“I think this year there is one question and one question only: Why are they still there?”
—Rachel Goldberg, mother of slain hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin (may his memory be a blessing)
As we prepare for our Passover seders this year, many of us may have come across these words, heard on Dan Senor’s Call Me Back podcast, spoken by one of the most well-known bereaved mothers of those stolen from their homes on October 7, 2023. On behalf of Rachel, her husband Jon, and the families of the 59 hostages who remain in bondage in Gaza—some dead, but many certainly still alive—this is the question we must confront as we gather around our holiday tables.
After more than 550 days of captivity; unimaginable suffering, bloodshed, grief among families on both sides of this terrible conflict; failures of leadership; missed opportunities; and tragic mistakes, we face a question both heartbreakingly simple and enormously complex: Why are they still there?
I wish I had satisfying answers.
Regarding the upcoming Passover holiday, Rachel emphasizes that this year more than any other, we must incorporate the reality of the present into the telling of our ancient story and confront openly the ongoing suffering of our brothers and sisters still held hostage. She implores us to make room at our seders for grief, for protest, and for moral clarity.
One powerful action that Rachel suggests is to add new items to our seder plates; symbols that acknowledge the anguish we feel and the trauma we continue to endure. She proposes including a piece of masking tape with the number of days the hostages have been held (on Saturday night, it will have been 556 days), as well as a lemon to symbolize how hard it is for us to swallow our current reality. Instead of having our only taste of salt water come from the parsley we dip into it , Rachel encourages us to drink some—for we now know, from the testimonies of freed hostages, that some captives were forced to drink salt water themselves.
We face an extraordinary challenge: How do we tell our ancient story of suffering while incorporating our current, painful reality, and still find space to celebrate the many blessings in our lives?
We must give thanks for the gift of being able to celebrate Passover with family and friends—even as we cry tears of sadness and perhaps rage, for all that we have lost. And, as empathetic people, we must also grieve the suffering and loss of innocents on the other side, who have been so horribly failed by their own leadership.
Jon Polin, Rachel’s husband and bereaved father of Hersh Goldberg-Polin (may his memory be a blessing), suggests that we embrace the challenge of this year by refraining from wishing each other a “great seder.” Instead, he urges us to say:
“Go and tell everyone: You are to have a terrible, terrible seder. Make sure you cry at that seder—every single one of you—or you have not fulfilled your obligation to see yourself as having been in Egypt. Like Eviyatar. And like Edan. And like Tamir. And like David. And like Ariel. And like Alon. And like Matan Zangauker.”
So, this year I will not wish you a “great seder.” But I also will not wish you a terrible one.
With deep respect for Jon and Rachel and all they’ve endured, I offer a modified blessing:
I wish you a meaningful seder—
One that blends our ancient story with our current, painful, and even impossible reality.
May we truly taste the bitterness of our tears, the sourness of our trauma,
And then, with hope—fragile, but present—
May we find the strength to sing together:
לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בִּירוּשָלַיִם הַבְּנוּיָה
L’shanah ha-ba’ah b’Yerushalayim ha-b’nuyah!
Next year, may we celebrate our freedom in a Jerusalem that is filled with peace, security, brotherhood, compassion, kindness, and love.
This year, we cry tears of bitterness and pain.
Next year, may we cry tears of joy and gladness.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi