When G-d says No: A bittersweet Pesach 

On Saturday night, we will sit together at the seder table and recount the Pesach story, of suffering transformed into wonder. But this year, in addition to the 4 questions of the seder, there's another, perhaps more urgent question, on all of our minds:

How can we sit at the Seder, surrounded by the gleam of our festive tables, when at least 24 of our brothers, fathers and sons languish in Gaza, enduring conditions that echo the torment of ancient Egypt, worse than slaves, stripped of rights, persecuted simply for being Jewish?

How can we enjoy reading the Haggadah, surrounded by our family and friends and sharing a wonderful meal while Jewish hostages endure the depths of hell?

And yet, how can we not? Jews in Auschwitz clung to the Seder even in the shadow of unimaginable horror. They whispered the age old words of the Haggadah and they fulfilled the mitzvah as best they could, defiant until the end. Even when life defied every hope, they remained grateful for the blessing and the privilege being chosen as Hashem's beloved people.

The Seder is the heartbeat of our history, a night of gratitude, a testament to the Almighty’s outstretched arm that lifted us from bondage to freedom. The Haggadah bids us to taste the bitterness of maror and recount the plagues, yet it also urges us to sing Hallel and rejoice in liberation. Today, that duality feels sharper than ever.

The Seder is not just a memory though: it is a promise. When we recite “Ha Lachma Anya,” inviting all who are hungry to join us, we are not merely speaking of the bread of affliction our ancestors ate. We are invoking the present, where our family in Gaza hungers not just for food but for freedom. When we spill drops of wine for the plagues, we mourn not only the Egyptians’ fate but the ongoing sorrows of our people. And when we declare “L’shana haba’ah b’Yerushalayim,” we are not reciting a rote phrase, we are pleading for an end to this exile, for the final redemption.

This year, our gratitude for the first Yetziat Mitzrayim must be matched by an urgent cry to Hashem to hasten the end of our galut. As we break the middle matzah, let it symbolize not just the past but the brokenness of our present, the hidden half a reminder of those still concealed in captivity. As we eat the afikomen, let us infuse it with a prayer that it be the last taste of exile, that next year’s Seder will see every seat filled, every voice raised in song.

How can we enjoy this night? We can’t—not fully. But we can transform it. Let our festive meal be an act of defiance against those who seek to break us, a declaration that our spirit endures. Let our divrei Torah be woven with pleas for mercy, our joy tempered with resolve. We thank Hashem for the miracles of old, for the promise kept when He brought us forth from Egypt. And we beseech Him now to fulfill the promise anew, to end our suffering, to gather the scattered, to turn our mourning into dancing.

This Pesach, we sit at the Seder not in denial of the pain but in spite of it. We honor our brothers and sisters in Gaza by keeping the flame of hope alive, by refusing to let their plight fade into silence. We celebrate Yetziat Mitzrayim not as a distant echo but as a living call, to remember where we’ve been, to fight for where we are, and to yearn for where we must go. May Hashem hear our voices, see our tears, and bring us swiftly to the ultimate redemption. Until then, we sit, we sing, and we pray, together, unbroken, waiting for the day when no one is left behind.