ABSTRACT

It's another year, another Passover. Once again I'm reminded that as a Jew “it is my duty to tell my child not only my story, but also the story of my story, which is also my child's story.” I go through the motions of the ritual but wonder, with so many parts and layers to the story, which parts do I tell? There is no road map for that. I have had to make the choice myself, guided by my own internal compass, the one that always seems to direct me to the displaced, the dispossessed, the stigmatized. My father's stories matter to me because he was one among that kind.