I know a handful of words in Russian: “Yes,” “no,” “thank you,” “hello.” And “solar eclipse.”
The practical words I learned while living in Israel. But “solnechnoye zatmenye” I learned right here in Milwaukee in 1979.
My cousin Inna had just arrived in Milwaukee from Kiev, and my family had been spending a lot of time with her. Together with our newest family member we experienced a marvel of nature, a solar eclipse.
The sun went out and in its place was a black hole surrounded by a glowing aura as bright as the full moon. And then, almost miraculously, the sun returned.
My brother and I struggled through the language gap to explain the eclipse — the light, darkness and return of light. And Inna, in her 20s, who seemed both exotic and familiar, repeated “solnechnoye zatmenye” again and again for me, etching it into my memory.
I remember a lot about those days — Inna’s first apartment, meeting her parents, brother and regal grandfather with his gorgeous wooden carved cane — but mostly I remember a tingly feeling in my head, the result of my world being stretched open.
Inna and her family were my family. Though we didn’t speak the same language and so many things about them were foreign to me, we were connected. Their stories were strange and exciting, about smuggling their personal possessions out of the country with them.
It was 1979 and my family was readying itself for our own journey to a new home — in Salt Lake City, Utah. We, too, were to become immigrants in a strange land, sacrificing comfort and family for potential. And we, too, were going to carve a new place for ourselves.
To my 11-year-old self, that opening of my reality was almost palpable. This Russian wing of my family didn’t fit neatly into my small North Shore life. Rather, my life became bigger and more colorful because of them, as it did when my Hawaiian aunt gave me an itchy mohair scarf after returning from a trip abroad — both experiences revealed to me a world that was simultaneously new and immeasurably ancient.
Many Milwaukee families have experienced that same reunion and expansion. In the last quarter of a decade, Milwaukee has absorbed more than 5,000 Jews from the Former Soviet Union. For many of them, the road hasn’t been easy. This issue’s Passover Magazine highlights stories of some of those immigrants — their conflicts, struggles, ambitions and successes, and their perspectives about home.
These immigrants, those who have been here decades and those who recently arrived, know some great truths: Freedom is not free. There’s always a price to pay, a sacrifice to make, a load to bear. Freedom is inextricably bound with responsibility.
In preparation for Pesach, I’ve been mulling the idea of freedom. A recent field trip to the Hope House with my daughter’s second grade class demonstrated how hard some people struggle to achieve freedom — right here in Milwaukee.
Not an emergency shelter, the Hope House offers housing and support services — a free clinic, job training and a food pantry, among others. Families can stay in the shelter for up to two years as they save money and prepare themselves for independence.
For the second graders, the trip was meant to expand their world. For me, it was a reminder that while some people chase the freedom from (addiction, oppression, repression, conservatism, prejudice), others sweat for the freedom to (build a new life, be accountable and independent, pursue their dreams, reinvent themselves).
At the Hope House, residents dedicate themselves to work hard, save money, get employed, — all in the climb toward freedom. Just like the Israelites as they fled Egypt and pursued freedom.
Pesach is our time to remember the children of Israel, who were slaves and then fought for their freedom and finally trudged across the desert to liberation.
In preparing for the holiday, I looked through several Haggadot, seeking inspiration and new perspectives. The 2000 Haggadah, “A Night of Questions,” edited by Rabbi Joy Levitt and Rabbi Michael Strassfeld, included an observation from Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the Nobel Peace Prize winning South African minister, about the costs of freedom:
“Even after the Lord had delivered the Israelites from Egypt, they had to travel through the desert. They had to bear the responsibilities and difficulties of freedom. There was starvation and thirst and they kept complaining….
“We must remember that liberation is costly. It needs unity. We must hold hands and refuse to be divided. We must be ready. Some of us will not see the day of our liberation physically. But those people will have contributed to the struggle. Let us be united, let us be filled with hope. Let us be those who respect one another.”
Like everything, that can be just words, or it can be one of the messages we take with us into this season of our liberation. As we face our struggles as a minority in America, as the children of a homeland mired in conflict and controversy, as a people that has always demanded high morality and responsibility — let us hold hands and refuse to be divided.
Let us remember the principles of klal yisrael (the unity if the Jewish people) and allow the confines of our world to stretch a little bit. Let us stand up for those who need us. Let us bear the responsibilities of freedom with vigor and joy. Let us know that the sun will return from behind the moon’s shadow.
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