The meal hasn’t even begun. The table is set, the glass still empty, and the maror sits in its place, clinging to its symbolic purpose. But the bitterness is already in my mouth.

It didn’t come from the herb.

It came from the present.

This year, maror isn’t remembrance. It’s parody.

There are days when everything feels tainted by something unnamed.

The bitterness doesn’t need to be swallowed — it’s in the air, in gestures, in the way people avoid eye contact when the word “freedom” comes up in conversation.

I grew up in Brazil, under dictatorship.

That word, which now, in Brazil, many pronounce with nostalgia — like a vintage brand of authority, refurbished by ignorance.

But I remember. Not the anthems, but the silence. The caution in speech. The tension that never made........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)