Passover isn't supposed to be easy. It’s a holiday about the messiness of liberation, the grit of survival, and the sharp taste of bitter herbs that remind us of where we’ve been. But this year, for Israelis and Jewish communities worldwide, the "Shadow of War" isn't a metaphor. It’s the empty chair at the table. It’s the constant drone of news alerts. It’s the reality of trying to sing songs of freedom while friends and family are still held in tunnels in Gaza.
I've seen plenty of holidays during periods of tension, but 2024 (and the lead-up to 2026) hits different. You can feel it in the grocery aisles in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. People aren't just buying matzah; they’re buying in bulk, just in case. They’re checking the batteries in their emergency radios while they scrub their kitchens for chametz. It’s a strange, jarring duality. You're scrubbing floorboards for breadcrumbs while your mind is on the northern border or the latest update from the south.
The Empty Chair is the Loudest Guest
The most painful part of the Seder this year is the silence. Every year, we say "Next year in Jerusalem," but this year, the focus is on "Next year, all of them home." There are over 130 families who won't just be missing a loved one—they’ll be living through a waking nightmare while the rest of the world eats brisket.
Organizers and grassroots movements have encouraged people to leave an empty seat at their Seder table. It’s a physical reminder. It’s not just about the hostages, though they’re the primary focus. It’s about the soldiers who won't make it back for the weekend. It’s about the tens of thousands of displaced Israelis from the Galilee and the Western Negev who are living in hotels, trying to cook a traditional meal on a single hot plate.
If you think a holiday is just about the food, you’ve never seen a family try to recite the Haggadah in a crowded hotel lobby with three other families they didn't know six months ago. That's the reality for the people of Kiryat Shmona and Sderot. Their "Exodus" wasn't toward a promised land; it was away from their own front porches.
Why the Haggadah Hits Harder Now
The Haggadah tells us that in every generation, they rise against us. Usually, we read that line and think about history books. We think about the Pharaohs or the Spanish Inquisition. We don't usually think about our own lives. This year, that text isn't a history lesson. It’s a current event.
The story of Passover is built on the idea that we must see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt. Usually, that requires a bit of imagination. Not now. When you hear the sirens or see the iron dome interceptions, the concept of "narrow places" (the literal meaning of Mitzrayim, or Egypt) becomes very literal.
I’ve talked to people who are struggling with the idea of "celebration" at all. How do you drink four cups of wine when you're grieving? The answer, honestly, is that Jewish tradition rarely asks for pure joy. It asks for memory. The Seder plate itself is a map of trauma and hope. You have the salt water for tears and the haroset for the mortar used in slave labor. We don't hide the pain; we put it right in the middle of the table.
Security Concerns and the Logistics of Faith
Preparing for Passover usually involves a lot of cleaning. This year, it involves a lot of briefing. The Home Front Command remains on high alert. Synagogues are beefing up security. The logistical challenge of moving millions of people across a small country under the threat of rocket fire is a nightmare.
- Displaced Families: Over 100,000 Israelis are still unable to go home.
- Military Service: A massive percentage of the reserve force is still active.
- Economic Strain: Prices for basic goods have climbed, making the already expensive holiday even tougher for those out of work.
Despite this, the spirit is stubborn. You see volunteers packing thousands of Seder kits for soldiers on the front lines. They’re making sure that even in a muddy trench, a soldier can have a piece of matzah and a sense of connection. That’s the real "Shadow of War" story—not just the fear, but the refusal to let the tradition break.
The Psychological Toll of Matzah and Mortars
We need to talk about the mental health aspect of this. Holidays are high-pressure environments even in peaceful times. Add a war, and you have a recipe for burnout.
Parents are trying to keep things "normal" for their kids. They hide their phones so the kids don't see the latest grim headline while they're searching for the Afikoman. But kids are smart. They know why Dad is in uniform. They know why Grandma is crying during the songs.
There's a lot of "survivor's guilt" going around too. People feel bad for having a nice meal when others are in captivity. If you’re feeling that, you aren't alone. It’s a common sentiment in Israel right now. The consensus among community leaders and rabbis seems to be: perform the rituals because they keep us grounded. The Seder is a bridge to the past and a hope for the future. If we stop crossing it, we lose the map.
Making Your Seder Meaningful This Year
If you're sitting down to a Seder, don't ignore the elephant in the room. It won't work anyway. The war is there. The tension is there.
- Acknowledge the Missing: Whether it's a yellow ribbon, an empty chair, or a specific prayer, name the people who can't be there.
- Keep it Simple: Don't stress about the five-course meal. The world is heavy enough. Focus on the conversation.
- Support Local: If you’re in Israel, buy from businesses in the north or south. They need the support more than the big chains do.
- Talk about Freedom: Don't just read the words. Ask what freedom means when you’re under threat. It’s a tougher question than usual, but it’s the right one.
The Seder isn't a performance. It's an act of defiance. By sitting down and saying "we are still here," you're participating in a cycle that has outlasted every empire that tried to stop it.
The matzah is called the "bread of affliction," but it’s also the "bread of healing." We’re leaning hard into the affliction part lately. Maybe, through the act of coming together—even with heavy hearts—we can start finding the healing part too. Don't wait for the war to end to find a moment of connection. Reach out to someone who is alone. Share a meal. Keep the lights on. That’s how you actually prepare for a holiday in the shadow of war. You bring your own light.
