There is something a little absurd about trying to keep Passover on vacation.
You’re working with a stripped-down Airbnb kitchen, improvising ingredients, googling “is this technically kosher for Passover?” while standing in a grocery aisle that definitely does not have a kosher section. You’re not doing it “right.” You know that.
And still – you do something.
Not everything. Not perfectly. But something.
Because Passover has never really been about perfection.
Passover is the story of leaving – not in ideal conditions, not with everything neatly packed, not with time to let the bread rise. It is the story of movement, of urgency, of doing what you can with what you have because the moment calls for it. In many ways, cobbling together a seder on vacation is more Pesach-like than the days or weeks of preparation that many do in their own homes today.
So I find myself making some effort, even here, even now.
And I think about the people who came before me.
The ones who kept Passover in places far less convenient than a vacation rental. The ones who carried memory across continents, who whispered the story when it wasn’t safe to say it out loud, who made matzah out of necessity and ritual out of whatever scraps they could gather. The ones who did it despite everything.
And I think, too, about those who couldn’t.
The ones who lost the ability, or the access, or the safety, or the knowledge to do it at all. The ones whose chains, literal or metaphorical, didn’t break in time. The ones whose stories didn’t get passed down neatly around a seder table.
Passover asks us to hold both.
To remember that we were slaves – and that we are free.
To honor the effort – and the absence.
Because the truth is, the freedom we celebrate isn’t just the leaving Egypt part.
It’s what comes after.
It’s the choosing.
Choosing to remember.
Choosing to show up, even imperfectly.
Choosing to tell the story again, even if the table looks different this year.
Choosing to carry something forward – not because we have to, but because we can.
That’s the part that feels especially real to me right now.
No one is making me do this. No one is checking if I did it correctly. There is no gold star for vacation Passover observance – and if you know me, you know I’m a first-born, type A, achiever who loves a gold star.
But there is something deeply grounding about opting in.
About saying: this matters to me. This story is still mine. These people – both the ones who made it through and the ones who didn’t – are still part of how I understand myself in the world.
Passover is often called zman cheiruteinu: the season of our freedom.
And I think, this year, I understand that a little differently.
Freedom isn’t just the absence of constraint.
It’s the presence of choice.
And sometimes, it looks like a makeshift seder plate, a not-quite-right meal, and a quiet, stubborn decision to keep going anyway. It looks like running to the shelter with every red alert but still efforting a complete seder. It looks like the resilience we are seeing in Israelis and in Jews around the world who are still choosing to observe and to gather and to find joy no matter the challenges in front of us.
For them.
For those who did.
For those who couldn’t.
And for the version of us who gets to choose