Why is This Year Different from All Other Years?

What to say when there's nothing to say.

It is hard to know what to say about Pesach this year.

It is hard to say, "This year we are slaves, next year we will be free," knowing that that our brothers and sisters haven't been free for more than six months, hidden in the darkness of the tunnels of Gaza.
It is hard to say "let all who are hungry come and eat" when there are children starving in Gaza.
It is hard to ask, "Why is this night different from all other nights," when we know that the answer is not the one offered by the haggadah.
It is hard to teach our children the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim when we are afraid that raising them Jewish in today's world will bring them back to oppression, not to joy and freedom.
It is hard to say "In every generation, people have tried to destroy us, but God has saved us from their hand" when half a mile from my apartment, my former students are being attacked on their campus for the crime of being visibly Jewish.
It is hard to speak of the four children, when we are all thinking of the fifth child, who has not been released from captivity to join us our at seder table.
It is hard to dip our fingers in the wine, diminishing our joy because of the suffering of our enemies, when part of us believes that those enemies deserve to suffer, 10 and 50 and 250-fold, as imagined by the rabbis in the Haggadah.
It is hard not to spill the whole cup of wine on our plate and on our table, watching it turn our white tablecloths red to remind us of how much blood has been spilled uselessly, but allegedly in God's name.
It is hard to taste the sweetness of the charoset next to the bitterness of the maror, because bitterness has threatened to overtake everything.
It is hard to open to door for Eliyahu when we know that for so many, the people they wish they were opening the door for have not been allowed to come home.
It is too easy to say, "Pour out your wrath" when you open that door, getting so lost in our own anger that we lose room for complexity.
It is hard to say, as my family does every year, "Pour out your love," because we are so focused on our enemies that we have lost track of our friends.
It is hard to sing Hallel, praising God for all that God has done for us, when we know that the things we most hoped for are still too far away, blocked by the hardened hearts of the people who get to make decisions on behalf of everyone.
It is hard to say, "Next year in Jerusalem," when our liberation feels further away than ever.

It is hard. But we we will do it anyway, just as Jews have done for generations. This year we are here. Next year we hope that we will be somewhere better. This year we are enslaved. Next year, we promise, we will try to achieve freedom for ourselves and for everyone. Chag kasher v'sameach.