The Bitter, The Sweet and The Eternal Act of Telling

As families across the world prepare for Passover—mixing apples and cinnamon with horseradish and bitter herbs—we return once again to the ritual of remembrance. We dip, we recline, we recite. Not for nostalgia, and not out of obligation. But because the act of remembering—together—is the lifeblood of the survival of the Jewish people; of our survival.

It struck me how the act of being together and telling and remembering permeates our cultural being. Not only of the Passover tale, but of the traumas which we have endured – and continue to endure. We are, after all, a traumatized people.

Recently, I was invited to a screening of the film “Four Winters.” “Four Winters” traces the true accounts of Jewish partisans who fought back against the Nazis from deep within the primeval forests of Eastern Europe. Young women and men who had lost everything and everyone, but chose to rise—to resist, to rescue, to endure. It is a story of unspeakable loss, yes—but also of astonishing bravery, community, and fierce goodness. The kind of goodness forged not in ease but in fire.

I rarely go out to the theatre. I prefer the comfort and solitude of my home. But this time was different.

There is a connected thread between “Four Winters” and the Seder. Both are stories of exile and survival, of loss and reclamation. Both remind us that our identity as Jews is not only in what we have suffered, but in how we gather to tell the tale. In how we honor bitter with sweet. In how we transmit truth not just through books, but through presence—through the sacred, time-bound act of recitation.

Being with community – even in the dark theater – was a powerful experience.

The audience seemed to sigh and breath as one — and at times, cry together as one in our shared grief. But we also shared in joy and laughter together, and our bodies pulsed with the urge to stand up and cheer these courageous ancestors of ours.

That sense of both the bitter and the sweet—and the inspiration to call on our own courage in the face of brutality and hate. The enduring strength that rises up in that final moment as the final words of the film are spoken.

“Why me, to tell the story?”

The theater audience was there to witness, to remember and to share.

From Generation to generation.

On Passover, we ask: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And perhaps this is also what we ask when we sit down for a screening of “Four Winters”. Why are we here? Why do we watch? Why do we continue to remember? Why do we feel compelled to remember?

Because to tell the story is to remain rooted. And from our roots, we bloom over and over again.

In today’s world—where memory is fleeting and truth is too often politicized—our act of gathering becomes a kind of resistance in and of itself. “Four Winters” has become more than- just a film. It touched me deeply. It is an invitation. To come together. To bear witness. To feel the ancient cadence of our people in the present tense.

We are a people of the book, yes. But we are also a people of the table. A people who know that stories must be spoken aloud, around others, with intention and care “Four Winters” continues this lineage—not just in what it tells, but in how it asks to be received: in community.

This is how we survive. This is how we thrive. From bitter to sweet, and salty and back again.

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To watch the trailer and learn more about how to bring “Four Winters” to your community.

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