Jenny Wright

Why is night different?

It was the first night of Passover and I was feeling miserable. By now, I recognize the ache. It’s the one I get when I am thousands of miles away from my family.

Away from the days of being young and just naturally assuming there would be a seder night with family. Away from old familiar melodies and reminders. I remembered when my mum would say a prayer in a funny British accent, or how we would all be tapping our hands vigorously on the table while singing. I’d be sitting with siblings and cousins, playing games with the matzah, sneaking a sip or three of heavily sweetened kosher red wine and counting down the time until we could eat.

Forty years ago, after leaving Israel, I moved to London, where there were always relatives to fill that gap. However, back in the younger days, my Jewish identity took something of a back seat. As a teen in Israel, I always wondered why I wasn’t allowed to join my friends at the beach on Shabbat. As a child, we were raised as Orthodox Jews but, when we immigrated to Israel, some of the traditions, sadly fell by the wayside.

Vancouver eventually became my permanent home and, initially, I’d always worry where I would be spending the Jewish holidays. Frequently, friends and kind strangers invited us to their homes. It only seemed to deepen the family longing pangs.

When I became a parent, my husband and I began to host our own celebrations and seders and we always included strangers and synagogue friends. Fortunately, when my oldest son was 3, we became friends with another family. They knew some family-less people and it wasn’t long before we all celebrated the Jewish holidays together, a tradition which has continued – until recently.

When the pandemic began and social distancing became necessary, holiday gatherings were cancelled. Zooming on our phones became the norm. It was different. Something of a novelty.

A few days before Pesach this year, I glanced at the secular calendar, which indicated Sunday as the eve of Pesach, so I arranged for our kids and partners to come Sunday night. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon Saturday that I realized I had goofed and Pesach commenced that night. By 4 p.m., the sadness had crept in. My sister had phoned from Israel and filled me in on the lovely seder she had attended.

My brother had sent photos. All the well-wishers had phoned and sent greetings.

For the first time in many years, my husband and I would be all alone and unprepared. There was little motivation to do anything. We ordered an Indian (vegan) meal to be delivered. I forced myself to light the festival candles and mutter some prayers. Then, the phone rang for the first time in hours.

It was a good friend. She sounded excited. Although she had hosted many a seder elsewhere, she was holding her first with her daughter in Vancouver, rather than attending an organization’s or other event via Zoom.

“You must come over and see my table! It’s so beautiful! Even just for a few minutes,” she said.

I begged off because we would be seeing our infant grandson the following afternoon and just couldn’t take the chance. Besides, our delivery would be arriving any minute. “Cancel it! We have lots of food here!”

I would have dearly loved to have dropped everything and gone to her house. I recalled how, some 20 years earlier, she and her daughter had attended our seder. We settled on a FaceTime call and sang the Shehecheyanu blessing together.

A knock at the door; our food had arrived. We said goodbye. But my friend’s enthusiasm was infectious. Her phone call, when I so needed to be remembered, reminded me that we weren’t, in fact, alone in the world.

We pulled out Haggadot and some of the seder plate preparations for the following day. Miraculously, there was enough kosher wine to get us to the third glass of wine and the spilling of the wine for the 10 plagues. My husband and I took turns reading while the candles flickered.

Unlike most of our past seders, it was quiet and peaceful.

This year, I really asked myself: “Why is this night different?”

The answer could be lengthy but I do know that, on this particular night, there was a little soul intervention.

Jenny Wright is a writer, music therapist, children’s musician and recording artist.

Saying goodbye to a dear friend

Jenny and Zvika, 2002. (photo from Jenny Wright)

I am at Vancouver International Airport and U.S. Customs hands me a card asking the purpose of my visit to the United States. Is it business, pleasure, study? “None of the above,” I respond.

If I were to write a response, it would be: “To say goodbye to a lifelong friend who is leaving our world shortly.” Even at 65, it’s the first time for me to be traveling somewhere with a purpose such as this. And I never expected it to be Zvika (Irv Spivak), a childhood friend whom I have known longer than my husband.

At 15, we met at a rural boarding school in Israel. Two “misfits” or, should I say, creative souls, who had not quite grasped how to integrate into Israel’s society. Zvika was from New Jersey and myself, England. Our friendship flourished. Our mothers, both widows, also became friends.

Zvika was a natural comedian. He could imitate anyone. Presidents, cartoon characters, teachers and family members were only a few of the objects of his jokes. He mimicked accents and, when reciting a joke, it was told with such colour and credit, it became real.

Zvika loved to perform to an audience and I became his “informal” manager in Haifa. I introduced him to my good friends Ronit and Pini and several others and we became a close group. No party was complete without an hour or two of sketches. Nobody was ever excluded and tourists often made up half the parties we held. By midnight, we were laughing and crying uncontrollably, clutching our stomachs in pain. There were frequent complaints from neighbours and we were sure they thought we were drinking and smoking funny stuff but we were all high on pure laughter.

Zvika loved flying and had developed a series of international airline stewardess skits performed in numerous languages. Eventually, when the repertoire was over, I’d lead a round of Hebrew and English folk songs into the wee hours of the morning, with harmonies added by Zvika.

We didn’t know at the time that these carefree days would end very abruptly. On Yom Kippur, a coalition of Arab states launched a surprise attack, knowing that the majority of Israelis would be in synagogue. Zvika had stayed over and we were preparing to go out when the shrill siren began blaring. We looked at each other in disbelief. Today? Yom Kippur? The holiest day? Turning on the radio, we learned that Israel had been attacked by Egypt, Syria and Jordan. We headed to the shelter and remained there for several hours until the shorter siren indicated it was safe to leave.

Our lives took a different turn. I had been hired to perform on a cruise line heading to France and Zvika was planning to actualize his dream of becoming an airline steward.

Haifa’s port, however, was now closed indefinitely, so I offered to perform for the Israel Defence Forces military troops. Together with a magician and another musician, the newly formed Tsevet Havai Pikkud Tsafon (Northern Command Entertainment Troupe) was created.

Zvika was drafted as a medic and stationed somewhere near Nazareth.

En route to the Golan Heights after several successful performances, I realized we were passing army bases in Nazareth. “Stop, stop!” I yelled to the driver. “I want to visit my friend.”

Surprisingly, the driver complied and, moments later, I was hugging Zvika.

“Join us,” I said.

“Are you kidding? I won’t be allowed, even though I do very little here.”

“Let’s speak to your base commander,” I urged. Shortly after, we were performing our tunes for the commander and soldiers. With hearty applause, the commander understood how immensely valuable our music would be for the troops and permission was granted for Zvika to leave.

Our group performed in newly acquired territories: deserted villages surrounded by cattle and sheep, bunkers, and sometimes only a few miles from the bombings. We traveled to the Lebanese, Syrian and Sinai borders. The silent and somewhat eerie landscape filled with roars of laughter as Zvika carried out his sketches for the soldiers. We would learn later that, for some, this would be the last show they would see.

Eventually, Zvika was summoned to his base and I returned to Haifa to complete my previous plan.

Zvika moved to New York to become, you guessed it, an airline steward, and I moved to England. We’d reunite on special occasions. When I moved to Vancouver, my English friends threw a farewell party and Zvika flew over to attend and share all the skits with my friends. When he finally settled in San Francisco, we always stayed in touch.

Zvika’s larger-than-life personality drew people to him from all walks of life. Everyone felt that he was their best friend. He loved people, Cuban cigars and food and, before long, began selling diamonds at a Union Square store.

However, in 1989, he developed HIV and, with every visit, I began to wonder if it would be the last one. But, he overcame it and, in contrast, developed yet a larger tenacity with life.

He became a marriage commissioner, California-style. I was fortunate enough to attend Ronit’s daughter’s wedding and witness how eloquently Zvika created meaningful wedding vows. In 1997, he officiated more than 75 weddings and then branched out to do funerals, naming ceremonies, pet funerals and being the master of ceremonies at various events.

In March 2016, Ronit informed me that Zvika had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of bile duct cancer. He sent regular updates including this one: “The standard prognosis is four to six months or an additional year or two if chemo is successful. That being said, I was told 25 years ago that I’d be dead from AIDS after six months and we all saw how that prediction turned out. :-)”

I arrive at the hospice and my other lifelong friend, Ronit, is there to greet me. Zvika clutches my hand and I suppress my tears. In the days to come, he weakens. There are swarms of people coming in to say their final goodbyes. His friends move him to his house to die peacefully. I sing our old melodies to him. There are no harmonies. But, he is surrounded by love and care until his passing.

One of Zvika’s quotes was “My friends are my greatest blessing. I value honesty, loyalty and friendship. I love making new friends.”

Sixteen years ago, in a post-birthday note to all his friends, Zvika wrote: “If I were to die today … I’d die the happiest man ever to have lived and loved for knowing you. It has never been about the material things for me (hell, I’ve lost everything twice), it has always been about the memories of good times with each and every one of you. Your footsteps are indelibly etched in my brain. You are all my personal angels and friends.”

Jenny Wright is a writer, music therapist, children’s musician and recording artist. She also teaches creative writing and can be reached at [email protected].

A vision for the future

Rabbi Rick Jacobs, president of United Reform Judaism. (photo by Ian Spanier)

Temple Sholom is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year. As part of its continuing celebrations of this milestone, Rabbi Richard Jacobs, president of United Reform Judaism, and Paul Leszner, head of the Canadian Council for Reform Judaism, joined Rabbi Dan Moskovitz and the Vancouver congregation last Shabbat.

Rabbi Rick, as he is fondly known, is entering his third year as president of URJ. Throughout his rabbinate, he has been a social justice activist, whether setting up a homeless shelter in his hometown of New York City, or joining an international humanitarian mission to the Chad-Darfur border. Vibrant, welcoming and warm are some of the words that he uses to describe the movement, and it was not difficult to sense the enthusiasm as he discussed with the Independent his leadership philosophy, as well as the goals of Vision 2020, a URJ campaign to reach and inspire the 900 or so Reform communities across North America.

image - Rabbi Rick Jacobs carries with him a business card of his grandfather, Theodore Baumritter: “He taught me as much about life and Judaism as anyone I ever met.” — Rabbi Rick Jacobs carries with him a business card of his grandfather, Theodore Baumritter: “He taught me as much about life and Judaism as anyone I ever met.”

JI: I read about your personal mission and the fact that you carry around a business card of your grandfather, Theodore Baumritter. What does that say to you?

RJ: My grandfather was a person with such integrity and such goodwill that everywhere he went, people came to know and love him, people he met through business and through Jewish life. He taught me as much about life and Judaism as anyone I have ever met. Generational bonds are very important. To know where you come from and the people that helped you become who you are, they shape one’s character and aspirations.

My other grandmother emigrated from Eastern Europe when she was a teen. She was a seamstress on the Lower East Side and didn’t have the privilege of going to high school until she was a senior citizen. She went back and got her degree. She raised five children.

I feel very blessed to have the grandparents and parents I had, and hope that when we talk about ancestors they are not just vague theoretical people.

JI: What would you like readers, and Jews generally, to know about Reform Judaism?

RJ: Reform Judaism is large, passionate strong, dynamic, welcoming and truly inspirational. It can speak to lifetime congregation members and to those who haven’t tasted any of the rituals of the Jewish traditions. There may be people who at one point lived somewhere in a Jewish community and are open to finding a place for themselves.

JI: What are the specific goals of Vision 2020 and how do you propose to carry them out?

RJ: With guidance and help from rabbis and leaders across the U.S. and Canada, UJR envisions three major strategic priorities.

The first is to strengthen congregations, even congregations that are thriving and growing…. The world in which we live and the Jewish communities in which we find ourselves are having to change at an extraordinary rate. Congregations have to learn about how to engage in learning, spirituality and worship to nourish the soul. How do we ensure the synagogue is not frozen in one moment even though we have been growing steadily? How do we express chesed (loving kindness) in the congregation?

The second priority is called “audacious hospitality.” Audacious hospitality reaches beyond politeness…. Anyone who shows an interest in Judaism should not be turned away. If someone walks into the synagogue for the first time, it’s a very tentative moment. “Will I feel at home? Will I want to explore and get to know people?” Particularly a family with children. We want and need everyone to feel a genuine connection, rather than institutional – seniors, disabled, interfaith families; someone who has no knowledge of their Jewish faith; a traditional person who is now seeking something more contemporary. It’s about inclusion with no barriers. What’s important is building the bridges outside the walls and at the same time paying very close attention to those inside our walls.

JI: Low-income people or families may not have the means to afford membership or event costs. How do you propose to remove that barrier?

RJ: One of the barriers that keeps people outside the synagogue can be a financial barrier. Sometimes it’s a barrier or a priority they choose to avoid. Either way, we want to lower those because it’s not the finances that bind us together. We are bound together because we are part of a people, and we want to reduce ways in which you have to formally affiliate. Although, supporting something you care deeply about is a deeply held Jewish value. But, if someone wants to participate, it cannot be a barrier. Whether it’s participation in summer camp or Jewish day school, we have to remove those barriers.

JI: The third pillar of Vision 2020 is tikkun olam. Could you give me some examples?

RJ: Tikkun olam [perfecting the world] is a very large category to express a fundamental Jewish commitment. In the past 20 years, every study of the Jewish community [asks] … “What is the most compelling way you express your Judaism?” Pew Research [results] said: One, remembering the Holocaust. Two, standing up for equality and social justice. We use [tikkun olam] to actually express a fundamental Jewish commitment. When we pray or celebrate holidays, it is not instead of doing community work for people who have no home or food – tikkun olam is becoming a partner with G-d and making the world as God intended it to be. It’s primary. It is the pillar of Jewish life.

For us, tikkun olam also involves core Jewish values on a local and national level. It’s about helping immigrants, making sure that gun violence is not to the point that it inhibits our society. It also means making sure that public policy is responsible to [people’s] needs, whether it’s health care or caring for seniors. We don’t separate public policy and say, “That’s the government’s job.” We care about them. On a local and a national level, these are core Jewish values.

So, how do we lead and support the things that our Jewish tradition commands us to do? Young people tell us (whether they are involved or not) that, for them, the way that tikkun olam is practised is a serious, ongoing discipline, a way of life and a top priority.

JI: Is that where all the passion is to be found? What happens to the ritual and liturgy? Can these inspire people in these high-tech times?

RJ: Not only can we, but it’s happening. I recently attended a convention in Atlanta, Ga., where 1,000 of our own youth leaders attended, but also youth professionals who lead prayers, study. They [made] sure that we learned about the history of civil rights. Atlanta is where Martin Luther King preached. I use the example of young people because they have the fire burning in them. They speak Hebrew, they know how to pray, chant Torah and they have attended Birthrights. It is one thing to hear it from rabbis and educators. It is another thing to hear it from youth leaders.

We have 15 summer camps. Young people will talk about their expressions of Jewish commitment, such as meditating, praying and singing. They will stand up for Israel in their schools. This is the kind of Jewish engagement we are seeing. But this is also the time to be thinking about the young people who aren’t engaged.

JI: How do you reach them?

RJ: One method, which we can now use, is technology. We have, for instance, a website, reformjudaism.org. Last year, there were two million users on the website looking for Jewish learning and connection. Technology can be a connector but can’t have the same experience as a face-to-face real community, only virtual.

JI: What really excites you about your job?

RJ: I love traveling and getting to know Jewish communities all across North America. From a small little community in Mississippi or a large congregation in Arizona. Or, this weekend, Vancouver, Calgary and Edmonton. It’s a privilege getting to know the different communities and bringing a sense that we are part of something larger.

Jenny Wright is a writer, music therapist, children’s musician and recording artist.

Nature knows no borders

Traveled thousands of miles

Inching my way

Between mothers, children, prayer books

Vying for space, so that I may touch

Your precious stones

Stones that have heard millions of tears

Stones that hold hope and anguish

Weeping and praying surround me

And I cannot hear my own sigh as I ask

Will you negotiate?

I plead

as I fold my scrap of paper

Tiptoeing upwards

to search for

a vacant space I ask

like so many before me

Can you make a miracle?

– Jerusalem 2013

Dawn has just broken. I’m walking along the beach, inhaling whiffs of sea spray. White Rock’s lights are fading in the distance, and ocean and skies are turning blue together against the backdrop of a glowing sunrise.

The hotel manager told me that if I rose early I would catch all of nature’s beauties. I’m not disappointed. Harbor seals are out fishing, birds of all shapes and sizes have begun their morning songs and skim the ocean for breakfast. A mother porpoise and her baby are playing, and fishing boats are gliding smoothly over the waves.

The only sounds are the whistling of crickets, high-pitched cries of seagulls and the rhythmic hiss of the surf. Once in a while, my laptop informs me of a new message but, fortunately, nature wins. I have the discipline to ignore it; nature wins.

This little corner of the world spells P-E-A-C-E.

The hotel has changed hands many times in the 30 years I’ve been coming here. Every visit has been different, with a purposeful or personal story.

Nature, though, is always consistent. Out in the natural world, I receive solace and my writer’s block dissolves, at least 99 percent of the time. This year, writing about peace feels like the one percent block. And an impossible task begs a purposeful visit.

The scenery is breathtaking, except for the tall unsightly steel object placed in the middle of water, a physical manifestation of the boundary between countries. I note that the boats are sailing to either side of the eyesore.

In the natural world, the skies and seas are open for birds and other creatures. No passports or border patrols needed. I am reminded of a 2012 BBC travel article, titled “Where birds know no borders.”

“Unrestricted movement between Israel and the Palestinian territories is not always possible for those on two feet,” the article reads. “But if you shift your gaze upwards, something entirely different comes into focus.”

A migration of a billion birds belonging to more than 540 species traverses through the skies each autumn and spring. Both governments have set up centres for avid birders who come from all over the world to see this spectacular sight.

Could this be a miracle, like the one I asked for last year at the Wall?

As I move my gaze away from the metal border structure and back to reality, I wonder if nature, prayer, music and dance can help us engage and connect with the world.

Can we create more connected global communities? Can we uncover commonalities that reduce conflicts? Can we build more peaceful nations? Miracles happen daily in nature. Look no further than the dove.

– Blaine, Wash., 2014

Jenny Wright is a writer, music therapist, children’s musician and recording artist.

New North London Synagogue offers comfort to asylum seekers

Volunteers at the drop-in centre work together to offer legal advice, medical care, transportation passes, child care, nutritious meals, friendship and more. (photo from New North London Synagogue)

What would your daily life be like if you were not free? For starters, you would have to learn the skills of surviving while in a state of constant fear. Are you facing torture or rape? Are you in jail for a crime you did not commit? Is there a gun pointed at you because you are gay? If the opportunity to escape persecution presented itself, would you risk your life for a chance at freedom?

Every day in the news, we hear of courageous people doing just this – risking their lives to be free. No matter how dangerous it may be to attempt escape, flight offers their one hope for freedom. The lucky ones end up in free countries. What happens later, though, for those whose hope of establishing legitimacy, of officially being recognized as refugees, is gone? How do undocumented asylum seekers get by?

I was honored when my cousin invited me to volunteer with a group of asylum seekers while vacationing in London, England, last year. Though I was only there for three hours, I caught a brief glimpse into their lives and it has left a lasting impression on me.

Since 2006, New North London Synagogue has been running a monthly asylum drop-in centre. Launched by volunteers, the group works with asylum seekers whose claims have been denied. The group offers medical treatment, legal advice, healthy meals, food parcels, transportation passes, clothing and diapers. The drop-in centre is housed at an elementary school, which I’m told is not large enough to accommodate the more than one thousand people who come from metropolitan London to get assistance.

Asylum can be defined as “a place offering protection and safety; a shelter.” Judging by the crowds in need at the New North London Synagogue, Britain would seem to have failed to offer these protections. Most of the asylum seekers that use the centre’s services have chosen to stay and live in abominable destitution rather than accept deportation to the places from which they risked their lives to escape.

Researching the situation of asylum seekers through the Refugee Council of the United Kingdom, I learned many facts, including:

• The vast majority of people seeking asylum in Britain are law-abiding people;

• Many asylum seekers fear approaching the police to report incidents of assault or sexual harassment. They fear that reporting crimes will expose them to being placed in detention and eventually deported;

• Immigration officers have the power to detain asylum seekers, even if they have not committed any crime; even on mere suspicion.

My cousin, Catherine, is a regular volunteer. Her fluent French is an asset and she often serves as an interpreter. I was there in August and Catherine was worried that there might not be enough volunteers. Thankfully, there were plenty on that day.

Fifteen minutes before opening, a briefing takes place to explain the events of that afternoon. I volunteer to help with the children, as that’s where I think I can be of best use. The children have a section to themselves, but parents may not leave their children unsupervised. In the briefing, we are forewarned that some of the children have difficulty interacting and some may not be comfortable with play because the toys available are foreign to them.

Upon arrival, everyone receives a name tag. New asylum seekers are interviewed. Some queue for legal or medical advice. Everyone enjoys a nutritious meal. There are people from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Bangladesh, Egypt, Iran, South Sudan, Zaire, Nigeria and Turkey. It is fascinating to hear the various languages and dialects being spoken.

Eventually, I sum up the courage to sit down and speak to people. I talk to a blind woman from Iran who has been coming to the drop-in centre for several years. She lives in a little room, a good 15 miles away. She has no kitchen facilities and must rely on the kindness of friends for food and other necessities.

A Nigerian family of four has been coming for eight years. They ask me about Canada. They have family in Toronto and have heard such wonderful things about this country but, at this point, they do not dare to make enquiries about moving to Canada. As I hold their youngest child, it’s hard not to feel sad that this little boy, despite being born in Britain, may not be afforded legal status.

A single mother tries to gulp down some lunch and socialize with friends while chasing after her active 2-year-old twin girls.

photo - A mother and daughter at the New North London Synagogue drop-in centre for asylum seekers. — A mother and daughter at the New North London Synagogue drop-in centre for asylum seekers. *(photo from New North London Synagogue)*

A situation that touches me deeply is assisting a young paraplegic man from central Africa. He tells me that he arrived in England eight months prior. Once a Paralympian, his proficiency at manoeuvring his rickety manual wheelchair around narrow corridors and cracked sidewalks is impressive. All his family remain in Africa. He tells me that his goal is to become a lawyer. I guide him to the bus stop where it will take him roughly two hours to get home.

Little children are sitting at tables, munching on snacks and playing with the large assortment of toys. All are supervised by a group of caring volunteers who take time to play and read with them.

Surveying the scene it’s hard not to feel that the situation these people face is grim. It’s a harsh reminder that all is not OK in Britain – or in the world, for that matter. Indeed, there are many British who wish asylum seekers would go away and take their problems with them. There’s a post on the New North London Synagogue website that seeks to clarify the situation: “All of our clients have fled persecution and many have been tortured. Yet myths prevail that this group are here for benefits, free housing and to take British jobs. In fact, asylum seekers are not allowed to work and many receive no accommodation or government support.”

At the same time, despite the despair, positive moments are in evidence. Expressions of a caring community are everywhere, woven into every activity. Camaraderie can be felt in the crowded rooms. In fact, if someone were to walk in off the street, they would see what looks to be a happy afternoon gathering. People sit in groups, smiling, laughing, exchanging information and eating a plate of nutritious food. Children play, interacting with each other. Enthusiastic volunteers, teenagers and senior citizens and all ages in between, are connecting and offering advice. Many of them are former asylum seekers who have been given permission to stay in Britain and are volunteering to give back to the community.

On that day in August, the hope was that people would leave the drop-in centre with renewed hope, their spirits lifted, and that volunteers would feel they have played at least a small role in brightening someone’s day.

We must all be active in raising awareness of refugee issues, so that refugees and asylum seekers can know the peace and freedom we are so blessed to enjoy. This Pesach, at my family seder, we will read the Haggadah, celebrating our people’s journey to freedom. My family and I will stop to think of all the refugees of today who have had to make their own exodus from persecution, extreme hunger and violence, and even from modern-day slavery. Stateless, many are forced to continue to wander in an urban wilderness. May they find peace and comfort in a new land.

Jenny Wright is a singer, music therapist and freelance writer in Vancouver who is interested in setting up a similar drop-in centre here. If you are interested in learning more, email [email protected].