Just about 78 years ago, my grandmother, of blessed memory, was taken from her family's Passover Seder by the Nazis. She lived in the Carpathian mountain region in what is today known as Western Ukraine. She certainly didn't think of herself as a Ukrainian, but rather as a Jew. And yet, it is hard, as Jews around the world observe this ancient ritual, and as war and displacement once again ravage that region of the world, not to feel called back to her story, to that tragic night in that tragic place. The Passover Seder symbolizes one of the most revolutionary ideas one can imagine, a model that has played out for generations and that, even on that dark night in 1944, a night of defeat, exile and prelude to unspeakable loss, was being played out in my grandmother's home once again.