(ה) ... אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י וַיֵּ֣רֶד מִצְרַ֔יְמָה וַיָּ֥גׇר שָׁ֖ם בִּמְתֵ֣י מְעָ֑ט וַֽיְהִי־שָׁ֕ם לְג֥וֹי גָּד֖וֹל עָצ֥וּם וָרָֽב׃ (ו) וַיָּרֵ֧עוּ אֹתָ֛נוּ הַמִּצְרִ֖ים וַיְעַנּ֑וּנוּ וַיִּתְּנ֥וּ עָלֵ֖ינוּ עֲבֹדָ֥ה קָשָֽׁה׃ (ז) וַנִּצְעַ֕ק אֶל־יְהֹוָ֖ה אֱלֹהֵ֣י אֲבֹתֵ֑ינוּ וַיִּשְׁמַ֤ע יְהֹוָה֙ אֶת־קֹלֵ֔נוּ וַיַּ֧רְא אֶת־עׇנְיֵ֛נוּ וְאֶת־עֲמָלֵ֖נוּ וְאֶֽת־לַחֲצֵֽנוּ׃ (ח) וַיּוֹצִאֵ֤נוּ יְהֹוָה֙ מִמִּצְרַ֔יִם בְּיָ֤ד חֲזָקָה֙ וּבִזְרֹ֣עַ נְטוּיָ֔ה וּבְמֹרָ֖א גָּדֹ֑ל וּבְאֹת֖וֹת וּבְמֹפְתִֽים׃
(5) ... “My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. (6) The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. (7) We cried to יהוה, the God of our ancestors, and יהוה heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. (8) יהוה freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents,
They pour a second cup [of wine] for him. And here the son questions his father. And if the son has insufficient understanding [to question], his father teaches him [to ask]: Why is this night different from all [other] nights? On all [other] nights, we eat leavened and unleavened bread, [but] on this night, [we eat] only unleavened bread. On all [other] nights, we eat all kinds of vegetables, [but] on this night, [we eat only] bitter herbs. On all [other] nights, we eat meat roasted, stewed or boiled, [but] on this night, [we eat] only roasted [meat]. On all [other] nights, we dip [vegetables] once, [but] on this night, we dip [vegetables] twice. And according to the son's intelligence, his father instructs him. He begins [answering the questions] with [the account of Israel’s] shame and concludes with [Israel’s] glory, and expounds from “My father was a wandering Aramean” until he completes the whole passage.
Go out and learn what Lavan the Aramean sought to do to Ya'akov, our father; since Pharaoh only decreed [the death sentence] on the males but Lavan sought to uproot the whole [people]. As it is stated (Deuteronomy 26:5), "An Aramean was destroying my father and he went down to Egypt, and he resided there with a small number and he became there a nation, great, powerful and numerous."
"My ancestor was a Multipath Wanderer..." "Arami Oved Avi" (Deut 26:5-8) [V. Spatz, inspired by Matir Asurim]
A big part of "Maggid," the Passover seder's "Telling," begins with a few verses from Deuteronomy, a recitation for dedicating first fruits of a harvest. This section is often presented with an accusatory interpretation, turning the ancestor from actor to subject of an enemy's action. This interpretation, dating back centuries, is so popular that many, even translators, cannot read the original words any other way. But this year: I arrive to make this declaration, bringing a complex heritage full of action, attending to the ways Passover calls me to action...
"Arami oved avi." Multipath Wanderer was my ancestor.
I come with a heritage of loss and wandering -- both in the living and in the telling: Arami is at once a line of travelers, people who crossed over or came from beyond, and an ambiguous "back home," celebrated in the leaving (a kind of "good riddance"), yet remembered fondly in nostalgia for kin and connection. This ancestor was "oved" -- "lost" or "wandering," possibly "vanished" or "perished." Moreover, the tale itself is confused and wandering, with parts that have vanished or become twisted.
[He/she/ze/ne/they] went down to Mitzrayim, a Narrow Place...
The recitation mentions no enemy, human or natural, prompting the move. (Other tales cite a famine.) It does not say whether Multipath Wanderer was a migrant out of restless curiosity or dire necessity. Centuries of trauma and scarcity prompted many before me to retell this part as though my ancestor -- and myself, as reciter of the tale -- fled a beloved home, moving "down," with all its negative connotations, an enemy in hot pursuit. Instead, I declare: Every action is shaped by many forces, every change comes with loss, and the history that brings me to this recitation is filled with individual and collective choices, much sorrow and some hope.
...and sojourned there, a small group.
This jump from a single actor to a small group is interesting, reflecting, perhaps, the formation of a chosen family or leader-filled movement in which no one can quite say whose idea anything was in the first place. In any case, as Rabbi Yitz Greenberg taught thousands of years later (The Jewish Way: Living the Holidays. Touchstone, 1988), this small group were seekers after justice, rather than power -- which has been, R' Greenberg says, unusual in history.
It was there that [Wanderer's folks] grew larger, an amorphous group. The Narrow Place treated us ill, afflicted us, and oppressed us with hard labor.
Conditions caused shortness of breath (Exod 6:9) -- leaving folks short of patience and vision, prone to fear and accusation and distraction. Justice remained a dream while poverty and pain and inequality flourished. Our growing size and power made us a threat to some, in- and outside the changing community: It was sometimes easier to tell a story blaming some, while portraying others as innocent victims of a system in which they had no agency themselves. Still, some form of unity developed, as "we cry out" and God notices us, our voice (singular).
At some point, we figure how to raise our gasping voices, jointly, and cry out
to YHVH, God of our ancestors, of Multipath Wanderer and folks and so many after them -- and YHVH, The One Who Promises Justice Over Power, notices our plea
and recognizes our plight, our misery, and our oppression.
And, with that recognition begins a transformation,
experienced as a strong hand and outstretched arm, great spectacle, and signs and wonders of YHVH lifting us up from the burdens of that Narrow Place,
so that we can together build a community where all can thrive.
God makes five promises at the start of the Exodus story: I will bring you out, I will rescue you, I will redeem you, I will take you as a partner, and I will bring you to a land that is your heritage (Exodus 6:6-8). The first four are linked with the four cups at the seder. The fifth is a source of contention and Elijah's undrunk cup. Similarly, the recitation passage continues: "And brought us to this Place...flowing with milk and honey" (Deut 26:9-10). But the Passover Maggid stops short: The fifth promise has not yet been fulfilled; we are not yet at a Place of space and milk and honey enough for all. But what about the other four? Are we there yet?
I do not recite an "Arami oved avi" that names an enemy and turns my story into one of abject victimhood. This recitation isn't about what "happened to" me and my ancestors. It's not about mourning past disasters and celebrating past, partial, escape and rescue and redemption but a reminder to work collaboratively toward those goals for everyone. And it's not about celebrating a special God-relationship available only to some; instead, it's a reminder of the need for joint human struggle to manifest divine principles in a community that works for all. That fifth promise -- a homecoming for all -- is still a distant hope, but so is the rest of the Passover seder.
I arrive to make this declaration, bringing complex heritage, gratitude and hope, and awareness that we have Liberation work yet to accomplish. I declare that we -- with divine help, however understood -- are the ones with a voice to cry and a strong hand and outstretched arm with which to respond. It's us we're waiting for.
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"Arami Oved Avi: A Family Coming Out Journey" -- by Adina Koch and Joanna Ware Keshet 2014 on My Jewish Learning
...When we return to the story of Peasch (or Passover) year after year, our maggid (story), we return to a reminder of from where we have come. Our parent wandered. Our ancestor searched for a place to call home; out of which we emerged as a nation and a community. As Jews, we are blessed with a tradition that teaches us to stretch what it means to be family and on all days of the year to welcome the orphan, the widow, and the stranger. The lesson is especially salient on Pesach, as we open our doors and invite all who are hungry to come and eat. Food, however, may not be the only nourishment our bodies and souls are craving.... -- https://www.myjewishlearning.com/2014/04/10/arami-oved-avi-a-family-coming-out-journey/
Navigating Jewish and American Slavery Narratives, By Steven Sirbu | January 11, 2016
...American Jews have overwhelmingly interpreted our freedom to be a mandate to work for the freedom of all. In America, though, there is another narrative—a racial narrative. It is best summed up by attorney Bryan Stevenson of the Equal Justice Initiative, author of “Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption.” Unlike other societies that had slavery, Stevenson argues, America was unique in being a slave society. Slavery was established and perpetuated on a narrative of white supremacy. The ideology preached that blacks were violent and needed slavery to tame them. It taught in ways overt and subtle that blacks were dangerous and to protect themselves whites needed to use either subjugation or segregation. While the laws were changed, the narrative never was....
-- from Bechol Lashon, https://globaljews.org/
found at My Jewish Learning
Maggid: Telling the Story of How a People Gets Free
Ariana Katz and Miriam Grossman of the JVP Rabbinical Council -- from JVP Haggadah (2018)
“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them’...Ruthlessly they made life bitter for them with harsh labor at mortar and bricks and with all sorts of tasks in the field. The king of Egypt spoke to the Hebrew midwives, one of whom was named Shiphrah and the other Puah, saying, ‘When you deliver the Hebrew women, look: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live. The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.’ ” (Exodus 1. 1-17)
A Pharaoh must forget. Forgetting is how a Pharaoh, or a King, or a colonizer, erases people, steals land, exploits bodies. A Pharaoh works to erase the memories of the people. In our own time we have seen the JNF plant forests over Palestinian villages. We have heard testimony of families ethnically cleansed in order to make the desert bloom. We have seen the Dakota Access Pipeline bulldoze Lakota sacred sites and graves. We have seen the violence, the money, the force it takes to try and forget a people. We have also seen the resistance.
“The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God. God heard their moaning, and God remembered God’s covenant with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.” (Ex. 2.23-24)
A people must make themselves remember. The way forward for a people is to imagine and plan for a future that might not be possible. To trust midwives and healers, who birth babies, who heal a people, who fight back the skepticism and despair. The way out is to tell each other stories that freedom it is possible and to believe each other.
And finally, God remembered the promise of freedom but the people had already forgotten and “they were short of breath from the cruelty of their bondage” (Ex. 6:9). And despite miracles and plagues and wonders they could not remember.
Pharoah forgot Joseph and his people. God forgot Joseph and his people.
And the people forgot they could get free.
Until, one night, with thousands of mighty outstretched hands, they painted their doors red with blood. They reminded themselves of who they were and what their bodies could do. They made a scene. They marked their homes as places of rebellion, households that stood against Pharaoh. Places where a story of freedom could be told. And in the morning, with Egypt rocked to it’s core, the people marched out towards the sea.
“And the Israelites had marched through the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left.” (Exodus 14:28)
The Haggadah tells us: In every generation a person is obligated to regard themself as if they had come out of Egypt.
How will we remind ourselves that we have been here before, that we have survived? We, in 2017, have seen fascism and anti-Semitism before. We have seen Islamophobia and racism and transphobia. We have learned how to fight. How will we remember we already know a way out of Egypt?
By crying out and chanting on street corners, with voices that wake the heavens and remind the powers that be we are here. By marking safe spaces. By marking moments of resistance. By telling stories of times we got free.
Here is one: before the 8th and 9th plagues, Pharaoh got desperate and tried to pit the people against one another, saying he would let the men go free but leave the rest enslaved. And even though they were desperate and afraid, they did not abandon one another. They said no to Pharaoh’s deal, they would not sacrifice each other.
That is how we get out. Today it means, we will not accept walls or Muslim bans that dehumanize. We will not accept politics of “progressive except Palestine”. We will not sacrifice each other for false stories of safety. We will remember what is possible when we stand together.
In every generation we are obligated to tell this story: “Once we did not sacrifice each other and we won.”
Download and find more at Jewish Voice for Peace
Sometimes we are Moses...
...conditionally white with Cossack eyes and a quick sunburn, passing but keeping a suitcase by the door just in case. Feeling mostly safe in the palace walls, guilty but not knowing why, until one day everything changes. Until one day we see the Egyptian striking the Israelite...So sometimes we are standing next to our Black husband at the protest, and we are both chanting peacefully but the policeman strikes him and all we can do is choose not to run away, to stand firmly with our hands raised so that we both get hit. Because family means if you hit him then you hit me. -- from "After the Maggid," #BLM Haggadah Supplement, 2016
"After the Maggid: When We Imagine Ourselves Allies," by Sarah Barasch-Hagans and Graie Barasch-Hagans, offers an interracial family's perspective and presents thoughts imagined by Bat Pharaoh, Zipporah, and more. The full haggadah supplement is available through JFREJ, Jews for Racial and Economic Justice, free of charge. -- along with other relevant resources. JFREJ haggadah resources
Spatz-O'Brien Family Haggadah Maggid [unpublished, not sure what year]
When you get there, bring your fruits, call out and say: “My ancestor was a wandering Aramean. [Israel] descended to Egypt and resided there in small numbers. He became a nation, great, powerful, and numerous. Then the Egyptians treated us badly...We cried out...God heard our voice...and took us out of Egypt.”
From a variety of shores, by various means, we arrived in what became the US. Our ancestors – whenever arriving willingly or not – joined a colonial system that categorized residents by race, advantaged persons identified as “White,” promoted segregation, and forbade intermarriage. They were part of a Euro- pean settlement that used force and law to separate indigenous people from their land and their culture. Until very recently, laws across our nation punished homosexual behavior and supported only heterosexual marriages. The system gave many rights only to men. It supported subjugation, and sometimes persecution, of many people who appeared different in some way.
From its earliest days, our nation restricted citizenship to free White people, later explicitly excluding Asians and Hispanics. Immigration policies were intertwined with views on “whiteness.” Legal decisions in our country held that race was defined by popular percep- tion and that a “reputation of whiteness” was a form of property to which only some people were entitled.
“For many being white automatically ensured higher economic returns in the short term as well as greater economic, political, and social security in the long run. Being white meant gaining access to a set of public and private privileges that materially and permanently guaranteed basic needs and survival. Being white increased the possibility of controlling critical aspects of one’s life rather than of being the object of another’s domination.” (Racing to Justice)
Whiteness was “jealously guarded as a valued possession, allowed only to those who met a strict standard of proof” (“Whiteness as Property”). New immigrants entering this system, however unwittingly, fought to prove their whiteness in order to achieve the benefits of citizenship.
Irish immigrants, arriving in large numbers in the early 19th Century, were consider non-white or, in some common parlance, “white niggers.” Irish people were linked in popular press with hard drinking, brawling, unsuitability for work, and “wild dancing.” White skin made the Irish “eligible for member-ship in the white race, [but] it did not guarantee their admission; they had to earn it.” (How the Irish Became White)
Irish America leaders engaged in concerted efforts to change perceptions. One battlefield was culture, with “ballads, including...'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,' which came to symbolize the sober, romantic, chaste, and nondancing Irish who were invented to replace the white simians of old.” By the early 20th Century, European categories, used in U.S. public policy for most of the century, included Irish among the superior “Nordic” division (Renegade History [RH]).
Jews arriving before the U.S. Civil War included slaveowners and traders as well as abolitionists. Over the decades, popular belief and U.S. public policy rendered Jews as dangerous outsiders, limiting Jewish immigration and access to social and economic life. During the same periods, popular perception treated Jews as unduly influential in economic and political spheres. Jews were portrayed as responsible for both radical leftist politics to the U.S. and for the evils of capitalism. Into the 20th Century, public schools in Philadelphia required students to note racial identity and did not allow Jews to identify as American.
The Leo Frank rape case (1915), resulting in Frank's lynching, is just one example of popular perception painting Jews and Negroes alike as hyper-sexual, primitive, indulgent people outside “whiteness.”
When Booker T. Washington compared lynchings of U.S. blacks with pogroms against Russian Jews, several Jewish papers objected to the parallel, attacking the morals of Negroes in the process. “Of course, many Jewish leaders not only rejected such racist attacks but also committed much of their lives to the cause of black civil rights. Yet many such leaders were guided by a belief in Jewish cultural superiority and a paternalistic impulse to help the unevolved.” (RH)
“Like the first Irish immigrants, eastern European Jews who settled in the United States seemed unaware of or unconcerned with the American color line.” (RH).
Black, Jewish and Irish histories entwined in the U.S., producing tap dance and stepping, minstrel shows and the Gershwins, syncretism and antagonism, and, along the way, some quintessentially “American” culture.
“The outraged white citizen had been sincere when he snatched the whips from the Southern sheriffs...[but] left the Negro on the ground and in devastating numbers walked off with the aggressor,” MLK wrote in 1967. Today?
“God brought us to this place, and behold! I have brought the first fruit.”
Sources
Russell, Thaddeus. A Renegade History of the United States. Free Press, 2010.
powell, john a. Racing to Justice: Transforming Our Conceptions of Self and Other to Build an Inclusive Society. Indiana Univ Press, 2012
Ignatiev, Noel. How the Irish Became White. Routledge, 1996.
Harris, Cheryl I. "Whiteness as Property," Harvard Law Review, 2006.
King. Where Do We Go From Here: Chaos or Community. NY: Harper and Row, 1967
from New American Haggadah. “Playground” on the “In Every Generation” section:
So many of the details of the story seem somewhat old-fashioned, such as the smearing of lamb’s blood over the doorway of one’s home, which has been largely replaced by signs warning away solicitors. But in fact, the story of liberation is one that is still going on, as people all over the world are still in bondage, and we wait and wait, as the Jews in [Mitzrayim] waited and waited, for the day when freedom will be spread all over the world like frosting on a well-made cake, rather than dabbed on here and there as if the baker were selfishly eating most of the frosting directly from the bowl. The story of Passover is a journey, and like most journeys, it is taking much longer than it ought to take, no matter how many times we stop and ask for directions. We must look upon ourselves as though we, too, were among those fleeing a life of bondage in [Mitzrayim] and wandering the desert for years and years, which is why we are often so tired in the evenings and cannot always explain how we got to be exactly where we are.
— Lemony Snicket (“Playground”) commentary, New American Haggadah, p. 79