As I sit down to write this on April 6, 2026, Easter Sunday was only yesterday, April 5, and Passover is still in progress, with its last days extending until dusk on April 9. Our home’s table features the well-known symbols: colorful eggs, matzah, bitter herbs, and a plain candle for contemplation. Despite the distant sound of sirens, friends still congregate in Israel. I have not observed a single religious holiday for the past 24 years, from 2002 to 2026, without the threat of war hanging over it.

Conflicts in the area this year have once again made travel difficult, increased anxiety, and required us to modify our customs. But here we are, my wife, our kids, and me, choosing happiness in the little, holy deeds that have kept us going through every crisis since I was a student in the early 2000s. These holidays are now more than just customs for me as a husband, father, and university lecturer. They are classrooms of the soul. What have I learned? And what can I pass on?

The Long Shadow: A Personal Timeline

In 2002, I was a young student juggling exams and the anxiety of the Second Intifada. Passover with friends that year felt muted; we rushed through the Seder as news updates crackled from the radio in Haifa and television in small-town Wisconsin. Easter services were held under tight security. Fast-forward through multiple rounds of regional violence, and the pattern repeated: 2006, 2008-2009, 2012, 2014, 2021, 2023-2024, and now 2026. Each spring, as flowers bloomed and these holidays arrived, the familiar weight returned: the closed borders, the postponed visits, and the quiet prayers for those in uniform or in shelters.

In the middle of it all, I turned into a lecturer, teaching Zoom classes while colleagues graded papers by flashlight during blackouts. I learned to explain to wide-eyed kids why the fireworks outside might not be celebratory as I got married and had children. Nevertheless, my friends and family in the United States light the candles, conceal the afikoman, color the eggs, and narrate the tales each year. Because, despite its seeming fragility, freedom remembered is freedom reclaimed.

Lessons Learned: From Student to Father

I discovered as a student that knowledge is an act of defiance in and of itself. I learned that history is not abstract in lecture halls that served as bomb shelters. The story of Passover’s Exodus—from slavery to freedom—reflected the tenacity I observed in my peers. I learned that darkness does not have the last say thanks to Easter’s message of rebirth. I became more diligent in my studies as a result of the chaos rather than in spite of it. When I felt lost in the world, education guided me.

I’ve continued that as a lecturer at a university. Many of the young adults in my classes have never experienced a peaceful spring holiday. In addition to theory, I teach them how to think critically in the face of fear and propaganda. Intellectual curiosity is modeled by the Passover Seder’s invitation to ask questions, such as “Why is this night different?” Easter’s empty tomb serves as a reminder that despair can give way to hope. First lesson: Ask questions about everything, but make sure your inquiries are supported by facts and empathy. Second lesson: Unless we consciously decide to take a different course, history will repeat itself.

I’ve discovered the quiet power of teamwork as a husband. While making meals my wife and I have had late-night discussions about safety precautions. We’ve supported one another, taking comfort in customs that serve as a constant reminder that we are creating something enduring. We learn from the holidays that love is the best defense against discord and hopelessness.

The lessons are most relevant to me as a father. In an uncertain world, my friends kids and relatives’ in the United States have grown up with the Seder plate and Easter baskets as constants. My own have learned the story of Christ’s resurrection, all the while having questioned why we hunt for eggs when the news reports about death or why we dip herbs in salt water while far-off explosions roar. I’ve discovered that it’s impossible to completely shield them, but it’s crucial to project composure. We use the holidays as teaching opportunities: Passover reminds us of the “stranger in our midst” while also demonstrating the value of fighting for freedom. Easter shows that even after the worst has occurred, there is still hope for redemption.

If I could give you one gift from these twenty-four shadowed springs, it would be this: tradition is fireproof and not brittle. We adjust, streamline, and improvise—for example, the Seder was held in the safe room one year by dear friends in Tel Aviv, and the Easter brunch included a facetime laugher. What I teach is as follows:

Freedom and hope are not seasonal—they are daily choices. Passover’s Exodus is not ancient history; it’s a blueprint for escaping whatever enslaves us today—fear, hatred, complacency. Easter’s resurrection whispers that what seems dead can rise again. Teach your children (and remind yourself) to look for the small liberations: a shared meal, a child’s laugh, a moment of peace.

The strongest shelter is family. In wartime, the table becomes sanctuary. These events unite us more than any headline can separate us, whether it’s four questions at the Seder or tales of rejuvenation at Easter dinner. As a father, I teach my children that the most sacred thing is to support one another.

Empathy unites people. Whether it’s the Israelites in Egypt or the brokenness Christ faced, both holidays call us to remember the oppressed. I teach my kids and students to view the “other” as a fellow human being who bears their own invisible burdens rather than as an enemy. This is revolutionary in an area where faiths and suffering overlap.

It is inherited to be resilient. I inherited it from my parents, and I now pass it on to my kids. The student who used to have anxiety during tests now gives lectures with more steady hands. The young husband has evolved into a father who, despite uncertainty, smiles. We teach by example: faith is the bravery to light candles despite fear, not the absence of fear. A Prayer for Next Year

As we close the books on yet another wartime spring this Passover and Easter, I experience the same pain as well as the unwavering spark of thankfulness. The Easter lilies fade and the matzah crumbs are swept away, but the lessons endure. I hope the holidays in the upcoming year are free of sirens. We still celebrate until then.

You are not alone, my fellow families who are commemorating these days under the shadow of war. Empires and wars have been surpassed by the tales we tell around our tables. They will also outlive this one.

Chag Pesach Sameach. Happy Easter. And to all of us—students of life, teachers of hope—may we keep choosing the light.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)