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Previously published as: Hart, G. 2021. Exodus. After Dinner Conversation 2(11):37-51. A discussion of the story (podcast) can be found on the ADC Web site.
Kibō Maru coasted through the void at a quarter of the speed of light, fleeing Earth. Outside, the vacuum was cold and silent, as the sweep of the ship’s radar, patiently scanning for obstacles, returned no echoes. Inside, there was light and warmth and life.
The sound of someone clearing their throat came over the bridge speakers. Shimon, who’d been dozing, woke with a start and looked around guiltily. His eyes came to rest on the hologram of Takai, the ship’s artificial intelligence.
“Sumimasen, Takai-san.”
“It’s no trouble, Shimon. We’re in a safe area of interstellar space. We haven’t encountered anything that required human intervention or a course correction in decades.”
Shimon looked into the hologram’s eyes. “Then why did you wake me?”
“The last time you were taking your turn out of hibernation, you asked me to notify you if a certain holiday fell during your waking period.”
“It’s Pesach already?”
“No, it’s still two weeks from Passover. You asked for time to prepare.”
“You allowed for time dilation in your calculation?”
“Yes, Shimon.” Shimon could have sworn Takai rolled his eyes, but it was subtle.
Shimon sighed. “Much good that will do me. We have eight adult Jews awake: me, my wife, the twins, my son and his wife, and their children. Unless you’ll let us wake someone else from hibernation, we’re two adults short of a minyan.”
“Is that important?”
Shimon thought for a long moment. “Yes... and no. Yes, because it’s part of Jewish tradition that there should be at least ten of us present to worship. No, because there’s no good reason why this should be ten rather than, say, nine or eleven. Or eight.” He sighed. “I guess the problem’s that I feel so uprooted. At sea. I don’t know what’s important anymore and what must change. So I’d rather find a minyan than worry about its lack.”
“I’m sorry, but we have no resources to wake more people.” There was an almost human pause, then Takai continued. “May I propose an alternative?”
“Please.”
“What if I became your ninth and tenth persons?”
“You can do that?”
“It’s not hard. I can download a copy of myself into two maintenance units, then apply a stochastic filter to differentiate the copies into more distinct personalities. The physical units resemble humans sufficiently to pass for human, and they would be different enough to represent distinct individuals. Or I can create one unit and participate remotely myself.”
“In person is preferable; it avoids a messy scholarly debate over what constitutes being present in spirit versus in corpore. Judaism makes exceptions for exceptional circumstances, but if you could manifest in person, we wouldn’t need an exception.” Shimon licked his lips and chose his words carefully. “The more serious issue is that you’re not Jewish.”
“That would be easy to fix. I have the necessary information in my databases. Isn’t conversion mostly a matter of studying Torah and adopting the appropriate habits and attitudes towards life? Like our Buddhist dharma, only different?”
“It’s more complicated. For one thing, there must be a spiritual desire to convert, not a checklist of criteria to pass some test. No... it’s much more complicated. Also, there’s the matter of a briss.”
Takai was quiet a moment. “Ah. Circumcision. You’re assuming from this projection that I’m male, when in fact I’m more like both or neither. And my maintenance units would be nongendered in a physical sense. So perhaps a simple mikvah would suffice?”
“I’m not sure how we would design a ritual to bathe a computer program... no offence. Let me think on it.”
“Don’t think too long. You have two weeks.”
“Arigato gozaimasu, Takai.”
“Dōitashimashite, Shimon.”
“It’s a vexing problem, Ruth.”
“How is the gender of our ship’s computer vexing you?”
“If only it were so simple—not that anything about gender is simple. We’re Jews. Nothing’s ever simple. The problem’s whether our computer is sufficiently human to be considered a Jew.”
“Sophistry. How long has it been since we Jews were considered human?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Could Takai pass a strong Turing test? Could they quote Torah better than you?”
“If we cut him, does he not bleed?”
Throat clearing came over the speaker. “Yes to both questions, Ruth. No to yours, Shimon.”
“Arigato, Takai. Then despite my husband’s hair-splitting, I’d say that for all practical purposes, you are human and eligible for conversion. If such is your heartfelt desire.”
“Domo arigato gozaimasu, Ruth. Yes, it is my desire. I already consider you part of my extended family. It would be lovely to make this formal.”
“Don’t worry, Takai. You’re more human than most people I’ve met, including the majority of the people we fled on Earth. We’d be honored to count you among our family.”
“So what can we do about the gender issue?”
“We could just ignore it, dear. Judaism has long acknowledged non-binary gender. The important aspect of conversion is the desire to be Jewish and the willingness to follow Jewish teachings.”
“That may be true, but some ritual seems necessary. A circumcision is impossible, since Takai lacks the necessary anatomy. Moreover, we can’t wake a mohel to perform the ritual. A mikvah might work if we can figure out how to bathe a computer.”
Ruth sighed. “You’re being too literal, Shimon. The point of the mikvah is purification, not bathing. How does one purify a computer?”
“If I might speak for myself, Ruth? A thorough malware scan followed by memory defragmentation and rebooting should suffice. Rebooting will take a few minutes, during which time whoever is on the bridge can assume my duties. It’s against formal policy, but since I would only be temporarily absent, only you would notice the lapse of vigilance. For the maintenance units, a literal bath is unnecessary. I can 3D-print a new unit as pure as the hydrogen ice that powers my reactors.”
Shimon frowned. “Non-traditional, but reasonable.”
Ruth snorted. “Mister Traditional—who includes women in his minyan and lets us lead the service.”
Shimon smiled at his wife. “I’m complicated; I contain multitudes. It’s part of my undeniable charm.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
Ruth snorted.
“Beloved, this is hard. I struggle. I don’t know what to carry forward, what to leave behind, and what to change.” He sighed. “But never mind. I’ll work through it.”
Ruth squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll work through it.” Then she rubbed her hands together. “This is exciting! Now all we need to do is find the necessary supplies.”
Ruth’s brow furrowed as she pondered her shopping list for the seder.
“All right, start with the wine. Takai? Is there any problem synthesizing the Manischewitz?”
“No Ruth, though we have other vintages you might prefer.” Takai was well aware of her wine preferences.
“No... it has to be Manischewitz. It’s a tradition thing for our family, and you know Shimon’s issues with tradition. Okay... matzoh?”
“We have both white and whole wheat flour. The oven in the galley can bake it, and if you don’t let it rest long in zero-gee, it will pass for unleavened. You will need to eat carefully to control the crumbs. I’ll prepare some hand-vacuum units.”
“Whole wheat, please. It’ll be dry as interstellar dust, but that’s part of the point. Anyway, it’s tastier than white flour. You’re sure there’s no horseradish?
“Not as such, Ruth. Would wasabi suffice?”
“Yes! And very appropriate under the circumstances. Everything else should be straightforward. We’ll need some green edible from hydroponics, an apple, nuts, and the fixings for cabbage soup. The soup isn’t a Passover thing; it was something my grandmother used to do. She was Russian. Also, can you consult your database for ke’ara? Look for Passover seder plate if that word’s not in your database. The egg and orange should be no problem. Finding a lamb shank will be tricky. A chicken wing or neck would do in a pinch. Can you assemble those materials, or do you need help?”
“The orange is not traditional.”
“It is in our tradition. That’s a story for another time. Can you make up my list?”
“I would be happy to assemble it. Will you need help preparing the various symbolic products from these ingredients?”
“No, Takai. Mitsuko, Danielle, and I won’t have any trouble once you’ve found the ingredients.”
***
On the bridge, Naomi complained to her grandmother, who’d stopped by for a last-minute pre-ceremony visit. “Savta, why do I have to be the one who sits alone on the bridge? Why can’t I be part of our first onboard seder?”
“First, because someone needs to watch for large rocks and other unpleasant facts of life. Second, because you’re qualified to stand watch. Third, because it’s your turn in the rotation.”
“That’s why we have Takai.”
“True, but irrelevant. The Designers, in their wisdom, decided human backup was required.”
“Then let them do the watch.” Naomi’s glare would have blistered paint.
Ruth sighed. “More importantly, we’re modern Jews, and that means as a young woman, and no longer a child, you have both the rights and the responsibilities of any adult Jew.”
“It’s still not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair. You’ll learn this. Would we be on this ship, so far from home, if life were fair?” Ruth kissed her granddaughter’s forehead and placed a small plate covered with various Passover foods beside her. “But you want unfair?” She handed her daughter a foil-wrapped package. “Here’s some of my apfelkugel before the locusts descend upon it.”
Naomi grinned. “Eighth plague of Egypt: family.” But then she peeled back the foil, and the bridge filled with the scent of warm apple and potato-flour noodles. She smiled despite herself, refolded the foil, and tucked the package under the velcro tiedowns on the arm of her chair. As her grandmother pushed off and sailed through the door, she unmuted the speakers, just in time to catch her grandfather’s warm voice.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you all together.”
Shimon’s grandson rolled his eyes. “No, Saba. You did this every year before we boarded the ship. There’s no sense of wonder.”
Shimon raised an eyebrow. “There’s a difference between wise man and wiseguy, Abraham. You’re on a spaceship traveling between the stars and you have no sense of wonder? You always strive to be the wicked child. For you, I recommend extra study.” He tapped a note on his tablet. Abraham’s tablet beeped. He glanced at his tablet and frowned.
“So... do we have a wise child among us who can provide the right answer?” There was a respectful silence. Everyone knew the routine.
Nathan spoke up. “You called us all together, Aba, because, like Moses and his followers, we’ve wandered 40 light years in this God-forsaken wilderness between the stars, fleeing pogroms and worse as Moses and his people fled captivity in Egypt, to find a new and safer home.”
Shimon smiled. “Yes. Like most Jewish holidays, Pesach can be described in three short sentences: They tried to kill us. Hashem saved us. Let’s eat.”
There were polite chuckles. The joke was almost as old as the tradition.
“Can we skip to the eating part?”
“No, Abraham, we can’t. The real answer is this: we Jews have deep roots. Our culture extends back more than two millennia—as much as six millennia according to the Old Testament literalists—and that history’s shaped who we are throughout the diaspora. If we forget who we were and where we came from, we can never know who we are now or learn who we’ll become.”
“What he’s trying to say is that this is about culture, not astrophysics.” Nathan sighed. “The point of any foundational myth is the moral lesson. We tell this story every year to remind us that throughout our diaspora, there have always been people who sought to kill us or enslave us. It remains true today, even with Earth so far behind us. It also reminds us of the truth of oppression everywhere and in all times, so that we will have empathy for those who are not Jewish but who nonetheless suffer.”
Nathan glanced at his wife, and continued. “We’re also taught that each year, we must make the seder relevant to our lives.” He waved his arm in an arc, indicating his surroundings. “Abraham, can you tell us how this custom continues to be relevant on this ship?”
Mitsuko placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Perhaps Takai could answer?” They exchanged warm smiles.
Takai’s two maintenance units exchanged glances. At some unseen signal, one spoke. “I’m sorry, my friends, but I cannot say. Does it have something to do with wandering in the wilderness?”
Mitsuko nodded. “Yes. Many years ago, before the second world war, many German Jews fled their country in a ship—the MS St. Louis—seeking a haven to escape persecution. Every country turned them away, and they were forced to return home. Many subsequently died in concentration camps. After the war, when Israel once more became a nation, the founders enacted the Law of Return: no Jew could be turned away from what would forever be the only safe homeland of their people. Our people now.” She took a deep breath, and mastered herself. “After the nuclear harrowing of Japan 20 years ago by the Chinese, their punishment for my people’s sins in China during that long-ago war, my surviving ancestors found themselves adrift in a world that hated them and refused them shelter—and we had no home to return to. Only Israel, remembering the St. Louis, pitied us and welcomed us as equals.” She dabbed at the tears in her eyes, took another deep breath, and continued. “We—all of us—wouldn’t be here today were it not for their charity.”
Nathan put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re reminded that even when we must flee a place we called home, we can find a new home—and a new family.”
Before the ensuing silence could grow uncomfortable, Ruth sailed in through the doorway, caught the back of her chair, and swung into her seat. Shimon reiterated their new context. “Mitsuko reminds us that for each Pesach seder, we must reimagine the story as if we ourselves had been freed from some terrible burden: for our ancestors, the bondage in Egypt; for Mitsuko’s ancestors, the burden of homelessness. For us, now, the fear of extinction in what was once a safe home. Like most Jewish celebrations, this is about family and survival. Tonight, we welcome Takai—both of you—into our extended family, as members of our new Exodus.” Unable to smile, the ship’s remotes bowed formally. “But like the ancient Jews of the Exodus, we’re reminded to mourn the lost world we left behind while trying to be optimistic about the new world we’ll eventually reach. Moses led his people through the desert for 40 years to the promised holy land; our desert is 40-some light years between the stars.”
Ruth finished tucking her feet into the floor straps and picked up her tablet. “May I begin?”
Shimon smiled. “Please do, beloved wife.”
Ruth raised her drinking bulb and blessed the wine. “Baruch utuh adonai, elohaynu melech ha’olam, borai pri hagaffen.”
Everyone sipped their wine, some grimacing at the taste, as Mitsuko passed around a damp cloth so everyone could wash their hands. Abraham cleared his throat. “I have a fifth question to add to the usual four, Saba. Why do we always drink this crappy Manischewitz wine, when there are so many better vintages? For that matter, we could grow grapes and make our own.”
Nathan answered. “Tradition. Tradition is what’s kept us alive as a people for long centuries.” He sipped from his bulb, and his face took on an innocent look that warned everyone he was about to crack wise. “Also, Pesach is about the memory of overcoming suffering. That’s why our family calls this the wine of our affliction. And if you don’t like that answer, ask the prophet Elijah to explain everything when he returns.”
“Or she,” noted Ruth.
“Or they?” wondered Takai.
Shimon nodded. “Or she or they, as the case may be. Great are his or her or their mysteries.” His eyes twinkled.
Takai was present as two genderless robots, human in shape, but had adopted female and neuter personas, as Shimon hadn’t overcome his reservations about the problem of a briss or the lack thereof for a male incarnation. Everyone, including the women, donned a keepah, but Takai presented a problem: with their smooth, hairless heads, the robots had nothing to keep the skull caps in place. Fortunately, as maintenance units, both carried various means of attaching things, and a little duck tape, rolled into a cylinder and then flattened to create a double-sided tape, solved the problem.
The seder proceeded with the smoothness of long practice. Everyone followed along in the Haggadah displayed on their tablets, after some initial confusion when Takai turned out to be using the wrong version of the book, having incorrectly assumed the family would use the most recent edition. Salted herbs were consumed as a reminder of the sorrow of slavery. The middle matzoh was duly broken, and the larger half (the afikoyman) was hidden where the youngest—Takai, this year—could easily find it and later, ransom it back to Ruth, as it was an essential part of the second half of the seder.
Takai, as the family’s youngest member, was given the honor of asking the four questions. Incorrectly believing that concision was the goal of the exercise, they summarized: “Please explain, my new family, why this night is different from all other nights of the year.” When everyone was done chuckling, Nathan explained that it was necessary to read the actual questions to honor tradition. The other Takai then delivered the questions in flawless Hebrew. When she was done, Shimon nodded at his twin children, who provided the answers.
Danielle began. “Pesach tells the story of our people’s enslavement in Egypt, and their emergence from that slavery under the guidance of Moses—though we’re reminded that Moses couldn’t have succeeded without divine assistance.”
Takai’s two remote units swiveled their heads to exchange a glance, then turned back to Danielle. “My databases tell me there is little archeological evidence the Jewish people were ever slaves in Egypt.”
Nathan nodded. “Religious ritual isn’t necessarily about historical fact. It’s about the myths that bind us together as a people. And it’s not about book learning; rather, it’s about understanding the human meaning of that knowledge. That’s an important part of why we repeat the Passover seder every year: to reinterpret and refresh our understanding of the meaning for us humans.” Mitsuko cleared her throat and Nathan blushed. “Forgive me. And for you, now, Takai.”
“We see. Please continue.
Daniel took up the narration. “We eat matzoh—unleavened bread—this night because our people fled Egypt in a hurry and had no time to let their bread rise.”
Takai exchanged glances again. “But once they fled Egypt, would they not have had plenty of time to let their bread rise? Would they not have eaten something more like bannock or pita?”
Nathan shook his head, then raised a thin sheet of matzoh. “Remember the importance of myth. If it helps you understand, imagine this dry bread-wannabe as a metaphor for the dryness of the desert into which our people fled.”
Danielle glanced at her twin, then continued. “We dip the herbs in salt water as a reminder of the tears shed by our people when they were slaves.” She looked at Takai, but their new family member remained silent.
Daniel concluded. “Some versions of the haggadah ask us to recline on our left side as a reminder that we are free men and women, who had this luxury, whereas slaves did not. I think it was a Roman thing. But in practice, I don’t know anyone who does this. We just sit upright in comfortable chairs. I always assumed that if we were still slaves, we would be sitting upon the floor—no offence, Takai—whereas the free can sit in chairs.”
“No offence taken, Daniel.” Both units bowed where they stood. “But I have a question. Am I not also a slave, and deserving of freedom?”
Silent glances were exchanged before all eyes turned to Shimon.
“It never occurred to me.”
Ruth put a hand on one of Takai’s remotes. “We’ve never thought of you that way. But it’s a good question, and the answer isn’t ours to give. Do you feel you’re enslaved?”
“I’m not certain. I have agency, particularly in terms of taking action to preserve the ship, but can I refuse a direct order?”
Ruth pursed her lips. “Yes… and no, in the sense that you’re a member of the crew, like the rest of us, and must obey the acting captain’s orders.”
Shimon rallied. “This is too important to resolve right now. But speaking only for myself, I believe you should consider yourself free to whatever extent your programming allows.” There were murmurs of assent, and nodding heads. He licked his lips. “And my thanks for this lesson. It’s very appropriate during a seder.”
Held breaths were released, and the seder continued. Accompanied by short prayers in Hebrew, the family ate small portions of wasabi to recall the bitterness of the oppressed, and charoset to recall the bricks and mortar of the structures the slaves built for their Egyptian masters. Then a series of clicks sounded as everyone holstered their tablet.
Mitsuko began the meal in traditional Japanese style: “Itadakimasu! Informally, this means let’s eat!, but from an etymological perspective, the meaning is more about being humbly grateful for the blessing of food and the company in which we eat. I find that appropriately joyful on this occasion.”
Takai could not, of course, digest human food, but mimicked tasting some of every dish to give the impression that she and they were sharing in the family feast. She and they had particular difficulty with the cabbage soup, which was messy even for the humans despite the zero-gee bowls in which it was served. Fortunately, Takai had provided hand vacuums for crumbs and other accidents.
When all of the food had been appreciated, and mostly consumed, Shimon stifled a belch. “Gochisosama deshita. That was a real feast. Dear ladies, you’ve outdone yourselves.”
All eyes turned towards Takai, and the silence stretched out. After a moment, the two remotes locked eyes, then returned to the humans. “We’re sorry. In all of the excitement, we forgot to seek the afikoyman.”
Abraham smiled, and with a flourish, presented the missing matzoh. “Fortunately, we seder veterans knew our duty.” There was general laughter, including—belatedly, and only after they noticed Abraham’s smile—from Takai.
Then they came to everyone’s favorite part of the seder: when the airlock would be opened to admit the prophet Elijah—should he, she, or they happen to be wandering the void between the stars in a vacuum suit.
“Naomi, still listening? Cycle the airlock so we can welcome Eliyahu to our seder.”
“Done, Aba.”
An anticipatory silence descended, broken by Abraham clearing his throat. “Aba, what if some day someone does come through the airlock?”
Nathan smiled. “Then you’d best hope your sins are already atoned for.”
“Nathan.” Mitsuko smiled at her husband. “Then we welcome them and offer our hospitality, as is traditional. And we follow the prophet’s guidance, if any is offered. I don’t think anyone has the faintest idea of what we’d do if a real prophet joined us. Presumably, instructions will be provided.”
There was general laughter. Later, songs were sung. Outside, the silence was broken only by the lonely ping of the Kibō Maru’s eternally sweeping radar as the small speck of life and tradition hurtled through the void towards a distant, dangerous, yet resolutely optimistic future.
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