Passover Traditions You Love
Passover around the world—from Moroccan mufleta to Persian scallion-fights
With Passover around the corner, we asked some of our On Being Jewish Now Substack essay contributors to share their favorite Passover traditions. From traditional Ashkenazi Passovers where the kids sneak sips of watered-down wine to the Persian practice of hitting family and friends with green onions, Passover is observed in a variety of ways around the world. These nine writers are excited to share how they celebrate.
Make sure to read (and reread) these contributors’ essay by clicking here!
Lesléa Newman
When I was growing up, my favorite Passover tradition was looking for the afikomen. After sitting still at the seder table for hours, my brothers and I were finally permitted to get up and tear apart the house in search of the missing matzah, our father crying “hot” when we were zeroing in and “cold” when we wandered astray. Then when one of us finally found it, we teamed up and drove a hard bargain. Drunk on our newfound power, as well as the sips of Manischewitz we had snuck from our parents’ glasses, we knew the meal couldn’t conclude until we surrendered the treasure we held in our hands. We took our negotiations very seriously (my father, the attorney, taught us a thing or two). One year, we exchanged the afikomen for real silver John F. Kennedy half-dollars, and that was the best prize of all.
Ruth Setton
Mimouna is my favorite Moroccan-Jewish tradition. I was born in Morocco, and when we came to America, my mother often told me they ended Passover with a neighborhood party, during which they opened their doors to all—Jews and Arabs—played music and served desserts. Moroccan Jews carry on versions of mimouna in Israel, Canada, France, and the U.S.—wherever they find themselves. It's a celebration of fun, friends, and family, and the highlight is mufletas, sweet pancakes slathered with butter and honey that symbolize the sweet year to come. It's served along with marzipan, dried fruits, nuts, and jams. I love the idea of commemorating our journey from slavery to freedom with a gathering that offers hope and the promise of better days ahead.
Esther Amini
Thank goodness for Persian Passovers. It’s our once-a-year opportunity to whack each other over the head, across the chest, over the shoulders…or attack any other body part within reach of the scallions, or preferably firm leeks. We are reenacting a piece of our past—the ancient Egyptian taskmasters mercilessly beating the Israelite slaves—while racing around the dining table, singing “Dayenu.” As actors in this production, we evoke compassion for our ancestors while also releasing any pent-up aggression kept in check over the previous year. Socially-condoned combat and comic relief, it’s the highlight of my Persian Seder.
Jordan Roter
Growing up, we always had seder at my grandparents’ apartment in New York. My grandmother, whom everyone called “nanny,” was very much “the more, the merrier,” so every year, our seder grew: friends from school, families visiting from other countries. Often, Elijah would lose his seat for a last-minute guest who actually showed up! My grandfather, AKA “Poppy,” would eat herring on a Ritz cracker (definitely not kosher for Passover), even though matzah was also offered. Yes, gefilte fish was on the menu, but no, I can’t talk about it, because it’s still triggering for this life-long vegetarian and picky eater. The most important part of the Passover seder was, and still is, the joy and gratitude of being together.
Nora Raleigh Baskin
Growing up, spring meant Easter baskets, jelly beans, and chocolate bunnies—though I had no idea what any of it meant, other than it was yummy. Then, at 12, I learned about my Jewish heritage, and embarked on a journey of discovery. Since then, I have had to create my own family traditions– from scratch. One I’ve come to cherish is my playful diorama of the Passover story. Tiny, colorful frogs hop onto guests’ plates. An action figure of Moses holding his staff stands beside a beautiful ceramic cup for Elijah. Baby Moses, cut from a magazine and nestled in a miniature basket, waits patiently to be rescued from the reeds. An array of wild beasts guard a hand-painted seder plate. But none of it is as important as the family Passover memories that I've now given to my children.
Susan Royston
“For Elijah,” we announce, pouring the sweet wine until it overflows from his silver cup, staining the cloth in dark spots that remind us of blood and plague. I always anticipate the swish of angel wings at our opened door. A musky scattering of soft white feathers around the seder table, where they joke that Elijah will surely be intoxicated by night’s end. Their souls lay untouched by the whispering of angels. But in my heart lives Grandma Ray, red-haired and fearless, doyenne of all things religious. She who reigned over our seders long ago, her Haggadah open, Elijah’s wine filled to the brim. My sleepy face pressed against her windowpane … waiting. “Did he come?” I would ask eagerly next morning. “Drank every drop,” she always replied, and tipped up his cup … empty.
Brittany Ackerman
As the youngest in my family, I was always the one sent to search for the afikomen. Passover was hosted at my aunt’s house, and she would find ways to make the hunt more challenging, and more exciting, each year. I didn’t fully understood the significance of the seder until I was much older, but as a kid, it thrilled me to have this special task. Now, I know that the afikomen represents the Passover sacrifice and its ultimate redemption. My daughter is now the youngest in our family, and I can’t wait for her turn to search for the matzah. It's a privilege to see her take part in one of my family’s longest traditions.
Sharon Rosen Leib
In my family of acoustic guitar-playing, long-haired California Reform Jewish hippies, Passover seders centered on finding peace and love—but not in a blissed-out way. Rather, in the most Jewish way possible: via heated debate. At a seder in the late 1960s, I listened to my braless, barefoot, 20-year-old Berkeley undergraduate aunt scream at my father (her older brother) for supporting the Vietnam War. At a seder in the mid-1980s, I argued that my younger siblings should join me in Sproul Plaza, the epicenter of California protest movements, to oppose South African apartheid. At our 2001 seder, my father reprimanded my younger brother for not voting in the 2000 Presidential election. For the past few years, our seders have remained subdued as tragic wars rage in our ancestral homelands of Ukraine and Israel, and America feels combustible.
Karin Greenberg
Years ago, as I sat with my parents, siblings, and extended family in a dining room with gray flannel walls, I turned the silky pages of the Baskin Haggadah in awe, admiring the delicate watercolor paintings that illustrate the story of the Israelites’ liberation. Now, as I lead my own seder, the same copies sit in the hands of a new generation. Each book holds remnants of the past: notes, wine stains, food smudges. Some at the table recognize their own scribbles; others explore the pages with curiosity. The spirits of those no longer with us seem to fly out from the pastel drawings. I hear my dad’s laugh; my grandmother’s nails tapping the table. No matter how our seder plays out, every year I’m comforted by the familiar symbols of hope, renewal, and love.
Happy Passover to everyone, however you may celebrate!
Please comment your favorite Passover tradition! And don’t forget to use that search bar to read these contributors’ originally published Substack essays, all of which can be found here.
Great read. !! Thanks to everyone who contributed
Happy Passover to all!