Our enemies rose against us. These were not lessons learned from a text. They were lived.
Every Passover, we ask the same question: Why is this night different from all other nights? This year, for the first time since Oct. 7, the answer is freedom. Real, hard-won and finally ours.
Every living hostage is home. Every murdered hostage has been given the dignity of a Jewish burial. After 738 days that felt like lifetimes, the circle has closed.
For two-and-a-half years, my heart broke on a rolling basis. Not a dramatic, one-time shattering, but a daily, quiet, relentless breaking. I know I wasn’t alone. Every one of us who carried the faces of the hostages into the supermarket, into carpools, into Shabbat dinners knows what that weight felt like. We smiled at our kids while the names scrolled in our minds. We set beautiful tables while the hostage families sat at empty ones.
