Eliana Good is a Fulbright 
English Teaching Assistant at Gymnázium Litomyšl. With a background in mathematics and studio art, a deep curiosity for cultural traditions, and an unwavering passion for squash, she was placed into a vibrant Czech town of 10,000—home to a UNESCO-protected castle and a local squash gym. Through dedicated lesson planning, classroom enthusiasm, and boundless energy, Eliana has quickly earned the hearts of both her students and colleagues. Over the past eight months, she has built a strong support network among fellow Fulbright grantees and local educators, claimed victories in regional squash tournaments against both male and female opponents, and engaged with the area's Jewish community. As Passover invites moments of reflection, Eliana finds herself asking: "...[W]hat are the most important lessons I can leave these students with? Have I taught them anything? Have I sparked their curiosity and critical thinking? Which of them, if any, will keep in touch? Do they feel at all more confident and inspired to learn English?”
Every spring I have gathered with either my family in Cleveland, OH or my college “family” at Hamilton College in Clinton, NY to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt with a vivacious Passover seder. Seder, meaning order, is the Passover meal consisting of 15 different ritual steps, helping us remember the Israelites’ escape from slavery into the freedom of the promised land. Or, as I simply tell my students, “it’s a big, fun dinner party with lots of steps!”
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The 15 steps consist of eating matzah, drinking wine, dipping vegetables into salt water, singing, retelling the Passover story, and reciting the four questions, the most overarching being “why is this night different from all other nights?” As I celebrate my first Passover far from home in the Czech Republic, I not only ponder over the seder’s infamous questions but also the role question-asking has played in my year overseas.
With much unknown ahead, the beginning of my Fulbright journey was shrouded in uncertainty: What would it be like to live alone in a country whose language I didn’t speak and where even the most basic of interactions, grocery shopping and navigating public transportation, required intense effort? Would I get along with my mentor and the other ETAs? How would I confront loneliness in a small town? What would I do in my free time? How would I engage with a Jewish community here or celebrate major holidays?
With much unknown ahead, the beginning of my Fulbright journey was shrouded in uncertainty: What would it be like to live alone in a country whose language I didn’t speak and where even the most basic of interactions, grocery shopping and navigating public transportation, required intense effort? Would I get along with my mentor and the other ETAs? How would I confront loneliness in a small town? What would I do in my free time? How would I engage with a Jewish community here or celebrate major holidays?
Whether at home or at college, connecting with a Jewish community has been an unyielding cornerstone in my life. Making up just 0.2% of the global population has also meant that we must rely on each other for support, especially during difficult times. It’s true; distance makes the heart grow fonder, and this year being far from a strong sense of Jewish community has been challenging while simultaneously encouraging, leading me to be more adventurous and attuned to my faith.
I further discovered that sharing parts of my culture has opened the door to immeasurable amounts of generosity, curiosity, and efforts towards understanding. I taught my 12-year-old students how to play dreidel; I‘ve baked colleagues and friends loaves of Challah for Shabbat and Hamantaschen for Purim; in return, students delivered me beautiful Hanukkah cards, and my school gifted me with a specially ordered golden menorah for the holidays. When I join a coworker for lunch, she will unprompted ask the waiter which dishes contain pork. Or, when I attend weekly Wednesday night trivia, a member of the group will sneak off from the table to wash a knife that was used for slicing cheese before cutting into the meat.
Once settled in Litomyšl, my questions began to shift to the charming town of 10,000 people that I have come to consider home. For many in Litomyšl, I am the first American they have met and, for even more, some unknowingly, the first Jewish person they have encountered. Further, for many of the adults and students I interact with, their knowledge of Jews begins and ends with the Holocaust, unaware of our enduring history and rich culture that extends far before and after the events of World War II. I wonder when was the last Jew in Litomyšl? Were they friends, coworkers, or familiar strangers with my colleague's ancestors? What is Holocaust education like in the Czech Republic? How do my students and colleagues view me? What are they curious to ask but perhaps too nervous to share?
By winter time, a few of my questions were answered when two Czech friends of mine took me for a snowy walk to visit the Jewish cemetery on the outskirts of town. Encountering the small section of land scattered with many overturned gravestones and reading its accompanying sign, I was struck by grief for the 200+ Jews who once similarly considered Litomyšl home in the 1900s and for the 100 local Jews deported to the Terezin concentration camp on December 5, 1942.
While I am conscious of walking in the same steps of so many of my people whose lives were brutally ripped away, this eerie feeling is intertwined with a sense of empowerment. My presence in Litomyšl allows me to honor these lives and serves as a physical reminder of the perseverance of the Jewish people. By sharing who I am with this country, I encourage many to grapple with the irrevocable damage done to the Jews of Czechia. My presence shows my students that Judaism is alive and strong, and that a Jewish person is not so different from them.
In exchange, my students, colleagues, and town have shown me hope for the future. A caretaker volunteers in his free time to repair the gravestones. The contemporary sign outside the cemetery is written in Czech, English, and Hebrew, indicating a desire for all people to learn this history, in hopes that the children laughing and sledding down the hill nearby will perhaps learn and care too. I feel hopeful because 83 years later on December 5th, in the very same town, I was showered with love, cards, gifts, and sweets from all my students and colleagues in honor of my 23rd birthday. I feel hopeful because when I asked my 17 year old students to lead a class lesson on any topic of their choosing, a group of girls decided to facilitate an impactful lesson on World War II. My enduring hope is that my presence has spurred questions and curiosity, leading to a willingness to learn far past the end of the grant.
So in the tradition of Passover, I will continue to ask and prompt questions. And on Passover, we also consider the 4 different types of children who might ask questions: the simple child, the wicked child, the wise child, and the child who does not know how to ask. One of the difficulties of teaching English is that within any class and even within any student, all four types can coexist. Students’ with varying intentions have asked me:
“Who did you vote for?” “If you could date anyone in the world, who would it be?” “Who's your favorite teacher at the school?” “How is the Cold War taught in the US?” “Why was Trump elected?” “If American high schools have PE everyday then why are so many people fat?”, “Would you rather send your children to school in the Czech Republic or the US?”
However, what I hear more than any of these questions is the silence of the students too afraid to ask. Often there are years of fear of judgement and failure caked into the dynamics of a class. So it came as no surprise when I asked an especially quiet class “What is the worst thing that can happen by speaking up in class?” The common response was “someone might laugh at me.”
Consequently, I am learning to slow down, and to improve the questions I ask. I am learning to be patient. I show my students that I understand even when they are uncertain of their grammar. And when they lack the courage to ask a question, I show them that I care by asking them something instead.
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As the grant reaches the final months, the questions I ask myself have yet again changed. I now consider other things, like what are the most important lessons I can leave these students with? Have I taught them anything? Have I sparked their curiosity and critical thinking? Which of them, if any, will keep in touch? Do they feel at all more confident and inspired to learn English?
Regardless, more than the answers to any of these endless ponderings, I can only hope that I have modeled to my students, coworkers, and friends alike that questions are not only the basis of communication but of mutual understanding and growth. And for that to happen, we must first work up the courage to ask.
