Night of Difference
A New Scroll of LA Jewish News
Folks
It’s amazing how the imagery of our former taskmasters still surrounds us. If the Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Boulevard built by Sid Grauman, its original Jewish owner, is any sign, we keep these relics close. Is it that we need to be reminded of their power, and their one-time power over us? On Passover, which begins Monday night, though we recount the going out from Egypt, apparently a bit of our former lives remains wrapped up as more than memory. During the Passover Seder we confront these bits, page by page, and by the evening's end, hopefully, are liberated from them.
Hopefully my message to you each issue is not reading like a row of hieroglyphics. I need your support to continue my exodus from a more traditional form of Jewish journalism. If you like what you read, if it makes you think, please, especially if you have been reading for free support MegilLA with your paid subscriptions.
Shabbat shalom & chag sameach.
Edmon J. Rodman
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HOW IS THIS YEAR
DIFFERENT
fROMaLLOtheryearS?
Edmon J. Rodman
This Passover, the going out from Egypt has been met with a coming in of angst. With the Israeli hostages still missing from their families, writers and rabbis have sifted through the Haggadah and its symbolism to find ways to keep those missing from being forgotten at the seder table.
As an informal introduction to these offerings, Hadassah offers a Fifth Question: “Why is this seder different from all other seders?” Depending on how you feel about the Israel-Hamas War, the answers are as endless as a shattered piece of matzah.
To answer the question, you can leave an empty chair at the seder table, or remember the missing by name when opening the door for Elijah. You can use two matzot instead of three, bringing to mind the hostages’ deprivation. Add a plague, like captivity, skip Dayenu, it would have been enough, which expresses gratitude while people are still trapped in Gaza. (View American Zionist Seder Resources HERE.)
Jewish Women International suggests adding flowers to our seder plates, “as a way to stand in solidarity with the women of Israel — to honor the memory of those who we lost at the hands of Hamas and other terrorists, to give hope to those who survived.”
Women of Reform Judaism have created a Haggadah insert based on the commandment of redeeming the captive. “We have a commitment to advocate for the rights of those who are suffering from gender-based violence, who have had their freedom taken away from them,” says the organization.
Struggling with my own feelings about how to conduct this year’s seder, what came to mind was “Chad Gadya.” Both wonderfully simple and allegorical, the song is a seder favorite that recounts a sequence of events put into play when a father buys a goat for two zuzim. What bridge to today’s traumatic and complex events could I find to this logical “Children's” song where nearly every object or character is destroyed or killed? With that question in mind, for this year’s seder, here is my reinterpretation:
Oh Those Kids
Edmon J. Rodman
(Traditional melody)
Oh those kids, oh those kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the Pals who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the bombs that razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the cause that stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the flags that draped the cause,
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the war that burned the flags,
That draped the cause,
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the pols who used the war,
That burned the flags,
That draped the cause
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the shouts that slew the pols,
Who used the war,
That burned the flags,
That draped the cause,
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the famine that squelched the shouts,
That slew the pols
Who used the war,
That burned the flags,
That draped the cause,
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
Then came the peace, the blessed Shalom, that x’d the famine,
That squelched the shouts,
That slew the pols,
Who used the war,
That burned the flags,
That draped the cause,
That stayed the bombs,
That razed the Pals,
Who killed the kids,
That parents raised with such loving.
Oh those kids, oh those kids.
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* Live from the Archive
Getting canned on Passover
There are rare treats, like coconut macaroons, that only come out of the cupboard for Passover. How could we have a zissen Pesach, a sweet Passover, without them? As this can from the mid-60s demonstrates, this is a kosher craving that needs to be preserved. To the uninitiated, the macaroon is made of shredded coconut, sugar, egg whites, and potato starch, and requires no flour, making it ideal for the holiday. They also contain no dairy, so they can be eaten after a meat meal. The full-color treatment which replaced a drabber version, dates the can to the early 60s. Later in the decade, to update the company’s packaging, Manischewitz dropped the BMco logotype, which stood for the Behr Manischewitz Company, named after the founder. Keeping up with the times, the metal can was eventually replaced by a cardboard canister, and more recently a pouch to keep the treats handy.
*The Rodman Archive of Los Angeles Jewish History is a collection of approximately 1000 objects, photos, clothing, art, books, recordings, and ephemera relating to the lives and endeavors of Jewish Angelenos between 1850 and 1980.
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Bitter Springs, A Dry Serial
Chapter 2
(Chapter 1 is in the previous issue.)
In the months after an autocratic U.S. President has taken office, with antisemitic incidents on the rise, and many Jews resisting the new regime, some were ordered “for their own safety” to a remigration camp on the Navaho Reservation in Arizona.“Bitter Springs” is a serialized account of their story.
Edmon J. Rodman
The first night of Passover in Bitter Springs wasn’t what you would call a “Freedom Seder.” Nor would you call it a meal of desperation, bitter irony, or resignation. In a film, it would have the feel of one of those catered hotel Passover vacation seders, if you took away the waitstaff, fine food, posh ambience, and a feeling of a well-earned time away, and shot it in grainy black and white.
That night, for a seder text, we used a government-issue Haggadah. As we read from them at our modest table, they had a give-away look and feel, like the Maxwell House books we used to get for free at the super market. Brief and commentary free, on the pamphlet’s picture-less pages there were no poignant references to the Holocaust, the homeless, or equality.
Considering the setting, it wasn’t necessary.
Standing in the kitchen-dining area of our pre-fab hogan, we raised our wine-filled glasses, chanted the Kiddush, and were off on our journey from slavery.
The hogan, which means “the place home,” was the result of the negotiations the Navajo Nation had with the Department of the Interior. It was the only housing structure they would tolerate on their land. Typically made of rustic mud-covered wood, the contractor had modified the design, simplifying it into a plywood cabin-like structure with an earth-toned stucco finish.
Traditionally, the doorway of the hogan faced east, the direction Jews face when praying-- one of the seemingly random commonalities to Navajo culture we were discovering in our new lives.
When we came to the place in the Haggadah to say the blessing over the Karpas, the green vegetable, we each tore open a packet of salt water and poured it into a small paper cup.
“And why do we dip in saltwater?” asked Sugarman, a former LAUSD high school history teacher, we had appointed as seder leader.
Even though most of us knew that the salt water represented the tears of our ancestors who were enslaved in ancient Egypt, the question was met with the silence of a question too-close-to-home. In the previous months there had been tears enough.
A branch of the Pentagon called the Defense Logistics Team that previously had supplied kosher MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) for the armed services, provided the shiny foil packets, Haggadahs, as well as the rest of the seder fix-ins. Earlier that week, the Passover supplies had been delivered by the usual brown trucks, along with the rest of the rations.
Though mostly bland, when the Haggadah said “All who are hungry, let them come and eat,” we knew that wasn’t going to be us.
There was gefilte fish and roast chicken that came in individual portion cans, and matzah in a plain wrap box. The kit also came with packets of choroset and horseradish, and a single-use paper kippah. The box marked “Leader” even contained a plastic Seder plate and a freeze-dried shank bone.
The parsley was supplied by a neighbor who had grown it from seeds, and the hard-boiled eggs from another remigrationee, who had built a chicken coop.
Boxes of grape juice, and not wine, were also supplied for the seder's required four cups. There would be no government-sponsored revelry here. Fortunately, another neighbor with home brewing experience had figured out how to ferment enough for our night of celebrating the going out from Egypt.
When it came time to chant the Four Questions, I volunteered. “Why is this night different from all others?” I sang, realizing that this night was vastly different, as if our lives, like the matzah, had been perforated and broken.
The other questions were answered too.
“On this night, why do we eat matzah? Because its flatness represents the leveling of our spirits,” said Ellie, my wife, a family counselor.
“Why do we eat bitter herbs? Because chili peppers are part of this place,” said Aaron, a family friend, I had met while doing research at a local university library.
“Why do we dip our herbs twice?” said my adult son Jules, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
Of my immediate family, losing his smartphone had affected Jules the most. The flip phone replacement which he dubbed a “dumbphone,” had created an information gap.
“Why do we sit in a reclining position?” said Ellie’s sister Bayla, a political organizer, “Because if we sit up straight, it will be seen as defiance.”
When we sang avadim hayinu, “We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt,” there was more than an angry bite in the high desert night.
The Four Sons section of the Haggadah brought us a bit of a surprise, as we found that Jules had prepared an entire analysis. “It’s all about the last election,” he said.
“The wise sons, were those who saw the disaster coming, and got out. That wasn’t us. The wicked ones were Jews who even though they supported the winner, thought they would somehow be spared the camps. The simpletons were those who voted for third party candidates, a lot of my friends by the way. And the ones who didn’t even know how to ask a question were those who didn’t pay attention to what was going on until the first day he took office. Sur-prise!”
“What about the pollsters? Asked Sugarman. Were they wicked or just simple?
“No, the pollsters were part of the group who didn’t know how to ask questions,” said Ellie.
“And the news people, who insisted on making both candidates seem equivalent were really the wicked ones,” added Bayla.
As we took turns reading the text, I thought something was missing. “What happened to “V’hee sheamdah?” I said. A song that I like singing, the passage has the verse “In every generation they rise against us and seek our destruction. But God saves us from their hands.”
“Obviously deleted,” said Aaron. “They must have hired some hack with a little Jewish knowledge.”
With raucous singing, we put the line back in.
It was good that a couple more glasses of the home vintage kiddush wine took the edge off the evening. We ate the matzah, and the chili pepper maror that we really didn’t need as a reference to bitterness. We made Hillel sandwiches with the off-color government choroset, and ate the eggs.
“What do the eggs represent?” asked Sugarman.
“Why, eternal spring and hope for the future,” I answered.
Everyone had a good laugh. Then we ate the festival meal.
After dinner, the group, a tableful of homesick Jews, who had lost their freedom and were separated from their homes by thousands of miles of mountains and desert, and the law, tossed the room like there was no tomorrow, looking for the afikomen, a half piece of matzah, usually hidden, that is the final thing to be eaten at a seder meal.
Finally, Al, Bayla’s husband, found it taped to the underside of the dining table. “Who hid it here? he asked. No one answered. As he pulled it away, a small shiny object caught his eye.
“I think someone’s been listening,” said Sugarman, turning the wafer-thin object over in his hand. “If our hosts are Jew-curious, then to end our seder, let’s get curiouser and curiouser.”
As if on cue, Aaron went to the door and opened it. Everyone stood, faced the doorway, and sang a song about the prophet Elijah, inviting him to join us.
Then Aaron, about to close the door, was knocked off balance, as in walked a man who announced while flashing a large silver belt buckle of silver and turquoise that he was a Navajo medicine man.
“Chag sameach,” he said.
TO BE CONTINUED…