Passover Seder

Flying into Katmandu is a little like arriving in heaven with a window seat. The capital of the tiny Hindu kingdom of Nepal is in the center of a large valley nestled in the Himalayas. Mountains and clouds envelop the city of 300,000.

I arrived in March 1991 after spending two months traveling in India. I had quit my job as an architect in New York to travel around the world, a journey I had fantasized about for as long as I could remember.

The biggest surprise of Katmandu was the huge number of Israeli travelers. There were hundreds of Israelis: invariably young, tough, budget-minded and not particularly religious. Traveling in Southeast Asia after military service has become a common rite of passage for Israelis. Since Nepal has always had good relations with Israel, Israelis are welcome.

I had not been in Katmandu long before I struck up a friendship with a few Israelis. One of them asked me, "Are you going to seder?" Knowing well that Passover must be sometime soon, but that the closest Jewish community was in Calcutta (a few hundred miles away, across some rather formidable mountains), I laughed at the question.

It was then I first learned of the famed "Seder of Katmandu"- a legend of its own. Every Passover for years, three Lubavitcher Chasidim from Brooklyn fly to Nepal to conduct a seder on the first night of Passover. Hosted at the Israeli embassy, this event is well-known among Israel travelers. All those traveling in Asia who can possibly arrange it schedule their itineraries so as to be in Katmandu for Erev Pesach. Upon finding the sign-up list, I was astounded to see that I was already guest number 384- and there were still four days before Passover.

Two days later, the Lubavitchers flew in from Brooklyn, bringing with them matzah and all the requirements for a strictly kosher seder, including more than a few chickens. (Nepalese are strict vegetarians and, in fact, refer to outsiders somewhat derogatorily as "meat-eaters.")

The owners of Pumpernickel's Bakery let their business be virtually taken over, and it was transformed into a factory. The kitchen had been koshered and dozens of volunteers washed, chopped, and mixed for the seder. Charoset had to be prepared, vegetables cleaned and, of course, how could a seder be complete without chicken soup?

A table was set up to collect the $4 fee. Upon payment, one received a Haggadah, which was to be used as an entry "ticket."

In the two days preceding Passover, one could feel the excitement. There were, it seemed, more Israelis than ever wandering the streets of Katmandu. One saw young people carrying their Haggadot through the narrow streets. Every conversation between Jews of any nationality sooner or later led to the same subject.

Soon enough it was Erev Pesach. I changed into my best clothes (after two months in India, this meant those with the least holes and stains) and my new trekking boots- not yet properly broken in. I then walked a pleasant 30 minutes to the Israeli embassy.

On the grounds of the embassy there was a huge tent, filled with rows of folding chairs. There was seating for 800. I realized this was not going to resemble any seder I had ever attended. I was about to take part in what may have been one of the largest seders anywhere, here on the rooftop of the world.

Rabbi Asi Spiegel, 27, of Tel Aviv Israel, offers the especially prepared hand-baked Matzah to the young Jews attending the world's largest Seder in Katmandu on Monday, April 21, 1997 during the Passover celebration. (AP Photo/Bindo Joshi).

The seats were already mostly full and people were greeting one another with laughter and tears; old friends from the kibbutz, the moshav, army, high school; friends who had no idea the other had left Tel Aviv; friends and distant relatives who hadn't seen one another in years. In Israel, a country of 5 million, everyone, it seems, is somehow connected.

While the majority of guests were young Israelis, there were also a number of Jews from the United States and Canada.

As sundown approached, the three Chasidim came to the front and led the crowd in songs to celebrate the arrival of the holiday. All three were very young and clearly excited to be there. Their enthusiasm as well as their swaying melodies were contagious, as the crowd became wrapped up in the spiritual nature of the evening.

The wife of the ambassador lit the candles and recited the blessing. The seder was conducted in Hebrew, interrupted frequently for an explanation, story or joke. There were diversions to discuss rabbinic interpretations, to pose questions and to reflect on the meaning of freedom in the direct aftermath of the Persian Gulf war.

While the quality of the cooking did not live up to that of the 800 mothers and grandmothers to which it was undoubtedly being compared, it was warm and tasty. There was no shortage of sweet wine, made in Israel and brought to Nepal via Brooklyn. There was no shortage of matza, either. There was a special plate of matza blessed by the Lubavitcher Rebbe broken up and passed among the crowd. After dinner, the afikoman was found, and as the seder was drawing to its conclusion, someone from the crowd led everyone in singing "Hatikvah."

As I traveled through Asia for the next six months, I would meet many Israelis. They invariably would ask me if I was at the seder. I would answer, "of course."

The Legendary Seder in Katmandu