Every year, we sit around our seder tables and say the same words: “Avadim hayinu” — we were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.

Not THEY were slaves. WE were.

We are told to see ourselves as if we, too, went out from the land of Egypt. To tell the story again and again. To teach it diligently unto our children. To taste the bitterness. To sit with the hunger. To remember what it means to be powerless, to be oppressed, to be at the mercy of those who do not see our full humanity.

And this year — we will say these words while missiles from Iran carve their way through the dark. Sirens interrupt the ordinary rhythm of life. Children learn the distance to shelters the way they learn the Four Questions.

Even though we have each other, we still feel isolated.

We say “Avadim hayinu” with one ear tuned to the possibility of a warning.

Memory is not just for the sake of identity — it’s for the sake of empathy, morality, and justice. After all, we know what it means to be the stranger, we are commanded to love the stranger. “For you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

But this year, that commandment feels heavy — at least for me.

Because the stranger is not abstract.

The stranger lives here.

The stranger stands at checkpoints.

The stranger can’t harvest their olive trees.

The stranger lives in places without adequate shelter, where the sirens sound but safety........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)