From Expectations to Reality: An Outsider’s First Pesach Seder

During my conversion in Israel in 1991, my teachers explained that Pesach (Passover) is a festival of freedom centered on one key command: In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.

Of course, it isn’t meant to be taken literally—it’s really about embracing faith and trust. But me? I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to faith in the traditional sense. Broadly speaking, though, I do have faith—plenty of it, in fact. For example, I’m quite confident that my memoir will be published soon.

Now that I think about it, if the task were simply to imagine the Exodus, that might actually be easier. ^_^

Listening to the Exodus story in my Rabbanit’s living room, my imagination ran wild. I pictured a grand pilgrimage: biblical robes, temporary huts, and sleeping under the stars in the Negev desert. I expected an epic, week-long immersive reenactment.

I also understood the literal meaning of "Passover"—as in God “passing over” the homes of the Israelites. I had heard the story as a child during French catechism, but never connected it to the physical movement. The French word Pâques, coming from the Greek/Latin Pascha, seems to have lost that "passing over" image in translation. Yet the marking of doorposts with lamb’s blood rang a tiny bell. I later confirmed my hunch: the clean, modern mezuzah on every Jewish door today is a tidier version of that original, bloody marker. (In my desert fantasy, I figured red paint would suffice for the huts!)

The reality, however, was much more down-to-earth.

Pesach “unofficially” began two weeks before the festival with a spring cleaning that felt like moving house. The mere thought of anything bread-related set off a hunt for chametz—the word of the moment. (Don’t do like me: I kept mixing up the word Chametz (leaven) with chometz (vinegar) and chamootz (sourness). Same-same, but definitely different!) Every cupboard, bag, pocket, car, and office had to be checked and rechecked for crumbs.I doubted the Israelites fleeing Egypt stopped to meticulously clean their kitchens, but somehow, this was just part of today’s ritual.

For those few weeks, bread is replaced by matzah—square, flat, dry crackers. It is supposedly easy to make; I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that once water touches the flour, you have exactly 18 minutes to bake it before it becomes “the enemy.”

Knowing my chocolate obsession, my mother-in-law bought me chocolate-covered matzah for my first taste. One was enough; it must be an acquired taste. (And might I add: coconut cookies and almond flour cakes are fine for a few days, but once a year is plenty! Unlike the kneidallah—matzah balls served in chicken soup—which I absolutely enjoyed.) The only real “pilgrimage” during Pesach is made by non-religious folks who miss fresh bread and head to Jaffa to buy it from the Arab bakeries. More organized people simply freeze their bread beforehand.

When the evening of the Seder arrived, unlike our usual Shabbat dinners, the table looked sparse: a fish head, herbs, boiled eggs, and a woven basket hiding mysterious items. My mother-in-law had been cooking for two days, and the smells alone promised a feast. She had warned me there would be a few rituals before we could start eating, and she hushed me out of the kitchen when I asked if I could help.

Little by little, the room filled with guests laughing and catching up. Some had brought their own Haggadahs (the book of the Exodus), sharing where they came from and why they were special. They explained that tonight, we had to “relive” the exodus through reading, singing, and even drinking. But as they told me: “No worries, Claire! We aren't going to spend half the night at it, unlike the Orthodox communities.”

Browsing through mine, I noticed it read like a script. Thankfully, it was in English. Still, it was a relief until I realized that at some point, it would be my turn to read a few pages out loud. I felt a bit awkward reading in English when everyone else read in Hebrew, but with the script in hand, all went well.

At the end of the evening, I had endless questions. At least science offers a fascinating explanation for the plagues: a chain of ecological disasters, from red algae turning the Nile “to blood” to frogs being driven ashore. Years later, I even experienced a “plague” firsthand while driving in southern Israel. Clouds of locusts swarmed the air and smashed into my windshield, leaving a gooey mess. They were huge and terrifying; as I slowed down, I could actually hear the cracking noises they made under the tires. I was very glad to be inside the car.

Then there is Moses—an enigma, really. An Egyptian prince turned prophet whose original name was Mose, an Egyptian word meaning “son.” A man of two worlds: raised in Pharaoh’s court but brought up by his Israelite caretaker, Yocheved. If I could invite anyone to dinner to get the real story, it would be him—or Joan of Arc. They have nothing in common, but they’d certainly make the Seder more interesting.

My first Pesach didn’t look like the grand biblical reenactment I imagined, but years later, when it was our turn to host, I made sure it was memorable. It is not my favorite festival despite its themes—I much prefer Succoth, which shares the same topic and, while still not in the desert, at least involves actual huts!

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  Passover Seder evening gathered around the table, sharing the story of freedom.

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  A Passover Seder evening—retelling the Exodus story, one question and one glass of wine at a time.

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  Passover Seder night—remembering the journey from slavery to freedom. Food

Scenes from one of our Passover Seders

Retelling the Exodus story, one question and one glass of wine at a time,

followed by a feast.

This post is inspired by my memoir about my journey in Israel—how I converted to Judaism to fit in and please my in-laws, and remaining a non-believer. The manuscript is currently seeking publication. Thank you for reading—feel free to share, explore more posts, and consider subscribing!

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