After the Seder Ends

Each year, Jews the world over conclude the Pesach seder at the beginning of the holiday with the aspirational declaration “Next year in Jerusalem.” It almost makes us forget for a moment that this is just the start of the holiday. It’ll be at least another week of bread-free living (depending on where you live, that is).

Pesach – Our Safe Space

The Pesach seder is our safe space. In Egypt the Israelite slaves were commanded to celebrate their imminent liberation as the Egyptians endured Divine punishment for their years of cruel oppression. The people were even told to go out and publicly prepare for the celebration in public, rubbing the noses of the Egyptians in the idea that they, the slaves, would be leaving Egypt as a free people watched over by a ‘vigilant’ God. We commemorate that each year when we open the door for Elijah in the course of the seder, daring our enemies to disturb our holiday while we are under God’s protection in our safe space,

But are we really safe this Pesach?

The Paradox of Feeling Safe in Israel

To anyone who doesn’t live in Israel it sounds almost absurd. How is it that in a country facing real, visible threats— the sirens and rockets that plague us at all hours of the day and night — olim whom I meet still say they feel safer in Israel?

It’s a fair question. The answer, however, isn’t denial. It’s experiential. In Israel, threats are acknowledged openly and handled collectively. There are clear protocols, and people know what to do when things go south. When a siren sounds, nobody hesitates. You don’t look around wondering if you’re overreacting. You move—because everyone moves. That creates a powerful sense of trust in almost everyone who lives here.

There’s also something deeper: clarity. In Israel the challenges are external, visible, and named. You know what you’re dealing with. Most importantly, you’re not facing it alone.

There’s an unspoken understanding here—whether you’re in Tel Aviv, Ra’anana, or Jerusalem—that everyone is part of the same story. That kind of collective resilience is hard to quantify, but you feel it quickly. That creates a kind of security that isn’t about eliminating risk—it’s about facing it together.

The Quiet, Existential Threat of the Diaspora

Now flip the lens.

Life in the United States or in other Diaspora communities can be, on paper, more comfortable. Careers are stable. Systems are predictable. On the surface, daily life feels easier. But many Jews are beginning to sense something else—something less visible, but more unsettling.

Unlike Iranian missiles and Houthi rockets, Diaspora antisemitism doesn’t always arrive with warning sirens. It seeps in—through cultural shifts, social tensions, and moments where Jewish identity suddenly feels like a liability rather than a given. It raises uncomfortable questions.
Questions like:
Can I be fully Jewish here?
For how long?
Will my children feel secure expressing who they are?

And that’s where the paradox sharpens.

In Israel, the threats can feel immediate—but they are confronted. In the Diaspora, the threats can feel distant—but they can erode something more foundational over time. Yes, life can be more comfortable. But comfort, it turns out, is not the same as safety.

The End of Pesach – Leaving Our Safe Space

There’s another layer to this conversation and it comes not from the start of Pesach, but from its end.

According to the Jewish calendar, the end of Pesach is the anniversary of the splitting of the Red Sea. This is the moment when the Israelites stood trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the water, with no obvious way of getting out of the situation.

Jewish tradition tells us that the sea did not split immediately. It took one person to move first: Nachshon ben Aminadav. He took one step into the water. Then another. And another still—until, at the moment when it seemed almost impossible, the sea finally parted.

In other words, the miracle didn’t just happen to the people. It began with someone willing to take a leap of faith. It began with someone who chose uncertain salvation instead of certain annihilation.

The End Gives Meaning to the Beginning

That’s a powerful lens through which to see the deeper meaning of “Next year in Jerusalem.”

Saying the words at the end of the seder is the start of our personal journey to safety. Living them—actually packing up, navigating bureaucracy, learning Hebrew, building a new life—that’s where having a little Nachshon energy comes in.

Aliyah – moving to Israel – often requires taking the first step before everything feels certain. Before every question is answered. Before every fear is resolved. Time and again, olim discover something remarkable: once they take that step, things begin to open up.

Not perfectly. Not instantly. But meaningfully.

Making aliyah means stepping into a shared story. You’re not just benefiting from what Israel offers—you’re contributing to what it becomes.

You’re not just leaving the past. You’re crossing over into a brighter future.