Living the Haggadah’s stories anew

Like many in the State of Israel, I’m exhausted from the hypervigilance of a new cycle of rockets and sirens, so last week, after coming home from some errands, I took a few minutes to just sit in my car with the engine cut, and the radio still running. When I turned my keys, a medley of Passover songs played from my speakers. Perhaps the producers of the radio station were trying to get Israelis in the mood for the holiday.

I sat there in a daze, humming the familiar tunes I anticipate every year, feeling the weight of all the household work waiting for me when the prep truly begins. The neural network that lives inside of me, which is tethered to the cycles of Jewish holidays, is already gearing up for the labor, the memories, the opportunities, and the stories soon coming our way.

Navigating this time of the year is a lot, but even more so when war is introduced into the mix. There’s enough to be plenty stressed about, as my nervous system can attest to. And yet, as I got out of the car, I reminded myself that I know exactly what to do, because I’ve been here before. I know how this story can go.

That was not the first time I felt that way recently. 

I recently opened my Haggadah for the first time since last spring, aiming to prepare myself spiritually for Passover, before the cleaning and cooking took over all my time. I was struck by how the stories told and questions asked by the Haggadah, felt so familiar. Different circumstances or details, perhaps, but thematically? Eerily similar to the current moment of Passover 5785. 

When I was a child, my mother and father, rabbi and rebbetzin of their community, would fill our Passover Seders with family and guests from all different backgrounds, our dining room table groaning with incredible food. My parent’s hospitality and their goal to educate their guests who were not familiar with the Passover traditions or Jewish history, was a main focus of the effort. My grandmother talked about the Shoah and her experience coming to America. We talked about freedom and what it meant in the context of our family and Jewish history. I spent many years alongside my mother in the kitchen, planning menus, peeling hard-boiled eggs, making potato kugels, roasting bones for the Seder plate, making elaborate meat dishes, and enough food to feed 40, 50 people throughout the two nights of Seder (living in America). I watched my father meticulously hide pieces of bagels all over our house so we could find each piece, pour over his Haggadah to prepare Seder discussions in advance, kasher and cook in the kitchen with my mother, and burn the chametz at the neighborhood bonfire. At the table, I sat near them and listened to my younger siblings answer the four questions, while I actively participated in the conversations and answered our guest’s interesting questions that came from different worldviews.

Last year at my parent’s Seder in their home in Jerusalem, we had just a week earlier left the bomb shelter, having just been attacked by the Iranians for the first time. That was a terrifying but miraculous night, and by the time the skies cleared and Passover began, my family gathered around the table to began to sing, “Kadesh, Orchatz…” there were already tears in my eyes. It was like I was a child again, except this time the goal was not to talk about Jewish history. Instead, we talked about how we were living Jewish history.

So this year, when I opened up the Haggadah, there were sections that jumped out at me immediately; as I read them I heard the way they echoed into the present in a new way. I read, “Ha Lachma Anya… This is the bread of affliction that our forefathers ate in the land of Egypt… This year we are here; next year may we be in the land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year may we be free people…”

And I find myself writing new prayer myself:

God,

For too many days we have been eating the bread of affliction,

Our people hidden from us in tunnels deep beneath the earth,

Given only stale scraps of pitot

and salty water for their sustenance.

…

This year Your people have been enslaved,

Your beloved have been taken hostage,

Your land has been living under fire,

Next year, will we live in peace?

I read again, “Vihi Sheamdah…This promise has sustained our fathers and us! For not only one enemy has risen against us to destroy us, but in every generation they rise against us to destroy us; and the Holy One Blessed be He saves us from their hand…”

And I wrote,

God, We hold onto Your promise to sustain Your people,

We take it with us when we dream of better days,

We live by it when we send our children to school,

When we leave our homes, trusting that we will return home again.

We know the stories of the evil ones who came before us,

The accusations and libels, the crusades and pogroms,

The expulsions and the massacres.

We have those stories tattooed in our DNA…

We feel You in the rockets that miss their targets,

In the hostages that make their way back home.

We know You in the military miracles,

We see You in the burnt land, reborn…

And I continued to write. 

“Ilu Phinu Maleh Shira Ka’Yam: Were our mouths as full as the sea…

And now when we tell the stories of how You saved us before,

We sing of every sign, every miracle, every marvel,

We still see reflections of the past in the present moment,

Our songs, in harmony with our ancestors’ voices…

In the ancient Haggadah, I found the awe, the fear, the joy, the grief, the hope, the faith of the year 2025/5785. It unlocked something in me, a sense of being known by my ancestors or maybe understanding their experiences of persecution and freedom better than I ever had.

I discovered a renewed sense of the future, hope for survival, and dedication to resilience. 

I felt my spirit refreshed by the promise of the redemptions of the past and future, sung at Seder tables for thousands of years; a true conversation about what it means to be a Jew, the nature of who we are in this world, and the true freedom that is waiting for us.   

I pray that the promises of Passover, of the ultimate redemption, are heralded by Elijah the Prophet at our doorposts this year. 

So we finally can live in peace, evermore. 

—

Please find a free download of four new prayers (techinot) here that poured from my heart for our Seder (Sedarim) this year: one prayer for every cup, one for every son and daughter. Share them with your families.

Pre-order your copy of The SHVILLI Center’s new book in the Az Nashir series, Az Nashir: Between Silence and Song – Women’s Prayers for Israel’s National Days of Remembrance and Celebration