Growing up as a kid in the UK, one of the highlights of the week was the TV show Dr. Who, an early sci-fi show about a Time Lord who flitted back and forth through time in his Tardis – a converted police telephone booth – saving the world.
Imagine we had a time machine and could travel back through history, visiting Seder nights of the past. What would we find?
You might expect variations of the same celebration. Four cups of wine, matzah, a child asking, “Why is this night different?”
But what you would discover is something far deeper – the resilience of a people who carried the story of freedom through fire, exile, silence, and song.
Let’s step into the machine, press a glowing button marked “Seder Night,” and suddenly, we are in ancient Egypt.
Egypt, 1312 BCE – the first Seder
In a humble home in Goshen, the scent of roasted lamb fills the room. Sandals on their feet, staffs in hand, cloaks tied for travel, the anticipation is tangible. Outside, the final plague strikes Egypt: death of the firstborn. Inside, the atmosphere is electric. The lamb is eaten with bitter herbs and unleavened bread. A child asks a question that will echo for millennia: “Why is this night different?”
And they answer, as best they can: “Because tonight, we are leaving. Tonight, we are finally free.”
Jerusalem, 30 CE – in the shadow of the Temple
Thousands gather in the Holy City. Pilgrims have brought their Paschal lambs to the Temple. Later that evening, groups recline on cushions, sipping wine and singing Hallel. The youngest chants the Mah Nishtana (How different is this night), and someone reads from a scroll – the earliest versions of what will become our Haggadah, the traditional story of the Exodus told at the Seder on the first night of Passover. There’s laughter, debate, the clinking of cups, and the sacred joy of celebrating freedom in a free land.
We blink, and the Temple is gone. The city is in ruins.
Galilee, 135 CE – under Roman persecution
After the Temple is destroyed and Bar Kochba’s revolt crushed, Jewish practice is outlawed. In a cave in the Galilee, a small group whispers the Haggadah. There is no lamb, no wine, only bitter herbs – literal and symbolic – and smuggled matzah. One elder murmurs: “In every generation they rise up against us…” This year, the words are not metaphor: They are life.
France, 1146 CE – amid the Crusades
In a candlelit home in northern France, a family gathers in fear. Mobs have recently attacked nearby Jewish communities. Still, they break the middle matzah. A child asks the Four Questions, and fragile voices rise in defiance: “Vehi She’amda – This promise has stood for our ancestors and us…”They may not live to see the next Passover, but tonight, they remember – and they hope.
Spain, 1492 – in hiding
In Toledo, behind locked doors and shuttered windows, a secret Seder takes place. These are anusim – Jews forced to convert, practicing in secret. There is no Seder plate, no open singing. Just whispers in the darkness. But by candlelight, the father whispers, “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt…” Despite the Inquisition, the story endures.We want to cry out to them: You are not alone. History will remember. Redemption will come.
Ukraine, 1880s – the shtetl
A wooden home in a snow-covered village. There is poverty, but there is warmth. A grandfather with a white beard tells of Egypt, and of pogroms. Children sip sweet wine and laugh between spoonfuls of soup. Chad Gadya (one baby goat) is sung not just as a song, but as history – a tale of goats and cats and empires and tyrants, all of whom tried, and failed, to silence the Jewish story.
Gondar, Ethiopia – 19th century
Under the stars, Beta Israel – Ethiopian Jews – gather around outdoor fires. They do not have printed Haggadot. They pass the Exodus down through stories and song. They call the holiday Fasika, and eat flatbread and bitter greens. Their yearning is not only for freedom, but for Jerusalem – a city they’ve never seen but have dreamed of for centuries.
Europe, 1943 – Seder in the Holocaust
Now we find ourselves transported to a shadowed barrack in a Nazi labor camp. It is Leil Pesach (the first night of Passover) and five men sit on a wooden plank. They have no food, no wine, no Haggadah. Just memories.A Jew quietly begins to recite from heart: “Avadim hayinu…” – “We were slaves…” Another joins in: “Next year in Jerusalem.” They pass around a crust of bread and pretend it is matzah. One man barely whispers: “Why is this night different?”
Because they are alive. Because they still believe. Because even here – especially here – they dare to retell the story. A story that insists that cruelty does not win; that liberation is possible, even when it seems impossible.In the darkest of nights, they lit a flame of faith.
Jerusalem, 1948 – On the eve of independence
In besieged Jerusalem, as gunfire echoes through the hills, families gather for Seder in darkened shelters. Food is scarce, and matzah is rationed. Outside, British rule is ending; war looms. Yet inside, someone begins: “Avadim hayinu…” — “We were slaves…” The irony is sharp, but the conviction is real. Young soldiers sneak moments of Haggadah before returning to guard posts. The Four Questions are asked in candlelight, and the hope of redemption feels closer than ever. As they say “Next year in Jerusalem,” it is not a dream — it is a declaration. Freedom is no longer a memory. It is imminent.
Moscow, 1970s – behind the Iron Curtain
In a dimly lit Soviet apartment, the Seder is also held in whispers. There is one smuggled piece of matzah, and the Haggadah is again recited from memory – the books long since confiscated. The child asks the questions in accented Hebrew. The grandmother answers with quiet defiance. Outside, the regime has tried to erase them. Inside, the story is alive.
Suburban America, 2020s – a comfortable freedom
A bright kitchen. Grandparents Zoom in – literally or virtually – from another state. There are all sorts of Haggadot: social justice versions, feminist versions, musical ones, and conversations about modern-day oppression. Non-Jewish friends join, learning about the story of Exodus. The message of freedom has become a call for universal justice. But the question arises: with so much freedom, do we still feel the urgency?
Israel, 2024 – Seder with empty chairs
And now – we arrive in the present.
In Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and kibbutzim in the South, families set extra places at the table. Not for Elijah, but for the 59 hostages still held in Gaza. A chair stands empty, wrapped in yellow. Photos of the missing sit beside candles. A mother tries to read the Haggadah but breaks down. A child asks the Mah Nishtanah – and the answer is unbearable.
This year, we say “In every generation, they rise up against us…” and we are not quoting ancient history. We are describing our current reality.
And yet – despite the pain, despite the fear – the Seder happens. We open the door. We pour the fifth cup – the cup of redemption – though we have not yet drunk from it.
Why is this night different?
Because we carry with us every Seder of the past. The joy and the terror, the songs sung in freedom and those whispered in hiding. The story is not just told – it is lived. We are part of a chain that stretches back to Egypt and forward to redemption.
The Seder is not simply a meal. It is an act of memory. An act of resistance. An act of hope.
And so, across the world this year, Jewish families will once again sit together, lift their glasses, and say with voices steady or shaking:
“Next year in Jerusalem.”
May it be soon.
May it be now.
May we all be redeemed together.
The writer is a rabbi and physician who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.
