At the Seder, we not only tell the story of the Exodus, we experience it. Through the simanim, the symbolic foods we eat, we relive the journey from oppression to redemption. We recite blessings and prayers over the wine, matzah, maror, and haroset. But beneath these rituals lies a powerful dialectic: a mixture of slavery and freedom; mourning and joy.
Each of these foods reflects that tension. The four cups of wine recall the four stages of redemption that occurred during our liberation from Egypt. Yet this celebratory wine is red, evoking the Jewish bloodshed during our years of slavery. Matzah is both lechem oni – the poor person’s bread, or bread of affliction – as well as the food over which we recite Hallel, the prayer of thanksgiving for redemption. Maror reminds us of the bitterness of our experience in Egypt, yet our sages teach that its sharpness enhances the taste of the Passover sacrifice, deepening the redemptive experience.
Haroset, too, embodies this duality. Its thick texture symbolizes the mortar used in the Israelites’ forced labor. But its sweetness, specifically the apples within it, signifies the courage of the Jewish women who gave birth in the orchards, defying Pharaoh’s decree to murder all male offspring, thus ensuring the future of our people.
The symbolism of Passover
This dualism is not incidental. The symbols of hardship and mourning temper the joy we are commanded to feel on the holiday – and that is precisely what they are meant to do. They remind us of the cost of freedom and that our joy contains pain.
They also remind us that with our freedom comes responsibility. This is especially apparent with the dipping of the karpas vegetable in salt water. For many commentators, the Hebrew word “karpas” also means a fine garment. At the Seder, dipping the karpas into salt water recalls the beautiful striped coat of fine wool that Yaakov made for Yosef.
It was this coat dipped into blood to trick the father that represented the irresponsible hatred in the family, and set into motion the descent of our forefathers into Egypt. These lessons of how not to act, how not to treat others, highlight the importance of embracing the responsibility that comes along with our freedom.
Perhaps this is the reason why the Seder begins with an invitation welcoming those in need, and why this redemptive holiday is marked by the mitzvah of kimcha d’pischa, providing food to the needy. Much of Jewish law and tradition, guiding how we treat others, both within the Jewish people and beyond, is connected back to our experience in Egypt, calling on us to uphold moral values even in the face of challenges.
These reminders of struggle and slavery are not constraints on joy; they are essential to deepening it. Ultimately, as difficult as challenges are, they bring meaning and purpose to our lives. This was true for the generation that left Egypt, and it remains true today.
Finding meaning and joy
This concept is reflected not only in Jewish tradition but also in modern psychology. Despite more than two years of war, trauma, and loss, Israel ranks eighth in the world for overall happiness. Those under 25, including many serving in the IDF, are the happiest age group in the country, ranking third happiest globally.
By comparison, their peers in the United States rank 60th. At the same time, there are indications that the search for spirituality and Jewish identity is on the rise in Israel, as many seek deeper meaning in the face of challenge.
“It may be precisely because life here is so demanding and requires us to fight for it that we see these results,” explains Anat Fanti, a happiness policy researcher at Bar-Ilan University’s program on science, technology, and society. Her insights reflect a broader truth: when life demands struggle, it can also foster a deeper, more meaningful, and fulfilling existence.
Of course, this does not mean that everyone feels happy all the time. In fact, large numbers of Israelis are grappling with depression, anxiety, and other war-related mental health challenges. Taking these struggles seriously is essential and a religious obligation. How we respond will determine how our society heals and moves forward.
In the meantime, it can be sustaining to recognize that the challenges and sacrifices we are facing – the loss of life since October 7, the destruction of our homes, the relentless sirens, the exhaustion from weeks of juggling children with no educational or daycare framework while still working – are part of a larger process of growth and redemption.
At the same time, these hardships have also sparked an outpouring of hessed and volunteerism. Students across our educational institutions and indeed, across the entire country, have been supporting families of the mobilized, preparing meals for those in need, and organizing activities for children displaced from routine.
We are living in an emotional mosaic of difficulty and inspiration, pain and resilience. The many moments of sadness coexist with flashes of joy, as illustrated by the Purim celebrations that took place in the country’s bomb shelters, in bunkers in Gaza, and in Lebanon. In many ways, we are living the very dualism that Passover seeks to teach us: that redemption carries a cost, but those who are willing to bear it can experience its deepest meaning.
As we prepare for Passover this year, may we find the strength to hold both sorrow and happiness, bondage and freedom. And may that dialectic not weaken us, but deepen and empower our sense of meaning, as we continue to play our part in bringing about complete redemption.
The writer is president and rosh hayeshiva of Ohr Torah Stone.