "that's what you get paid for," but it really is.
Then I told them that hoped they were okay with me going off topic, but I really felt this was an important lesson for them to learn, and I know that you would have thought so too.
My Muslim Arab student said it was a perfect lesson because in Islam it is said that you shouldn't spend more money than you have and loaning with interest is frowned upon.
I walked up to a very tall Rabbi today in Israel. This might sound like the beginning of a joke. Perhaps it is.
He looked like a young Rabbi, but as I get older, I can no longer discern people's ages, as I still don't see myself being as old as I am.
We were at this bakery near where I live. It is a bakery that has the worst service, but the best baked goods. I go there to see if the service will ever get better. It never does. The last time I was there, the credit card machine didn't work, and they were appalled that I didn't have cash. Today, they didn't have change, and asked if I had a smaller bill.
"You have change. You have a million customers in here. I know you have change," I said.
Sometimes, I initially get treated poorly, condescendingly, I think, because I'm small. Earlier in my teaching career, I was once rejected for a job because of my stature.
"Your lesson was good, but, and I'm saying this off the record, you're just too small. They won't respect you," one of the teachers sent to interview me said.
I didn't respond. I didn't challenge her five additional inches and 25 pounds. Her narrative was set. I had no chance at getting the job. She was wrong, by the way. I can handle anything and anyone. That's why I got the job I have now. You think I can't handle a teenager having a meltdown. When I was 22 years old I interviewed Coach Bob Knight. He yelled at me five times during that interview. I didn't blink.
My mom has always told me that being short was beneficial - people were nicer when you were petite. I've learned in life that I don't really need people to only be nice to me; I need them to be fair and honest. When my dad died I realized the loss was so immense not just because he was my father, but because there was one less fair and honest person in the world.
...
The very tall, also friendly, Rabbi was buying a lot of food at the, also, overpriced bakery with bad service.
"Do you have a club membership?" the barista asked the Rabbi.
"Should I?" he asked rhetorically.
"You actually save a lot of money," I said, regretfully. Since moving to Israel, I've adopted a trait of inserting myself into other people's business. Okay, I've always had this trait, but it's accepted here, so it's emboldened an already questionable practice.
"But what do I lose?" the Rabbi asked.
This was an interesting question, I believe, about privacy. However, the Rabbi had talked and given his contact information to at least twenty strangers since I had entered the bakery, so I was unsure why he was concerned about privacy. He was telling people that he had started a new congregation. No, there hadn't been any kind of bad blood with the other congregation. There was just a lot of people in the neighborhood and room for another synagogue. This one he would be speaking to the congregants in English. There were already 200 people who were attending each shabbos.
The right kind of kippa.
"You save 8% on every purchase. That's a lot of shabbos challas*" I said.
Normally, I would not talk to an Orthodox Rabbi, but he was wearing the right kind of kippa, the kind of kippa that told me as a woman it was okay to talk to him. The Chabad Rabbi in my building, I don't speak to, even though he's supposedly the nicest guy in Israel because he wears a black hat. His wife is very nice. One of his daughters, about age 11, recently helped me get my groceries in to the elevator. Let me tell you, that was extremely nice. I told her mother, the Rebbetzin about it when I saw her in the elevator. She then asked me if I was new to the building. I told her I had lived there for 8 years. She looked at me like it was not possible.
...
"Wow, that is a lot and I come here every week, thanks!" the tall, friendly Rabbi said.
"No problem. Rabbi, may I ask you a question," I asked.
You could see he was not expecting this. I was wearing my standard non-teaching gear: yoga pants from 20 pounds ago, a school t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I led him outside as the bakery was very loud.
"You see, my dad passed away in October. And I would like to go to a minyan to say kaddish for him. I grew up going to an Orthodox day school and a Conservative synagogue. I would understand how to do this in the US. I don't want to stand up for the kaddish prayer and make people uncomfortable in an Orthodox synagogue or to be made uncomfortable, especially during this period of mourning. At your synagogue, will women be able to say kaddish?"
The Rabbi waved to five more people and answered, "Well actually women do not say kaddish. Women do not need to say time bound prayers like men because they are more spiritual and,"
"Yes, I'm educated in Judaism and respectful and..."
"Eclectic..."
"Huh? No, I'm not eclectic. I was just wondering."
"You know, there's a web site where you can give tsedaka and someone will take on the mitzvah of saying kaddish for your father," he suggested.
"That's not good enough for me," I told him as he waved to more people. I wondered if his hand tired from waving and mouth from smiling. "Besides, my brother is saying kaddish for my dad."
"Well, that's great!" he exclaimed. "The mitzvah is fulfilled. Your brother is carrying the weight."
At that moment, a man approached the Rabbi who had been on the United flight back with me, Lior and the kids after we returned from shiva.
It was almost like a message from my dad, "Forget it, Ranee, he doesn't get it. Besides, you're not waking up for shacharis anyways."
I couldn't remember his name, but his kids and my kids play at the park frequently. He is in his early 50s and has three young boys. We greeted each other as people do who don't know each other's names but should after years of sitting next to each other on a park bench.
This is a real thing.
"Look" the Rabbi said. "Everyone in the neighborhood knows each other."
"I see her more on a plane than in person," the man said and I walked away
"What's your name?" the Rabbi shouted.
I told him, continued home, and began to cry.
....
As a mourner who lives so far away from my family, I mourn in isolation with the love and support of my husband and children. There is no one here who knew my dad. There's no place for me to go that will really give me comfort, so the weight of my emotions fall, as much as I will let them, which isn't much, on my husband and a couple close friends.
When I interact with people here outside of school, people who've spent time with me, often know very little about me or assume I know little about anything. I can tell them I'm a teacher. I can tell them my background. I can tell them what I teach. It does not matter. My students treat me well. They appreciate my knowledge and how well I teach, and so do their parents. They are who matter. But there are times when I wish someone could scan my brain and then start speaking to me. Although that could prove problematic for other reasons.
And then I think of my brother, Eric, who is carrying that weight ...
and my dad ... who did for so many people for so many years when he went to synagogue every day.
And then I think of the Beatles:
Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight
Once there was a way, to get back homeward Once there was a way, to get back home Sleep pretty darling, do not cry And I will sing a lullaby Golden slumbers fill your eyes Smiles await you when you rise Sleep pretty darling, do not cry And I will sing a lullaby Once there was a way, to get back homeward Once there was a way, to get back home Sleep pretty darling, don't you cry I'll sing a lullaby
And in the end The love you take Is equal to the love You make
Golden slumbers fill your eyes Smiles await you when you rise Sleep pretty darling, do not cry I will sing a lullaby
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight Carry that weight a long time Boy, you're gonna carry that weight Carry that weight a long time
I never give you my pillow I only send you my invitations And in the middle of the celebrations I break down
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight Carry that weight a long time Boy, you're gonna carry that weight Carry that weight a long time
*Glossary
shabbos challos: sabbath bread in the Ashkenazi accent the Rabbi was speaking in kippa: head covering observant Jews wear Chabad: an outreach movement to connect Jews to Orthodox Judaism minyan: a quorum of ten men in Orthodox Judaism; 10 men or women in Reform or Conservative Judaism kaddish: in this case, the mourner's prayer said 2 or 3 times daily
shacharis: morning prayer in the Ashkenazi accent my dad said Jewish words in
