This year, we invited different BINA educators to share their reflections on different parts of the Passover seder. Each educator chose a different passage from the Haggadah and shared their thoughts on the passage, reflecting on personal experiences and contemporary realities. We invite you to explore these reflections to add meaning to your seder or Passover holiday. 

Table of Contents: 

1. “In haste we left Egypt” by Nadav Cohen
2. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt” by Uri Carmeli
3. “Regarding four children the Torah speaks” by Yuval Linden
4. “To tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt at night” by Ayala Deckel

“In haste we left Egypt”

By Nadav Cohen, Coordinator of Activities for Educators, BINA

“This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.
Whoever is hungry, let them come and eat. Whoever is in need, let them come and celebrate Passover.
This year we are here; next year in the land of Israel.
This year we are slaves; next year, free people.”

Every year we waited for this moment—the opening of the Haggadah, when Grandpa Nissim, my mother’s father, would chant the words: “In haste we left Egypt.”
According to the tradition of Moroccan Jews, Grandpa would walk around with the Passover Seder plate over the heads of all the participants, prolonging in his broken voice the words, B’v’heeluuuu we leeeft Egyyypt, until he completed circling the table—sometimes very long—in swift steps.
After Grandpa passed away, my father took upon himself to continue this custom in his memory, even though it had not been practiced in his own family.

As children, we loved this tradition for its great theatricality.
We felt as if, through this opening, we were being invited into a playful and amusing space—a game which, although it became a bit boring as the Seder grew longer, was still a game.
A game that began with the “B’v’heelu” plate; continued when we children dressed in rags and acted as Hebrews leaving Egypt; and ended when we hid the afikoman and forced Dad to promise us gifts in return for its retrieval.

What is the meaning of this strong theatrical element of the Seder night?
Perhaps the secret lies in the connection between freedom and imagination.
The natural reality familiar to us as human beings—especially in difficult and painful times like now—is not necessarily one of freedom and flourishing.
Our ability to progress toward a state of freedom is tied to our capacity to release the imagination and envision a better reality.
From this perspective, the theatricality of the Seder offers us different exercises to train the muscle of imagination.
For example, when the plate spins quickly above the heads of the participants, we are invited to imagine haste and leaping on the path to freedom—against all odds.
In the stealing of the afikoman, we can imagine a culture of freedom sometimes being established by the young—those who do not necessarily wait for the cautious adults but “snatch” the moment, respond to its call, and the adults follow after them, finally answering “Amen.”

The long journey to freedom passes through the fertile ability to imagine.  And who knows better how to imagine than the child?

Jacqueline Kahanoff illustrates this beautifully through her childhood memory of Passover in Egypt. She describes how, as children in Egypt, she and her Muslim friend Hadria rewrote the story of the people of Israel in Egypt so that it would end well for both nations—the Hebrews and the Egyptians alike. She concludes with a mature reflection: “Many Passovers have passed since that first Seder of mine, and now we celebrate the Seder in the Promised Land.  But I often see the Nile and remember Hadria, who wanted to give me rare moments of grace and of freedom—those that children have when they invent a new world and offer it to one another with a smile.”  (Jacqueline Kahanoff, “Passover in Egypt,” from From the East Wind, pp. 20–23)

2. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt” 

By Uri Carmeli, Director of Content for Community Programs, BINA

Many are familiar with Rousseau’s famous statement: “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”  Rousseau, one of the most important political thinkers in the West, represents a common mindset among Enlightenment philosophers: that man is inherently free, and enslavement is an artificial state imposed upon him. At first glance, the story of the Exodus from Egypt seems to be a prototype of this idea. Pharaoh’s tyrannical rule weighed heavily upon the people of Israel for hundreds of years. The Exodus, then, appears to be the return of the people of Israel to a natural state of freedom.

However, upon closer examination, this description does not match the way the story is portrayed and framed in Jewish tradition. The people of Israel were formed in Egypt. Over the course of long years of oppression, they transformed from a loose collection of tribes into a nation. In other words, there is no “natural” state of freedom to return to.  Moreover, the liberation from Pharaoh’s bondage is tied to entering into a covenant between Israel and God. The Jewish concept of freedom is embedded within a narrative framework that is very different from the modern liberal framework. A broader review of Jewish thought reveals that this is no coincidence. The Exodus story constructs the idea of freedom in a unique way.

In contrast to Rousseau’s “Man is born free,” we can place the biblical verse from Job: “For man is born to toil.”  The natural condition of humanity is one of sustained effort—whether in servitude or in freedom.  A person always acts on behalf of something, is devoted to something—be it the imperial project of a foreign ruler, his family and children, or the pursuit of personal well-being. Idleness and prolonged leisure are no less artificial than labor under a foreign oppressor.  From this perspective, reflecting on the human condition blurs the sharp distinction between crushing enslavement and absolute freedom.

The biblical narrative continues from the Exodus to the covenant at Mount Sinai. From a critical perspective, one could say that the suffering nation merely exchanged one tyrant for another. Now, instead of building store cities for Pharaoh, they are on their way to fulfill a divine to-do list, including conquering and settling the land. But the biblical narrative, and the conceptual world that underpins it, frames the story very differently. The people became free not with the fall of the Egyptian oppressor, but in the heart of the wilderness, in entering into a covenant with their God.  As the Sages said: “Do not read charut (engraved) on the tablets, but cheirut (freedom) on the tablets.” (Pirkei Avot 6:2)

True freedom is not the emptying of life from all that demands effort or commitment.  On the contrary: freedom places before every person the great existential question:  “What is the straight path a person should choose?” (Pirkei Avot 2)  Not what to avoid—but what to devote oneself to—is the central dilemma in the lives of free people.  What is meaningful, awe-inspiring, and fulfilling enough to be worthy of striving and effort?

The answer our ancestors gave was the creation of a model society—here, between the Great Sea and the mountains of Jerusalem, in the Land of Israel.  That answer, given ages ago, continued to beat in the hearts of Jews for thousands of years—in times of prosperity in Babylonia or Spain, and also during the countless periods of disaster and destruction that befell the Jewish people. Not long ago, a group of free Jews chose once again to turn that vision into reality—and the State of Israel was established. It is no coincidence that the Festival of Freedom (Passover) and Independence Day fall close to one another.

But it is important to remember: the great deeds of Jews in the distant or recent past do not absolve anyone of the responsibility for their own freedom.  “What is the straight path a person should choose?” is an eternal existential question faced by every individual—whether in the Land of Israel or anywhere else in the world.  It is a question whose answer can lead a person—or an entire people—from slavery to freedom.

3. “Regarding four children the Torah speaks: one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to ask.”

By Yuval Linden, Deputy Director, BINA

Passover is a living tradition, a framework through which we pass our national story from generation to generation. On the night of the Seder, amid words and melodies, we gather to reconstruct the defining event that echoes through our people’s history, generation after generation. In recent years, reality has been filled with war and social crisis, presenting us with a new challenge: how do we tell our children the contemporary version of our story?

There is no adult or parent who has not wrestled in recent years with how to answer the questions their child asked about what is happening in our country and society. In the Passover Haggadah, we encounter the figures of the four children—each representing a different type of question and communication, each reflecting different aspects of our children, and each offering a different type of answer:

The wise one represents the child who seeks facts and details. They investigate and ask about the small details regarding specific people or activities. Their question is based on prior, extensive knowledge. The Haggadah encourages us to flow with the wise question and add more precise details from which the child will, in time, be able to assemble the big picture.

The wicked one raises hard, challenging questions that undermine our social conventions. The Haggadah first reflects how this presses on our sensitive points—how it triggers us. The metaphor advises us not to shy away from this emotional dialogue but to respond in kind, reflecting back to the child the meaning of their words with clear and sharp statements.

The innocence of the simple one is manifested in the open and all-encompassing question: “What is this?” These are the moments when the child genuinely struggles to understand the chaotic and difficult reality around them and asks the ultimate simple question: “What is this?” The Haggadah suggests we maintain the all-encompassing framework in our response—giving them a grasp of reality through the big picture and key motifs.

And then there are the moments when the child simply does not know how to ask. They are overwhelmed with information and cannot express their feelings through questions or curiosity. “You open for them”—this is how the Haggadah invites us to create a safe space for them and fulfill our parental responsibility in these moments by inviting questions that do not arise on their own.

Yehuda Amichai wrote, “Each person is a dam between the past and the future.” When we think of the past, we tend to think of distant events like the Exodus from Egypt in ancient times or the establishment of the state in more recent history. But recent years have taught us that even yesterday’s events are a past we are required to convey to our children. We are the dam. We will try to decide what and how the story will be passed on.

It is not the responsibility of the news, not of the teacher in school, and not of the IDF spokesperson. It is us who mediate our children’s understanding of reality and our national story, especially in times of crisis. Our Haggadah reminds us that within each child there are wise questions, wicked ones, innocent ones, and even moments when they cannot ask at all. Perhaps in order to convey to our child the complex story of our lives, we will need to deal with all types of questions they have and know when to give all types of answers.

4. “To tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt at night.”

By Ayala Deckel, Head of the BINA Secular Yeshiva

“We recall the Exodus from Egypt at night. Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya said: I am like a seventy-year-old, and I never merited that the Exodus from Egypt should be mentioned at night until Ben Zoma expounded it, as it is written: ‘In order that you remember the day of your going out from the land of Egypt all the days of your life.’ (Deuteronomy 16:3) ‘The days of your life’ – the days, ‘all the days of your life’ – the nights.” 

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya tells us in the Haggadah that he had never merited to tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt at night. This question seems strange to us because we only tell the story of the Exodus at night, on the night of the Seder. The name of the event itself includes the word “night.” We all immediately feel how the stories stretch when the stars twinkle in the sky. During the daytime, no one tells the story of the Exodus. So, why does Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya say this strange sentence, and what is so significant about the interpretation of Ben Zoma?

To understand this statement, one must know that the night of the Seder did not always exist. The way the Exodus was told was not always like this. Until the destruction of the Temple, the way Passover was celebrated was quite different and included the Paschal sacrifice. They did not sit around a table, they did not eat lettuce and charoset, and they certainly did not read the Haggadah. The Haggadah as we know it was created much later, after the destruction of the Temple.

The years after the destruction were difficult. The Land of Israel, as the sages knew it, no longer existed. They lost many people in that cruel war. Entire communities were destroyed. In this harsh and chaotic reality, the sages sat and asked themselves – how can we even celebrate Passover? How can we celebrate freedom when we feel so broken?

This question, unfortunately, we know all too well. This is the second year that we are supposed to celebrate the festival of freedom while there are people from among us who are still in Hamas captivity in Gaza. There are so many bereaved families and ruined homes. So much pain. So how can we talk about freedom and salvation in such moments?

This is where Ben Zoma says his words and reinterprets Passover. One does not need to tell the story of the Exodus only in moments of day and light, when we see reality clearly and everything seems good as far as the eye can see. Ben Zoma teaches us to tell the story of the Exodus specifically at night.

One can read Ben Zoma’s night as a metaphorical night. A moment in history when reality seems to have no way out, when everything is dark and gloomy around us. It is precisely in such a moment that Ben Zoma tells us we must tell the story of the Exodus. To ignite the flame of freedom within us, to dare to dream of a bright reality, of a better world.

The Exodus from Egypt burns within us these days like a flame, encouraging us that we can break free from the chains. We can move from slavery to freedom, cross the Red Sea together, and reach the Promised Land. We can leave Egypt.

“Anyone who wants to leave Egypt must prepare to feel many aching muscles. Freedom is never achieved easily. It is achieved through hard work, and it is achieved through toil; it is achieved in moments of despair and disappointment. This is the long story of the Exodus from Egypt: before you reach Canaan, you will have the Red Sea to cross, you will have the heavy heart of Pharaoh to confront, and you will have the mountains of evil and the hills of fate in the desert to deal with.” – Martin Luther King