Pesach so far from home

VARIOUS

Making it work far from home and family

Ilanit Chernick

Coronavirus. The word on everyone’s lips, no matter what language. There’s no doubt that it’s completely upended the world in more ways than one. Fear, death, worry, concern, lockdown, and sickness are just some of the words that are floating around in conversations and on social media.

Thousands have died, and hundreds of thousands have contracted the virus, and each time I think of that reality, I get an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t a science-fiction film or dystopian novel. This is real life, and we are in the midst of it.

Over the past few weeks, Israel, where I live, has gone through various stages of lockdown. As the numbers of those infected and the deaths continue to climb, the laws of lockdown have grown more stringent. The situation as a whole is devastating.

For someone like me, who lives on her own, it hasn’t been an easy feat.

At the time of writing this, we aren’t allowed to go more than 100 metres from home, unless it’s for food or medical purposes. Police are checking identities virulently, and they aren’t afraid to hand out hefty fines to those breaking the law. And rightfully so!

As someone who can work digitally, I’m still able to do my job and keep the world informed about the situation at home. It’s not easy, and as this is a continuing situation, I’m working almost 15 hours a day.

In spite of having digital communication at my fingertips to speak to family and friends, the lack of face-to-face social interaction during this age of social distancing has taken its toll. It’s tough, and there are mornings that I wake up hoping the past few weeks were just a crazy dream.

It’s also made me realise how important face-to-face social interaction is, and how we shouldn’t take the concept of human touch for granted.

I saw a social-media post that said, “There’s Shabbat, and then there’s the rest of the week.”

That’s sort of how things have been – there’s no Monday to Friday at the moment, it’s just one long day until it’s Shabbat.

One of the things that’s hit me the hardest in this ordeal is the reality that I will probably be celebrating Pesach alone this year.

For months, I’d increasingly looked forward to flying “home” to South Africa for the festival of freedom. It would have been my first leil haseder (Passover seder) with my family in three years.

As much as I absolutely love spending Pesach in Israel with friends and extended family, the prospect of being “home” with my parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews, was incredibly exciting and enticing. A part of me has also missed having a second seder. But, unfortunately, this was not to be.

After a long conversation with my parents and my brother, who happens to be a doctor on the frontlines of fighting the pandemic (kol hakavod [well done] big bro!) we made a decision that for now, it would be safer for me to stay where I am, in Israel.

In spite of some tears and a deep sadness, I made peace with the decision.

At the time of that conversation, lockdown restrictions weren’t as stringent as they are now, and movement was still allowed. Later, speaking to my rabbi from Midreshet HaRova about my predicament, he invited me to spend leil haseder with him and his family in Elazar. Well, if it couldn’t be my family, then he and his family were definitely the next best thing. So, I got excited, and immediately said, “Yes!”

But then came the new laws on Wednesday, 25 March. Laws that were desperately needed if Israel was going to get through this. Laws that I have the utmost respect for, in spite of what they meant: I would be spending the seder alone. Not the Pesach I’d been hoping for.

In tears, I messaged my rabbi, and he called me back with some incredible words of wisdom.

“Ilanit, I know this is hard, but you have to understand that this whole thing is bigger than one evening.”

He reminded me that last year, his son, who at the time was serving in the Israeli Defense Forces, completely missed the seder because he was on the frontlines dealing with the March of Return on the Gaza border.

“These things happen. It will be okay,” he said. “Just take it day by day because we don’t know what’s going to be in two weeks’ time.”

After the conversation, I decided to take this difficult challenge in my stride. The next morning, I went out to buy my own seder plate, an afikomen bag (for a piece of broken matzo), fancy plastic plates and cups, knives, and forks, and other goodies to make my seder night special. I also decided that for an hour every night until the seder, I would learn new ideas and commentaries about the different elements of the seder so that when I get there, I’ll be prepared.

Yes, being alone is scary. Yes, celebrating Pesach alone is hard. But I’ll do everything I can to make this night different from all other nights in the best way possible. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, it might be the best seder yet!

Three’s a crowd in Sydney

Kim Novick

There’s a new C-word in town ,and it’s not going anywhere soon. It has swept across our planet, bringing winds of change the likes of which we haven’t experienced in this lifetime. All of us are affected in ways we never imagined.

Right now, those planes that are usually full of South Africans criss-crossing the seas to celebrate Pesach together are grounded. To your right, a couple of oceans and the odd land mass away, the South African Jewish diaspora in Sydney is hunkering down. Pesach 2020 is going to be a very pared-down affair.

As I write this, we aren’t in lockdown in Australia as our friends and family are back home in South Africa. We are, however, in stay-at-home and social-distancing mode.

As of 30 March, the regulations changed once again, and we have been advised that no more than two people (excluding family members) are allowed at indoor and outdoor gatherings. Stores have closed. The synagogues have shut their doors, and are finding innovative ways to support their communities. Schools aren’t closed, but our children are being encouraged to stay home. The beaches sit quietly, surreally beautiful in their emptiness. An unnatural stillness has infiltrated our city.

In contrast, this time last year, we celebrated our seder with Australian friends, my brother and sister-in-law, and their family. In keeping with this Jewish holiday, it was loud and messy. Our children asked the four questions, and raced about looking for the afikomen (hidden piece of matzah). We sang Dayenu and Chad Gadya badly, but with great gusto. It was a deeply meaningful evening.

We went slightly rogue, celebrating with a modern Australian haggadah, and focusing on the millions of people around the world still living as slaves. We had a Holocaust survivor with us, my friend Ola’s father.

Alex is usually quiet at big gatherings as he struggles a little to follow the English chatter surrounding him. But last year, in the midst of our seder, he rose and told us, in his strong Polish accent, how he had escaped the ghetto in Lvov (now called Lviv and part of Ukraine) during the Holocaust.

His mother and older sister weren’t so lucky, and he never saw them again. Alex spoke matter-of-factly about his life. His presence at our seder highlighted the value of the Jewish tenets of compassion and humility. Phones were put down, gossip was paused. It was a poignant evening, beautifully celebrated with laughter and love.

How do we bring that sense of community to our table this year? No doubt it will be a quiet seder. We live in the same street as my brother-in-law and my husband’s cousins, but the rules surrounding social distancing will keep us in our respective homes on seder night.

We will look inwards towards our children, and celebrate that at least we can be together. And my husband and I will again remind our sons of the slaves in this modern world who are suffering in ways we can’t comprehend, only made worse by this disease that’s ravaging the world.

But humans are nothing if not adaptable. There will be balcony blessings, video hook-ups, and careful timing so that we can, remotely, share the celebration with those closest to us.

Even the Orthodox rabbis in Jerusalem have seen fit to allow Zoom video conferencing on seder night. With South Africa trailing eight hours behind us, we shall tune in with our large, local Novick family when we begin our seders. In some ways that’s more than we usually do.

L’chaim and chag sameach!

A story of human survival and goodness – how apt!

Rahla Xenopoulos

Today is 27 March. The reason I’m recording the date is because you know as well as I do that in the strange new age we’ve entered, with the passing of each day so too seems to pass entire lifetimes.

A mere three weeks ago, I was anxiously waiting for my husband to return from Paris. But it was Shabbos, so naturally, we had guests. We were aware of COVID-19 – concerned even – but, well, who could possibly have predicted the changes this pandemic would bring to our world? Wait, I forget, apparently Bill Gates, Max Brooks, and a psychic named Sylvia Brown all predicted this, but then, who was listening?

These past two weeks I have appreciated having my family so close by, and it goes without saying that I love having an excuse to stay in my pyjamas for days on end. We felt a collective sense of relief the moment we went into voluntary isolation, and it still feels like our longest Shabbos yet. Mind you, this is Shabbos with screens.

There is a certain ironic intimacy, an unexpected connection that comes of this isolation. Yesterday, I was in the kitchen and I heard a baby in the house, in fact, the baby was in the office of my husband who was holding a meeting with, among other people, the baby’s mother. Of course, the baby wasn’t actually here, but, being a baby, it knew instinctively when to cry, laugh, and distract everyone. While I realise that this was probably stressful for the baby’s mother, it was a delightful intrusion into our day.

I’ve been told how amazing New Yorkers were in their response to 9/11, and in the past week, I’ve truly come to understand why. People are galvanised, motivated, and just nice. Cellular communities pop up on my phone. Friends leave vitamins at my back door. Delivery people smile. There exists a distinct kindness, a sense that we are all in this mess together. A friend pointed out to me that this generation of teenagers were born into the anxious aftermath of 9/11, and they are coming of age during the anxiety of COVID-19.

As much as I love to have my kids around me, I recognise that this is a completely unnatural way to be a teenager. This weekend, my daughter, Tallulah, was supposed to be enjoying the experience of acting in her first American school musical. My son, Gidon, wrote a song yesterday, some of the lyrics are, “COVID-19, at this rate I won’t live to 18. I haven’t seen my best friend in days, I hope that he’s doing ok…” These words broke my heart because, really, they should all be out skateboarding they should be laughing, performing, learning, and making music with friends. This is the age when teenagers should be rebelling and venturing out of their parent’s fold, but these kids are expected to do the opposite, they are having to fold inwards and towards us, physically and emotionally.

We can’t predict how this will alter them or us. Our world is forever changed. But, the great triumph of the human condition is that we so readily adapt to the unimaginable. I believe that teenagers, not unlike us, will learn to function.

Last Sunday, talking about Pesach, my brother-in-law said, “We’re Jews, this is one plague. When they show us nine plagues, we’ll cancel.” But, by Tuesday, we all kind of knew, realistically, that this year was going to be a pretty intimate Pesach.

Admittedly I’m being narcissistic, but my family love having people in our home. We entertain constantly – long lunches and intimate Friday night dinners. I host creative writing workshops at my dining room table and, from the time they were in pre-primary school, my triplets have hosted sleep overs with upwards of six kids a night. Suffice to say, we appreciate a full house. One of our favourite things is a big, chaotic seder. I love the combination of friends and family, of teenagers and adults. I’ve always found it interesting that the word seder means “order” because, in my house, it’s bedlam and I do love the general chatter and chaos of it all. This year, however, this night really will be different to all other nights. As this reality has become apparent, I’ve considered it’s many implications. I know that Pesach, like love, friendship, and family isn’t cancelled, it will just be different.

Who knows? Perhaps this will be the first year we don’t have pandemonium, perhaps this year, we will have a genuine seder. I suppose, like our ancestors before us, we are feeling, for the first time in many decades, untethered. But, perhaps that’s a good way to be as we meditate on the true meaning of Passover. Jews, more than most tribes, have always been aware that security is an illusion. What is real and eternal is our ability to find love, to find meaning within that illusion. How blessed we are to be together.

These past weeks of “isolation”, I have loved the deep silences, the serenity and stillness of our world. I love to think about how skylines around the world are less polluted, less opaque, and more beautiful.

In a weird, poetic way, perhaps it’s fitting that this virus has hit us over Passover. I have fierce faith in humanity. I have faith in our morality, virtue, and goodness in times of crisis, and above all, I have faith in our ability to survive as a species. And isn’t this robust goodness and human survival illustrated in the story of Pesach? Perhaps this year will be different not only in its intimacy and order, but also in the depth and reality of our understanding. Perhaps this Pesach I will truly understand that, as quickly as the world seems to be changing, so, too, our lives are somehow slowing down.