Each year, we gather around the Seder table and ask the same question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” But this year, another question looms even larger: How do we tell the story of the Exodus when this year’s Jewish story includes massacre and war?
On October 7, 2023, the Jewish people experienced the most violent day against Jews since the Holocaust. That trauma, and all that has followed — war in Israel, rising antisemitism around the world, the silence of friends and allies, the shouting in the streets and the threats in our schools — sits heavily at our Seder tables. We can set out the matzah and maror, pour Elijah’s cup, sing the songs we know by heart — but this year, it all feels more fragile. And more urgent.
The Passover Seder is our oldest tool for telling our children who they are and where they come from. But what do we say when the ancient story of persecution and redemption no longer feels far away or metaphorical? How do we shape a Jewish identity that is honest about pain without being defined by it? How do we raise proud, resilient Jewish children without traumatizing them?
The brilliance of the Haggadah is that it has never shied away from the truth. We are not a people who sugarcoat our past. We name Pharaoh. We name our slavery. We name the plagues, the bitterness, the cost of being different. And yet we do not stop there. We sing. We recline. We imagine redemption. We open the door — not because we are naïve, but because we are still here.
The Seder is not just a retelling of our past; it is a rehearsal of our resilience. It is the story of a people who stood up as Hebrews in the face of oppression and emerged as Jews with a purpose. Every year, we retell the Exodus not simply because it happened, but because it keeps happening. Pharaoh changes faces. The threats shift. The language evolves. But the pattern is familiar: They rise up to destroy us — and we endure. We sing not in ignorance of danger, but in defiance of it.
Our children need to hear this. They need to know that antisemitism is not new — and that Jewish strength is not new either. From Pharaoh to Haman, from Rome to the Inquisition, from pogroms to Pittsburgh, from gas chambers to college campuses, hatred of Jews has taken many forms. But so has Jewish life. Our history is not just one of persecution — it is one of perseverance. We have built families, communities, libraries, countries. We have shaped law, ethics, medicine, and meaning. We have been wounded, yes — but we have never been defeated.
And this is what we teach our children: that being Jewish is not about hiding from danger, but about showing up anyway. It is about walking through the world with courage, memory, and joy — even when others want us gone. They have tried to erase us for thousands of years. They have failed every time. We’re not going anywhere.
Of course, how we share this story depends on the child. The Haggadah reminds us that there are four children, and each one needs a different answer. The wise child may be ready for nuance. The simple one may need reassurance. And some children don’t even know what questions to ask — which is why we speak up even when they don’t.
For younger children, we can keep things gentle: “A long time ago, there were people who tried to hurt us because we were Jewish. But we made it through. We’re here. We’re proud. And we still tell our story every year.” Let them taste the sweetness, sing the songs, and see that Jewish life is full of light even when the world feels dark.
For school-aged kids, we can go deeper. “Being Jewish has never been easy, but it has always been beautiful. Some people don’t like Jews, even today — and that can feel scary. But we’re part of a people that keeps going. We support each other. We care about justice. We carry stories and songs no one else has. That’s something to be proud of.”
For teenagers, we can name the patterns. Help them see that antisemitism is real and recurring — but also that it is never the full story. Let them ask hard questions. Let them voice their frustration. But also remind them: to be Jewish is not to be stuck in history’s pain. It’s to be rooted in purpose. Our identity is not built on being hated — it’s built on being holy.
The rituals of the Seder reinforce this truth. We eat bitter herbs — but we don’t stop at bitterness. We dip into saltwater — but we also raise cups of wine. We remember oppression — but we do so while reclining like royalty. And we end with hope. Always. Even in the hardest years, we say: Next year in Jerusalem. Not just as geography, but as longing. As a promise. As a refusal to give up.
This year, we tell the story with fuller hearts. With rawer nerves. And with deeper gratitude. Because even now, after everything, we are still free enough to gather, to speak, to sing, and to teach. That is no small thing.
When your child asks, “Why is this night different?” you can answer: “Because this year, we remember that being Jewish means standing up — even when it’s hard. Because this year, we’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere.”