The Blogs: A disorderly Seder

This is the first day of Passover.* Pesach. A commemoration of the Israelite escape from Egypt, so named, because the Angel of Death passed-over the houses of the Jews and took the lives of the first-born Egyptians.

Killed the oldest.

Centuries before Herod had the idea;

In their cots.

As a child, I had imagined the killing was solely babies although, if you imagine this is literally, ‘first born’ could apply to grown-ups too.

A purposeful wiping-out.

The Old Testament is a narrative of brutality; more resonant with modern ideals than we like to admit.

A dark commemoration that resonates through time.

There is dispute as to whether there ever was an Exodus. No evidence exists for the parting of the Red Sea or the involvement of Jews in the construction of the pyramids. This is a story that has become woven into the fabric of my people, instilling a message of redemption and freedom across societies and cultures.

Last night during our Seder, that is, the order of proceedings in which we read from the Haggadah – the retelling that is interwoven with timeless rituals – the cup for Elijah, the Four Questions, hiding the Afikomen and so on, we sang Go down, Moses, led by Louis Armstrong.

The version of the Haggadah was one my brother sent me, associated with the Humanistic Jewish tradition, it maintains heritage without becoming embroiled in religiosity.

As a boy, in Glasgow, then later in Israel, the Haggadot we used were soft-back, with yellow cover and a red pattern design. I have searched everywhere for them in the few belongings saved from my parents’ house and they are lost.

For the meal I prepared chicken soup, my son the Kneidels and Charoset; we had a lamb shank, burned egg, a miniature sprig of parsley from my garden and all the usual accoutrements. We even had a bottle of Palwin. Palestinian Wine.

Dessert was my daughter’s coconut pyramids and discordant Tiramisu.

Reminiscing with my siblings we have fond memories of our time in Glasgow; my grandfather at the head of the table, mumbling his way through the Hebrew, pronouncing the words with a Yiddish lilt – Shabbos rather than Shabbat and Ha-Goh-da rather than the Hebrew Ha-Ga-Dah.

During the service with my reading the Hebrew, accepting my inability to gutturally roll my R’s in Sabra-Hebrew was, my daughter, an exponent of French doing her best to say the rolly-Hebrew R’s – Cha-rrrroh-Set rather than my Charoset.

The service is an mixture of Aramaic, Hebrew and English. The modern sense of religious devotion is the importance of understanding what is said rather than the more traditional rote-approach which says that the understanding is secondary to the action; better to say the blessing in the Hebrew and not know what you have said than to translate.

Our Haggadah was written before 10/7 and makes no reference to the massacre, the war or the ongoing plight of the hostages although it does allude to the struggle between the Israelis and Palestinians, wishing peace and resolution, it talks of Isaiah beating swords into ploughshares.

There is also a section I can remember singing in the choir at Calderwood Lodge, a song about God’s despair over the Children of Israel rejoicing in the deaths of the Egyptians as the Red Sea closed in upon them.

You are all God’s people, created in His image. The death of your enemy is as much a tragedy as the death of one of you.

This seems to me a highly advanced form of morality dating back to the time of the original writing of the story in the year 520BCE. These are principles lacking in the boorishness of today’s politicians.

It is not a pacifist mantra – no turning the other cheek – the Egyptians got their just desserts, only, it would have been better, the world would have been improved had a compromise been reached; the death of the firstborn and the flight.

If only The Hamas would release our hostages, the killing could stop.

This morning, on my way back from the lake I listened to Jonathan Pollin, father of Hersh who was murdered in captivity last August, describing his frustration at the politicians – their hypocrisy and deceit.

He called for those in the government who oppose a hostage deal to remove their yellow badges, equating this to the CEO of McDonalds wearing a vegan symbol.

Turkeys voting for Christmas. Perhaps an allusion too far.

In a previous conversation I recall a separate quote referencing Netanyahu, as being more invested in his kingship than the kingdom.

Where have the selfless leaders gone? Are they so transfixed by the gamification of social media that nothing else matters?

We drank wine and finger-dipped the 10 plagues.

I wondered about the persistence of wine during the ceremony.

Red wine looks so much like blood.

I can imagine Saracen, Frank or Gaulish peasants peeking through windows, spying on the Jewish ceremony, seeing the wine and thinking, ‘blood,’ and, hence the blood libels, the thousands of years of narrative of Jews murdering Christian children to make Matzah, the unleavened bread.

Yesterday I talked with my son about the act of ‘Koshering meat’ something my mum used to do on the rare occasions she bought beef in the 1970s.

Meat killed using the appropriate Jewish techniques by a licenced Shochet, is bled to remove the blood and if any remains, the strategy is to salt the meat to draw out any additional blood in keeping with the Jewish prohibition.

We advised the various kings, dukes and peasants, we do not eat blood, and, like many historical double-speaks, the more we denied our consumption the more it appeared we were covering-up. The red wine and the spillages; the blood-red stains.

Last year, my daughter and I attended a communal seder of the Sheffield Reform Community; this year we stayed at home with our own Matzah and Maror; Maror being ‘bitter’ – this year I purchased fresh horseradish which my son and wife devoured. The bitterness is an allusion to the hardship we endured as slaves, just as the salt water into which use dip our parsley is a representation of the tears cried during our bondage.

I wonder how often the hostages cry.

I wonder how many tears are shed by those left behind, when sons and daughters, husbands and wives have died in the senselessness of human conflict.

For hundreds of years, the Haggadah has ended with two things, one a song in Hebrew and Aramaic called ‘Chad Gad Ya’ which means ‘One Little Goat’ and the blessing Next Year in Jerusalem.

My brother has been asking me to visit Israel for the Passover for years.

On Sunday my Friend O’s mum, Y sent me a video of her family seder in Israel, in the Negev.

We are trapped in a complexity of Matzah, Maror and a search for freedom.

Next year in Jerusalem.

Next year in freedom.