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A STUDENT'S PERSPECTIVE - This year, the Seder did not begin with quiet it began with sirens. Across Israel, families gathered around their Passover tables, wine poured, matzah set, the Haggadah open, ready to tell the ancient story of freedom. And then, suddenly, everything stopped.
Sirens pierced the night. Parents grabbed their children. Chairs scraped back. Doors flew open. Families ran not toward celebration, but toward shelter.
This is what Passover looks like in Israel today.
As a Jewish student, I grew up learning that Passover is not just history it is identity. Each year, we are told, “In every generation, a person must see themselves as if they personally came out of Egypt.” This year, that line feels less like tradition and more like reality. While we retell the story of slavery and liberation, Israelis are living through something far more immediate: the uncertainty of survival under threat.
Missiles launched from Iran forced millions into shelters on the very night they were meant to celebrate freedom turning one of Judaism’s most sacred nights into a race for safety. And yet, something remarkable happened in those shelters, in those interrupted homes, in those moments of fear: they continued the Seder.
In stairwells, in underground garages, in reinforced rooms, families resumed the ritual. They read from the Haggadah. They drank the four cups of wine. They told the story of a people who refused to disappear. One Israeli, reflecting on the moment, said, “It’s certainly not the worst conditions for a seder our people have had to endure.” That sentence carries the full weight of Jewish history.
Because it is true. The Jewish people have held Seders in far worse conditions under persecution, in hiding, in ghettos, in camps, and in exile. Passover has never been about comfort. It has always been about resilience.
But for my generation for Jewish students watching this unfold in real time this moment is different. We are not just remembering history; we are witnessing it. We are watching a people sit down to celebrate freedom while running from missiles, seeing ancient tradition collide with modern warfare and somehow, the tradition continues.
That changes you. It forces you to understand that Jewish identity is not abstract. It is not something you inherit quietly or casually. It is something you carry, especially in moments when it is tested.
Passover reminds us that freedom is never guaranteed. It must be defended, protected, and lived even in the face of danger. That is exactly what Israelis did. They chose to continue. They chose to gather. They chose to tell their story, because the act of telling it is itself an act of defiance.
We are still here.
We are still telling our story.
And we are not going anywhere.
So, this year, when Jews around the world say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” it carries a deeper meaning. It is not just a hope it is a statement of endurance. Because even under sirens, even under fire, the story of the Jewish people continues.
And it always will.
(Shoshannah Kalaydjian is a young Jewish student who writes about education, identity, and the challenges facing the next generation. Growing up in today’s climate, she has witnessed firsthand how rising antisemitism affects young people in classrooms and on college campuses. Shoshannah is committed to sharing the perspectives of Jewish youth, amplifying student voices, and encouraging leaders to create safer, more inclusive environments for all students.)
