The high point of pesukei d’zimra, virtually the last thing we do before we begin the core of the morning service, is the repetition of the Song of the Sea, az yashir. Every single day–Shabbat, holiday, weekday—we rehearse this great moment of liberation.
On Passover, the bulk of the “Maggid”, the telling of the story, deals with that liberation. Of course we celebrate it. But also, in a powerful symbolic ritual, we remove a drop of wine from our glasses every time one of the ten plagues is mentioned. This is to remind us—at the very moment of our great celebration, no less—of the suffering of innocent Egyptians that were caught up in the mythic struggle between G-d and Pharaoh.
This is a ritual of which we can be proud. We impress on our children the importance of every human life, even the life of our “enemies” who often are innocents simply caught up a crossfire not of their making.
This year, in the aftermath of Oct. 7, and the subsequent death of thousands of innocents, the wisdom of the rabbis becomes even more urgent. As important, indeed holy, as it is to liberate our hostages, we cannot simply ignore the tens of thousands of victims that are ravaged as a result. This does nothing to minimize the moral responsibility of Hamas for starting (and continuing) this horror show, but the pain remains.
It is all too easy to be self-congratulatory about our wine ritual. In a brutal world, such sensitivity about “the other” is indeed unique and remarkable. But it can also dull our senses, shielding us from the revulsion the death of innocents ought to evoke.
The following powerful poem by Shira Rubenstein addresses both the moral question and the emotional ambivalence associated with the death of innocents. You might consider reading it at your seder.
It will not make the wine drops bigger, but it will perhaps make them heavier.
The Other Shore
By Shira Rubenstein
The guilt begins on the other shore of the Reed Sea,
with us, drained from terror or excitement,
with the sun beating down,
seagulls swooping overhead,
waves lapping against the bodies on the sand,
so gently, now.
Children laugh or cry,
but the world is quiet,
afterwards.
Who is like you, O G-d?
We know about fear
and doubt,
resentment and guilt.
We thought we’d be leaving it behind.
How heavy a load can be carried out of Egypt?
How many in that army were blameless?
How many innocents will die for this freedom?
We don’t know whether these questions are for G-d or us.
We try to drown them out with drums,
hoarse, harsh song,
the pounding of tired feet in a desperate dance.
We think of the crack of the whip,
the insults,
every murdered child
– all the times we wished
Something like this would occur.
We tell ourselves we have a right to rejoice.
It would be easier to believe
if the horses
hadn’t had time
to
scream.