Last year for Purim, I wrote a letter to my daughters.
This Pesach, it’s my son’s turn.
Dear Zev,
Today is the fast of the first born. It is a day to remember the sparing of the Hebrew firstborn sons in Egypt during the plague of the slaying of the firstborn Egyptians. The story goes that during the 10th plague, the Angel of Death traversed Egypt, slaying the Egyptian firstborns as punishment for the way the Hebrews had been treated in Egypt, whereas the Hebrew firstborns were spared (they were passed-over, hence, the holiday’s name).
You may be our first son but you have an older sister, so you are exempt from having to observe today’s fast. I, on the other hand, am a firstborn, and so I went to shul early this morning, put on my tfillin, and, as per custom, learned some Talmud which exempted me from having to fast (apparent the act of rejoicing (i.e. learning) overrides the requirement to continue fasting - **paging Yom Kippur**).
After popping a macaroon into my mouth and heading off to work, I couldn’t help but think about the different messages there are about males in the Passover story. There is the order at the beginning of the story by Pharaoh to throw all firstborn Hebrew males into the Nile. There is the passing over of Hebrew firstborns during the 10th plague. There is the role that Moses and his brother Aaron play in freeing their people. There is the questions asked by the four brothers during the seder.
Like so many of our traditions and customs, I ended up in shul earlier this morning because of something that happened to our people so many years ago. I was reminded about something written by Yosef Chaim Yerushalmi (whose parents apparently wanted him to have the Jewiest name on the planet) about memory. He wrote about history and memory, and said that for Jewish civilization, the past is not something to simply be contemplated and thought about at a distance, but rather it is a series of situations into which one is existentially drawn. Today, I give thanks, as a firstborn, for not being slayed by the Angel of Death. It is part of my heritage, and just something that we do.
Connection and Disconnection
On Saturday evening, when we sit together at our seder table, surrounded by family, tradition, and the embrace of our heritage, I will then also be thinking about the incredible gift you've been given: that of connection. Your experience as a young Jewish boy in a vibrant Jewish community in the Diaspora is already so richly interwoven with the highs and lows of our people's story, that you don’t - by virtue of your just being 5 years old - grasp how unique and precious it is. In fact, it is a stark contrast to the life of Moses - our greatest leader - whose early journey was marked instead by separation and detachment from his own people.
Think for a moment about Moses. His story, as grand as it later was, began with a strange and ironic twist. Born into an oppressed family, Moses was set adrift in the Nile, fished out by Pharaoh’s daughter, and raised in the luxury and comfort of Egyptian royalty. Our Sages tell us that from birth until the age of about forty, Moses lived a life that seemed perfect from the outside: wealth, power, education, and privilege. Yet, beneath all that apparent fortune lay a profound and tragic disconnect from his true identity, from his people, from his roots. It was a significant disconnection, made all the more tragic as they were, like, literally just outside his door.
The Torah tells us strikingly little about Moses’ early life. All we learn is how he was found by the Pharaoh’s daughter, named, and then yada yada yada (that’s a reference you’ll learn later) he’s 40 years old. In some respects, the Torah yada-yada’d over the most important parts! Moses’ childhood, how he grew up, where he learned his values and ethics, who taught him to drive a chariot, and what he did that made him the man we meet in Exodus 2:12, striking an Egyptian who was hurting a fellow Hebrew.
It is unclear from the text whether Moses was raised in an Egyptian household aware of being different or not. We do not know whether, while he ran through the halls of the palaces in Memphis or Thebes, playing with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Tut-les, his Scarab-bles or Playmobilisk, Tickle-me-Pharaoh, or his Hungry-Hungry-Hebrews, he thought of himself as a Hebrew or Egyptian. Whether he thought, as the movie would have us believe, he would be a Prince of Egypt, or whether he would be the Leader of the Jews. We just don’t know, and we certainly have little clarity how he did or did not struggle with the plight of his people.
Difficulty of difference
If he knew, deep down, that he was different, imagine what that felt like. Consider how strange it must have been. Imagine growing up in a place where everything around you feels alien, where the stories whispered to you about your origins never match the reality of your daily life. Moses learned about his people secondhand, likely from hushed stories or whispered conversations. He grew up knowing only an abstract version of what it meant to be a Hebrew. He didn't experience the warmth of Shabbat dinners, the laughter around a holiday table, or the familiar bickering among family members who deeply love each other. His was a childhood without the matzah ball soup you so love, without lighting candles, without knowing firsthand the gentle, comforting rhythms of tradition and family. His upbringing was likely authoritative, majesterial, and cold (despite the Egyptian desert heat).
When Moses finally understood his identity, his discovery was traumatic. He had to confront his true heritage through violence and conflict—watching an Egyptian overseer beating a Hebrew slave. As the story goes, Moses reacted in fury, killing the overseer, and then - in a panic - fleeing into exile. For Moses, becoming a leader and liberator meant first abandoning the comfort and security of his upbringing, entering a period of isolation and exile, and ultimately accepting a mission that felt impossibly large and frightening.
Warm embrace
But you, my son, you are fortunate beyond measure. Your story begins within the embrace of family and community. You have the luxury of experiencing Jewish life from the inside out. From your first seder as a baby - albeit, a small one at the start of a global pandemic - to the early memories of searching for the afikoman, to the restless excitement of staying awake through the long readings of the Haggadah, your Jewish identity has been a constant, living presence, filled with joy, laughter, and love. Unlike Moses, you haven't had to piece together your identity from fragments; it's been part of your very breath, your daily rhythm.
Yet, you are also connected in a very real way to the ups and downs of our collective story. Each year at Passover, you hear the account of slavery and freedom, oppression and deliverance. You taste the bitterness of maror, reminding you that suffering is real and not to be forgotten. You savor the sweetness of charoset, symbolizing the hope and redemption that always accompany our struggles. Through these tangible rituals, you absorb the full emotional range of our history. You learn early on that being Jewish means holding both joy and sadness together, celebrating our victories while mourning our losses.
This will also now be the 2nd year of seders - that’s two years out of the six you’ve been attending seders - in which we will be placing yellow flowers on the table, setting an empty seat for those who are not with us, because there are still today 59 Jews who are not free, imprisoned as hostages in Gaza. That is, one-third of the seders you have experienced have been tarnished by the sad truth that freedom is not absolute - that it is a privilege that we do not all have, and that when 59 of our brothers are not free, none of us truly are. Though you may not truly understand it yet, this is another burden that you’ve been saddled with because of your entrenchment within the traditions and cultures of our people.
Continuity
Zev, you live a rich, vibrant, complicated Jewish life because you are deeply embedded in the continuity of our people. You learn our ancient prayers, songs, and rituals from your grandparents, parents, siblings, teachers, and friends. You don’t learn it from history books, because it is now! All around you! You understand instinctively what it means to belong to something larger than yourself. Your life is not defined by isolation but by a powerful sense of belonging.
At the seders, as we retell the story of our ancestors escaping Egypt, think deeply about what it means to be truly connected to this narrative. Unlike Moses, who had to reclaim his identity after decades of separation, your identity was given to you as a treasured inheritance. You have the profound privilege of seeing yourself reflected clearly in the faces around our seder table, in the familiar melodies, in the comforting repetition of tradition.
Remember, Zev, Moses became our greatest prophet, our most prolific leader, precisely because he understood both isolation and connection. His detachment made his leadership profound and empathetic. But your strength will come from a different place: from the solid grounding of your roots, from the intimate knowledge of who you are and where you come from. Your responsibility, therefore, is not just to appreciate this gift but to share it, nurture it, and pass it forward to my grandchildren, eventually. No pressure…
As you grow older you'll begin to understand that your experience as a Jewish boy - made rich with community, tradition, and identity - is a responsibility and a blessing. You will experience moments when the weight of history feels heavy, when the stories of struggle and resilience feel personal, almost too close to bear. Yes, being Jewish - especially today - can sometimes be or at least feel like a burden. Yet, these are precisely the moments when your connection to our people matters most. These are the times when the stories you've learned at our table will guide and sustain you.
When life feels overwhelming, as it inevitably will at times, recall that Moses, despite his unusual upbringing and painful isolation, found strength in reconnecting with his people. Look what he became, even after missing that connection from the first 40 years of his life! Your connection, thankfully, is already strong and established. Embrace it. Let it shape and comfort you. Draw strength from knowing exactly who you are and upon whose shoulders you stand.
Finally, Zev, always remember how lucky you truly are. You are not just observing Jewish history: you are living it. You’re only five, and you will learn in the coming years that sometimes being Jewish is hard, but we still live at a time when we are probably the luckiest Jews ever. We live safe and free, both here and in Israel, we have an Israel, and we are privileged to connect with ease to both our country and our fellow Jews.
Each Passover is a chance for you to reaffirm your deep and personal connection to a story thousands of years old. My job is to keep it alive in your home, and your job will be to keep it vibrantly alive within your heart.
Chag sameach and as always, Am Yisrael Chai,
Aba
Absolutely beautiful. Chag sameach!