Posted By  richards on April 13, 2014    
				
				    Until I was 25 years old, I believed that Passover was about    liberation. I had left my Hasidic community three years    earlier, and when I received my divorce judgment on the eve of    Passover in 2012, I reflected on the irony of celebrating my    freedom from an arranged marriage while celebrating the    deliverance of the Jewish people. I thought Passover would    always be a day when I looked back at how far I had come since    I left my ill-fitting life behind.  
    As a child, I viewed Passover as an ordeal. I was required to    stay awake until the very end, which often coincided with the    sunrise, and it was rare that food was served before midnight.    Like the other women and children at the table, I was expected    to mutely follow the progress of the men as they conducted one    painstaking ritual after another, up until the moment when my    grandfather paused to catch the attention of the children    nodding into their empty plates. We watched as he made a show    of folding pieces of homemade matzah into a white damask    napkin, tying the ends together before throwing the bundle over    his shoulder, at which point all of us children rose sleepily    from our chairs to hold hands and follow him in a slow shuffle    around the dining room. This reenactment of Exodus was an    annual tradition, and the only time I ever witnessed my    grandfather taking the time to interact with children. The    central tenet of Passover is to relate the story of the Exodus    to the young, and so not even the sleeping newborns were    exempt; they followed him in the arms of their mothers.  
    After my grandfather finished his march he resumed his place at    the head of the table, looking resplendent in his white    kittel, and held the matzah in his hand. He spoke of    the thin potato gruel that had sustained him during his stint    of forced labor in the Hungarian army. But although he repeated    this story each year, in my fatigue and hunger I must have    missed the point. I thought he was drawing a comparison between    the story of Passover and his own liberation from enslavement.    But rather, he was reflecting on those early years, when he had    struggled to rebuild his life from ruins, when God had led him,    through the miracles of stolen passports and false credentials,    across the Atlantic ocean to the new world waiting on the other    side. It was here, after years of uncertainty, that he found a    sense of consolation and promise in the words of the Satmar    Rebbe, and joined in the effort to build a new home for the    surviving Jews of Hungary.  
      My grandfather insisted that because of his experiences he      could especially identify with the Jewish slaves who made it      to the Promised Land, and that through our connection to him      we could do the same. He conceded that the God who had      liberated our ancestors with great showmanship had not      ushered them via express route to Canaan, but though he      dragged them through the desert for 40 years, he performed      miracles to sustain them along the way, in the hope that      their faith in him would strengthen over time, and that their      new identity would inform a consciousness still heavily      influenced by an oppressive past. And he did deliver on his      promise, my grandfather told us, and while we might never      understand the reason for the delay, all that mattered was      the happy ending.    
      Like those newly freed slaves, neither did I expect to wander      for so long after leaving the world I grew up in, feeling      lost and homeless in a way that rattled me to the core. A      year ago I nearly skipped the holiday completely, feeling      that the life I had dreamed of was still unattainable. But      Passover found me at a table in Paris with Jews and Gentiles      alike, each with diverse backgrounds and pursuits, digging      into plates of Le Cheeseburger and red wine. The stream of      energetic and multilingual conversation was punctuated at      intervals by loud laughter. Bruno, a Frenchman with a mop of      white hair, leaned in to share with me an observation that I      found somewhat unnerving at first.    
      Ive always felt that the religious laws of Kosher and Halal      are a form of violence, he said, however passive they may      seem, for there is a basic violence inherent in separating      people from your table. The table, he insisted, as most      Frenchmen will, is the common ground for all humans. To bar      others from it is to violate your own humanity.    
      I was surprised by how comfortable Bruno felt about      expressing such a brazen and politically incorrect opinion,      and contended that the wine might have helped, but I wasnt      entirely sober myself, and couldnt offer an easy response.      Instead, I looked around at the vibrant, epicurean group      seated at the table, each diner with the personal story of      wandering that had brought them there on that night in a      serendipitous intersection of journeys. Although there was no      ritual to mark the occasion, I felt suddenly that there was a      ceremonial significance in the meal we shared. And I realized      that perhaps Passover is not so much about the moment in      which we break our bonds, but about what follows: the long,      slow haul toward a new future.    
      I see that future in my son, who told the Passover story to      his classmates when African-American slavery was taught in      his second grade history class. His teacher told me that he      seemed so proud to share his unique perspective; it was the      first time some of his peers had heard about the holiday.      When the children were asked to talk about people in their      families who had exhibited bravery under difficult      circumstances, my son told the story Ive told him so many      times, of how my grandparents survived the war, and how their      grief trickled down through two generations. I think my mom      is brave because she learned how to be happy, he said. Even      when everyone around her was sad all the time. Yet to me,      the miracle lies in my sons joyous disposition, in his      fearless curiosity and uncomplicated affections. It amazes me      that I am the link between him and my past, for the two are      irreconcilable in my mind.    
      As I prepare to celebrate my fifth Passover outside of the      Hasidic community, Im finally ready to honor my own Exodus,      the greatest of stories that is a metaphor for every human      struggle, Jewish or not. This year I will share my table with      other misfits and refugees who know what it is like to walk      blindly toward the promise of home, and have experienced the      unique fear and joy that come with that kind of freedom.      Their companionship and support have made my journey less of      a struggle, and more of an adventure. And though my own march      may seem far removed from my grandfathers, I sense the      well-trodden footsteps of my ancestors in the path that lies      before me. We may strive for different ends, but our longing      for home is universal, and it is wonderful to share that road      with others, instead of going it alone.    
See more here:
My Orthodox exodus: When I left my community, I discovered myself
				
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