Last night, as our Seder drew to a close, my son Leor asked a question that reverberated far beyond our dining room. He noticed that the PJ Library Haggadah we were using had omitted a line many of us consider central to the Passover liturgy: “Vehi sheamda lavoteinu velanu…” — “And this is what has stood by our ancestors and by us; for not only one enemy has risen against us to destroy us, but in every generation, they rise against us. And the Holy Blessed One saves us from their hands.”
When Leor asked why such a critical passage would be left out, we offered the most generous interpretation we could: perhaps it was considered too heavy for younger children, too difficult to explain. Leor nodded thoughtfully and, after a pause, said simply: “Yeah, but it’s true.”
That small exchange contained an entire theology. It reminded me that children often understand what adults are too afraid to say aloud. His words cut through the euphemisms and the curated narratives that increasingly dominate not only children’s literature but the broader discourse about Jewish history, identity, and trauma. We live in an age when omitting “the hard parts” is often portrayed as sensitivity. But when it comes to Jewish memory, selective storytelling is not compassion—it is erasure.
Passover is not merely a festival of freedom. It is a confrontation with our historical vulnerability and the long shadow of those who have risen against us. Vehi Sheamda does not flatter. It does not inspire with tales of invincibility. It tells the truth: that persecution is a recurring theme in Jewish existence. And that God—and our own stubborn refusal to disappear—has carried us through.
To omit Vehi Sheamda is not a neutral act. It is a theological statement, a pedagogical choice, and a cultural signal. It tells our children: this part of your story is too shameful, too frightening, or too inconvenient to name. But the truth is, failing to tell the full story does not protect our children; it unroots them. It leaves them ill-equipped to understand who they are, what came before them, and what may yet come again.
The desire to soften Jewish history, to make it more palatable, is not new. But in recent years, it has taken on an aggressive and disorienting form. There are those who speak passionately about Jewish food, Jewish humor, Jewish innovation—who are happy to tell the story of Jewish contribution, but not of Jewish persecution. They will celebrate bagels and Bialik, but fall silent at Kishinev, at Kielce, at Kibbutz Be’eri.
And worse: there are those today who accuse Jews of weaponizing memory, of using the Holocaust or antisemitism as tools of manipulation or control. These voices, often cloaked in the language of progress, tell us to move on, to get over it, to stop centering ourselves in narratives of pain. But memory is not a weapon. It is a lifeline.
We tell the story of Vehi Sheamda not to dwell in victimhood but to dwell in truth. Our survival is not an accident. It is not luck. It is the result of divine faithfulness and Jewish resilience—of God’s promise and our participation in its unfolding.
There is a temptation in every generation to be acceptable. To avoid discomfort. To be Jews of taste but not of truth. But Vehi Sheamda reminds us: we do not survive by being acceptable. We survive by being anchored. And our anchor is memory.
Today, victimhood is a kind of currency in cultural discourse. But true liberation does not come from claiming the status of the oppressed—it comes from refusing to let that status define you. Judaism never sanctified victimhood. We sanctify survival. And survival requires clarity, not confusion. It demands that we teach our children not only how to make charoset but why there is bitter herb on the plate.
To those who only wish to tell part of the story—to those who edit out the suffering and retain only the sweetness—we must respond with loving defiance. Judaism is not a curated Instagram page of cultural joy. It is a covenant forged in fire and sealed with sacrifice. It is a peoplehood sustained not only by lox and latkes but by a deep knowledge of what it means to be hunted—and to endure.
As we retell the story of the Exodus, let us resist the pressure to make it neat. Let us honor the tension, the pain, and the power of a narrative that insists we face not only what was done to us, but how we chose to live anyway. Let us speak Vehi Sheamda with full voice—because if we won’t tell the truth of our past, someone else will rewrite it for us.
Our children are ready for the truth. They are waiting for it. And as Leor reminded me last night, they already know it. The question is whether we have the courage to tell it.
This, indeed, has stood by our ancestors and us. Not the sanitized version. Not the abridged one. The whole story. In every generation, they rise against us. And still, we are here.