In the past week, I found myself at two very different events that resonated with me deeply.
Both centered around the Passover Haggadah, which is regarded as the most published Jewish book after the Bible.
It was March 19. During the final hours of Ramadan, moments before Eid al-Fitr, one of Islam's holiest days. It was also Rosh Chodesh Nisan, the beginning of the Jewish month of redemption, a very significant time in the Jewish calendar as Passover approaches.
When I made my way to New York’s city hall. But this city hall is different from ever in history–It houses the first Muslim mayor in the history of our city.
In my suit pocket, I carried a small, but heavy, living relic of the past. A Civil War-era Haggadah printed here in New York in 1863, in the height of the Civil War. The year that New York was tormented by the 1863 New York City Draft Riots marked the largest civil disturbance in US history. A time when the fairly young country battled for its soul of Justice and freedom for all. Yet Jewish New Yorkers and their culture were alive – they sat around the Seder tables, ate matzah, recited the Haggadah, the ancient story of slavery and bondage to freedom. They passed on the idea that in every generation, even in our times, we are meant to see ourselves as if we too came out of Egypt.
When I entered Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s office, I was received warmly. I showed him the Haggadah, this living witness to Jewish history in the city he now leads, and I told him something simple: Jews have been part of New York since the early 1600s. Ever since, they have helped shape this city in ways too deep to measure. And while we rightly make room to honor the contributions of many communities and backgrounds, Jewish contribution to New York must also be recognized, protected, and cherished.
The mayor was visibly moved by the Haggadah. He spoke warmly about the Jewish community of New York, about its place in the life and fabric of the city, and vowed to not only to protect but to also celebrate the New York Jewish community and its culture.
For a minute, it felt like the American promise was possible.
A few days later, on March twenty-fourth, I made my way to the Cannon House Office Building, the oldest office building of the United States Congress in Washington, where a historic event took place: a Seder in the US Congress. But this Seder was unique—it was meant to celebrate the historic Sarajevo Haggadah. A 14th-century illuminated manuscript, originating in Barcelona around 1350, contains the traditional Passover Seder text. Written on bleached calfskin and illuminated with gold and copper, it is one of the oldest Sephardi Haggadahs in the world and is valued as a masterpiece of Jewish art and culture.
The story of the Sarajevo Haggadah is known for its humanity. After leaving Spain after the 1492 expulsion and making its way through the Mediterranean and Italy, finally arriving in the Balkan country. The Sarajevo National Museum bought it in 1894 from the Koen family. During World War II, Derviš Korkut, a Bosnian Muslim librarian, smuggled the manuscript out of the museum and entrusted it to a Muslim imam, who hid it in a mosque library until the war passed thereby saving this treasured Jewish artifact from the hands of the nazis.
At the event in Washington, Denis Becirovic, serving as the 19th chairman of the Presidency of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was joined by members of his cabinet, members of the US Congress from both sides of the aisle, and, most importantly, leaders of the Jewish and Muslim faiths. The air in the room hummed with unity—Jewish and Muslim leaders, elected officials, and guests leaning in to hear the story of the Haggadah. There was laughter, family Seder stories, and even a seven-layer non-gluten Passover cake.
Most speeches were focused on the Haggadah but it really centered on a deeper message: what becomes possible when people refuse to let history, anger, disagreement, religion, faith and identity become excuses for hatred.
Both of these events left me thinking. In a world so divided, where war seems to be never-ending, and tensions between peoples and cultures of different faiths and religions seem to be at their highest, can the humanity of the American promise still triumph?
Is the American promise of liberty attainable?
A country where its founding fathers proclaimed in its declaration of independence that “all men are created equal,” further affirming humanity in its first amendment that “no law respecting an establishment of religion” and “prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” providing all inhabitants of this land the freedom to practice their faiths, religions and culture. Great idea – but is it possible?
Can a Jewish American, whose ancestors prayed for Jerusalem for thousands of years, suddenly forget about it and turn a blind eye to a conflict costing the lives of people of my faith?
Can a Muslim American, whose ancestors prayed for al-Aqsa for thousands of years, suddenly forget about it and turn a blind eye to a conflict costing the lives of the people of his faith?
I do not believe the answer is to ask either one to forget or detach from their identity.
The real question is whether in America we can hold on to those feelings, those ancient memories, those pains, and still choose something higher here. Whether we can remain devoted to our faiths and traditions while refusing to surrender to any hatred. Whether we can be fully ourselves while still being fully American.
As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, I find myself asking that question more than ever.
Can we truly live here as one people, not the same, not stripped of memory, not emptied of conviction, but joined by a commitment to respect, common life, common decency, and common humanity?
I believe that’s what our founding fathers intended. I still believe we can. I pray we do.