Passover during wartime

     Being Jews, of course Monday night's Passover Seder veered onto tangents. Non-standard digressions based on the concerns of those present: salaams toward mysticism and solemn recognition of Oct. 7 and the ongoing war in Gaza. So much that the usual tug-of-war over gender equity mostly fell by the wayside.
     I was not involved with any of these flourishes, my lone suggestion — place an olive on the Seder plate as mute representation of Palestinian suffering — steamed away in a glare of reproach. No olives, no oranges — keep it simple. It was as if I suggested the egg on the plate be replaced by a sheep's eye, to represent social media. I get that. Each group cherishes its own injuries while diminishing those of everybody else; that's why the world is the way it is.
     Instead there was an empty chair affixed with a picture of a hostage, Naama Levy, 19, and a reading describing her many fine qualities. A poem explaining that Elijah will not be coming today. He usually shows up, notionally. We always open the door to greet him. The kiddies love that, and in years past would sneak out beforehand and present themselves as Elijah, disguised. Not this year; we didn't open the door to greet the tardy prophet because he's too busy tending to the truly bereft, supposedly.
     "We're never eating," I muttered to my wife, about 8:30 p.m., with the show barely begun.

     Mostly, I'm a go-along-to-get-along type of host, so I smiled and nodded at almost anything anybody brought to the table. Though the smile grew tight as the Seder progressed. At one point I felt compelled to point out that this is not our first rodeo, suffering-wise, that Jews held Seders in concentration camps, and that while I'm all for recognizing the crisis, I would hate for Passover, at heart a celebration of freedom, to lose its sense of joy, obscured by current events. We should still appreciate the bounty before us and the company of each other, loved ones whom history has, through some uncharacteristic oversight, failed to murder, so far.
     "We're still singing 'Chad Gadya,'" at the end," I observed, referring to a strange song about "one little goat my father bought for two zuzim." That's my favorite part.
     Much went as it always does. My wife's matzo balls were the ideal cannonball density. The chicken was excellent, despite having to linger in the oven for longer than was strictly necessary as the various sharp edges of the present were flashed. The children still played under the table as if the world were a wonderful place to explore, ready to welcome all with open arms.
     My life can be broken into three 20-year Seder blocks. From 1960 to 1980, there were Seders at my grandparents in Cleveland, with my grandpa's machine-gun, Polish shtetl Hebrew, that always sounded like "hamma-humma-wumma-chumma."
     Then 20 years at my in-laws in Skokie, with Irv whooping over the hotness of the horseradish and Dorothy fussing over everybody and the repurposed cleaning lady in the kitchen, doing dishes. I sometimes wondered about her: What did she make of our singing "Dayenu?" The chorus sounds like "Die! Die! Anu!" Did she think the Jews were chanting for death? Because that's how we're viewed in some quarters. I used to sometimes wish we actually were the hard, unified, bloodthirsty people we are made out to be — though looking at current events, I'm reminded that you should be careful what you wish for. Because sometimes you get it.

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