Elie Wiesel - Passover Haggadah: As Commented Upon by Elie Wiesel and Illustrated by Mark Podwal

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L ike most Jewish children, I especially loved the Passover holiday. Solemn and joyous, it allowed us to escape time. Slaves of the pharaohs, we followed Moses into the unknown, into the desert, up to Mount Sinai. His summons to freedom was stronger than fear.

The Seder transformed us. On that evening, my father enjoyed the sovereignty of a king. My mother, lovelier than ever, was queen. And we, the children, were princes. Even visitorsthe travelers and beggars we had invited to share our mealwere messengers bearing secrets, princes in disguise.

How could I not love this holiday, which began well before the Seder itself. For weeks, we lived in a state of expectancy, of preparation.

The house had to be cleaned, the books removed to the court-yard for dusting. The rabbis disciples assisted in making the matzot. Passover meant the end of winter, the triumph of spring.

Here I must interrupt my tale, for I see that I am using the past tense. Why? Because none of this is true anymore? Not at all. The meaning of the festival and its rituals has scarcely changed. Only I have changed.

I still follow the rituals, of course. I recite the prayers, I chant the appropriate psalms, I tell the story of the Exodus, I answer the questions my son asks. But in the deepest part of myself, I know it is not the same. It is not as it used to be.

A lifetime separates me from the child I once was. Today I know that happiness can never be complete. The joyousness of this holiday is so tinged with melancholy that it seems more like a time of sadness.

It is understandable; Passover was the last holiday I celebrated at home.

I recall this to explain why it is impossible for me to talk about Passover solely in the present tense.

Do I love it less than before? No. Lets just say I love it differently. Now I love it for the questions it raises, which are, after all, its raison dtre.

What is most appealing about the Seder? Its challenge to children to ask questions. Why is this night different from all other nights? Because it reminds us of another night, so long ago, yet so near, the last night a persecuted and oppressed people, our people, spent in Egypt. Why do we eat bitter herbs? To remind us of the bitter tears that our forefathers shed in exile. Each song, each gesture, each cup of wine, each prayer, each silence is part of the evenings spell. The goal is to arouse our curiosity by opening the doors of memory.

On this evening, all questions are not only permitted, but invited. Still, we begin by examining the traditional four questions which illustrate four possible attitudes toward life: that of the wise son, who knows the question and asks it; that of the wicked son, who knows the question but refuses to ask it; that of the simple son, who knows the question but is indifferent to it; and finally, that of the ignorant son, who does not know the question and therefore is unable to ask.

And then, there is my own anguish: What can we do so as not to forget the question? What can we do to defeat oblivion? What significance does Passover have, if not to keep our memories alive? To be Jewish is to assume the burden of the past, to include it in our concerns for the present and for the future.

We read the news and it is always the same: random killings in Jerusalem, confrontations in Hebron, bombings in Lebanon. Were it not for its past and its historyor rather our connection to its historywhat right would we have to Jerusalem, or to the land of Israel itself? If events in the Mideast have any meaning, it is as a reminder of the need to remember. The peace between Israel and Egypt strikes us as miraculous not only because of Sadat and Begin, but because of Moses.

As we recite the Haggadah, which retells the Exodus of the Children of Israel from Egypt, we have the strange feeling that, once again, we are living in Biblical times.

More than any generation before, my contemporaries have known not only a paroxysm of evil, but also the realization of a promise; not only the Kingdom of Night, but also the rebirth of a dream; not only the horror of Nazism, but also the end of the nightmare; not only the deaths of Babi-Yar, but also the defiance of young Russian Jews, the first to challenge the Kremlins police state.

Sometimes the sheer speed of events makes us reel. History advances at a dizzying pace. Man has conquered space, but not his own heart. Have we learned nothing? It seems so: Witness the wars that rage all over the globe, the acts of terror that strike down the innocent, the children who are dying of hunger and disease in Africa and Asia every day. Why is there so much hatred in the world? Why is there so much indifference to hatred, to suffering, to the anguish of others?

I love Passover because for me it is a cry against indifference, a cry for compassion.

Listen to a story about Job, who lived in Egypt in the time of Moses. He held the important position of adviser in the Pharaohs court, along with Jethro and Bilaam. When the Pharaoh asked for counsel in resolving the Jewish question, Jethro spoke in favor of Moses request to let his people go. Bilaam took the opposite stand. As for Job, he refused to take sides; he wished to remain neutral. This neutrality, the Midrash says, earned him his future sufferings. At times of crisis, at moments of peril, one has no right to choose abstention, to opt for prudence. When the life or deathor simply the well-beingof a community is at stake, neutrality becomes unacceptable, for it always aids and abets the oppressor, never his victim.

The second story is no less provocative. It can be found in the Midrash, in the passage about the Red Sea crossing. The Children of Israel are saved at the last moment, while their oppressors drown before their eyes. It is a moment of grace so extraordinary that the angels themselves begin to sing, but God interrupts and scolds them: What has come over you? My creatures are drowning in the sea and you are singing? How can you praise me with your hymns at a time when human beings are dying?

Although neither of these stories is part of the traditional Seder, I like to tell them.

Oh, I knowit is easier said than done. Compassion for the enemies of ones peoplewho has the right to advance such a proposition? It may be an option for God and angels, but for humans? Then why this story? To prompt us to question. If God demands compassion, then it is our responsibility to take a stand, even if it is to say, no, not yet... but later, perhaps.

Still, I have seen Israel at war, and I can attest to the fact that there was no hatred for enemy soldiers. Yes, there was a fierce determination to win, but no hatred.

At the time, I remember how difficult it was for me to understand this phenomenon; it seemed illogical, irrational. When an enemy seeks to destroy you, you need to feel as much hatred for him as he feels for you. All of military history proves it. But all of Jewish history proves the contrary. The Jewish people have never had recourse to hatred, even in their struggles for survival.