![]() What is done with that suffering is now the question. Jews have unquestionably suffered as a people. Every year, when we celebrate Passover, Jewish people must remind ourselves that we are witnessing the re-enactment of this ancient story, only it is the state of Israel, which claims to represent us, that has become the Pharaoh. ![]() For decades, they have been persecuted by a modern-day Pharaoh, abetted by unconditional military aid from the United States. It doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to put the Palestinian people in the shoes of the ancient Israelites. I find Passover to be such a meaningful holiday because of the way it can be interpreted in the present day. When Pharaoh refused, the 10 plagues rained down. Moses asked Pharaoh over and over again to let his people, who were enslaved, go free. My favorite holiday is Passover, in which we recall the story of Moses, who guided the Israelites out of an ancient land and out from under the reign of an oppressive Pharaoh. Yet it is for exactly these reasons that Jews in Israel and around the world must help break this cycle of trauma.Īs with so many religions, Judaism is filled with stories and traditions meant to remind us of important lessons. Epigeneticshas taught us that this intergenerational trauma gets passed down, and lives on within the bodies of new generations. We all know that the Jewish people have themselves been oppressed, displaced, discriminated against, and murdered. It is an unquenchable circle of fire that fuels itself.” ![]() Hatred produces antisocial, violent, terrorist behavior. The reason for this is no mystery: Unresolved trauma sustains the cycle of violence. It is undeniable that the victim has become the perpetrator under the guise of preventing their own further persecution. The parallels between the Holocaust and the current-day ethnic cleansing of the Palestinian people feel so obvious to me. In fact, that’s not hard to imagine, as my baby’s very existence depends on his Jewish great-grandmother’s escape from Germany in 1938. In another time, another place, my child would be the one whose life was utterly discounted, and who was seen as not only expendable, but a stain on his society. It only took a moment for sadness, embarrassment, and horror to wash over me as I recalled an image of a Palestinian baby, younger than my own, with burns all over their body, fighting for their life in a hospital bed. I was temporarily filled with rage at the idea that this noise might wake my baby, who had just fallen asleep. One evening this month, as I was home in my mostly quiet Denver neighborhood, a loud motorbike drove by.
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