Joanne Seiff

Multiple benefits of a break

It’s been an incredibly stressful time in our community for more than two years. The relief I felt when Ran Gvili’s body, the last hostage in Gaza, was returned home, was huge. When I saw others at synagogue, all our body language said the same thing. We’re exhausted as a people. It sometimes feels like there is no end in sight to our worry – about the antisemitism, the ongoing violence.

Along with all this, of course, there are the usual life events. For example, we’ve watched the gradual blossoming of independence for our teens. This culminated for me recently when my husband took our twins on a skiing trip with extended family. I got the chance at a staycation – by myself – with our dog. I can almost hear those who would say, “What?! You didn’t join them? You didn’t want to go?”

Reader, I’m not a skier. I’m happiest at home. Staying in a ski house with 15 extended family members isn’t everyone’s idea of bliss. So, for the first time, I wrote the special letter that says I consent to my children traveling outside of Canada without me. I helped everyone pack, drove them to the airport and came home to a quiet house. Once or twice a day, I reminded our worried dog that they weren’t coming home today, while she lingered by the door, waiting.

Friends at synagogue asked what special things I would do. Are you ordering take out? What movies are you watching? What are your plans? At first, I had no answer for them. It’s been 15 years since I was actually by myself for so long. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do.

In the end, what I wanted was small, but it was meaningful. I took walks outdoors every day with my dog, particularly reveling in adventures on the frozen Nestawaya River Trail, right in the middle of the city. I dawdled outside in my crisp winter backyard looking at the stars. I listened to music my household wouldn’t have chosen and ate everyday things that my family doesn’t like. I read a whole book.

I also made inroads, each day, on routine chores that needed to be done. I vacuumed. Did a load of laundry. Cooked and polished silver. Nothing was crazy or so different. In embracing daily rituals, I kept things feeling normal and predictable. The dog got fed and walked. The lights got turned on and off. The phone got answered. The bed got made.

To many, this might not seem like a break or a particularly meaningful experience, but I had exchanges with multiple women, moms in mid-life, who absolutely knew what it meant when I said I was going to be staying home – alone. They offered smiles and good wishes. There was a wistful jealousy there, too. I recognized it well. Everyone asked if I was getting the chance to sleep a lot.

Truth is that I had nightmares more than once. There’s a lot to process. It was harder than I thought it would be to relax and rest. Yesterday though, my children, relatively new to downhill skiing, were finally off the mountain and on their way to an airport and back to the prairies, with my husband. They regaled me with what they’d accomplished. Their cross-country skiing experience, learned in Winnipeg public school gym class, had helped them. They joked that the biggest hill they’d ever gone down on a Manitoba school ski trip was small compared to the bunny hill in the Rockies. Their texts and calls showed 14-year-olds alternately nervous and boastful, a normal teen experience. They grew during their trip away, but I did, too.

Lately, I’ve thought about the many pressures parents face as we’re juggling households, kids, work and community. There are frequently calls to volunteer, donate, “get involved” and do more. This is particularly true in a (relatively small) Canadian Jewish community, in which every one of us helps keep things afloat. However, I’d gotten to a place where I kept showing up, feeling completely exhausted. Yes, I’d woken everyone up and dropped them off to volunteer, or I’d helped at another “do something to help others” event myself. The weekend break reminded me viscerally that when your own “cup” is empty, it’s hard to fill everyone else’s.

Everybody needs breaks to rest and restore themselves. Without that space – and, for this introvert, silence – there’s no way to offer our best selves to others. We often quote the famous Pirkei Avot 2:5 passage from Hillel: “In a place where there are no men [people], strive to be a man [person].” There are many takes on this, including, where there are no leaders, strive to be responsible. Another take is, when people behave as monsters, or aren’t behaving in an upstanding way, try to be a mensch. Yet, when, I woke up after several days by myself, rested and happy, I realized something else.

In a place where there are no other people, self-regulate. Strive to be a good person, one who does the chores and shows up and does her work, even when there’s no one else to hold us accountable. Take responsibility. Make space for recovery, so that we can all “treat others as we wish to be treated.” In the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a, Hillel says to the gentile who asks to convert, with the condition that Hillel teach him the whole Torah while he stands on one foot, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, the rest is its interpretation. Go study.”

Right in one of our most popular Jewish quotes is a good answer for why a staycation – or a break when you’re tired – matters. Don’t demand something from others that you cannot manage. Instead, give space for others to learn, grow and change. Sometimes, the best restoration and learning happens in the same way we absorb and appreciate music. How do we best appreciate and learn music? In the rests between notes.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Recipes not always required

Were you part of the pandemic sourdough bread baking craze? I’ve been baking bread for around 40 years, but I’m not a sourdough baker. Maintaining the starter was something I couldn’t manage. Although I’ve made many kinds of bread, including weekly challah (twin teens eat a lot!), I found using store-bought yeast was fine. Besides, my biology professor husband disliked the colourful, dangerous things he saw growing when I tried to maintain a starter long ago. He supports our bread habit as we buy one pound of dried yeast at a time.

My approach isn’t exact. However, I produce bread that rises and tastes good even without a recipe. I don’t use all the technical terms that I saw on the internet during the pandemic bread-baking phase. I stick to basic ingredients and easy methods. Bakers have used these successfully for thousands of years.

All this seemed familiar when I started studying the Babylonian tractate of Menachot. Menachot delves into the exact ways the rabbis thought meal (grain) offerings should be measured, cooked, burnt and sacrificed in the Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbis who discussed this mostly lived long after the Temple was destroyed. They’d never seen Temple offerings but they still discussed detailed recipes and techniques for proper sacrifice.

I remember the many online discussions about sourdough science. These were often people who, while baking beautiful pandemic sourdough, had never made bread previously, as I had. Of course, all of us would be shamed before our ancestors who, using a wooden bowl ripe with wild yeast, turned out bread consistently, day in and day out, to feed their families.

You might think, well, this isn’t for me if I don’t bake bread. Perhaps you never have worried about the ancient grain offerings in Jerusalem, or the “shrewbread” that became our modern equivalent, challah. All these discussions came to a head in Menachot, page 18a.

A question arises about whether a specific offering is fit (acceptable) and why. First, we learn about a meaningful teacher-student relationship between Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua and Yosef the Babylonian.

Yosef the Babylonian learns something from Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua that doesn’t seem entirely right to him. He questions his teacher several times. After multiple repetitions of a simple answer, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua finally gives Yosef the Babylonian more information. He recalls another contradictory teaching from Rabbi Eliezer that agrees with what Yosef the Babylonian remembers.

Yosef the Babylonian erupts in joy. Both men are emotional, moved by the experience they’ve had, where careful analysis brings them important understanding and resolution. Yosef the Babylonian is relieved – he had worried that what he’d remembered was a mistake because he couldn’t find anyone else who recalled what Rabbi Eliezer had taught. Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua cries, filled with wonder. They celebrate Torah study, which maintains an intellectual genealogy of teachers and students by the historic transmission of knowledge. It’s a careful recounting of discussion and disputes, rather than just a simple, reflexive answer.

Menachot 18a, like bread-baking, shows that, if we get bogged down in the technical details, we can also be swept up in the transformation that occurs when we get everything – that we study or bake – right. This story is about mistakes, forgetting, misinformation and complex opinions. This tractate might describe how to do defunct sacrifice recipes correctly. It’s also about how we transmit important knowledge. We need to keep the facts straight, without forgetting anything, and synthesize complex opinions.

This is relevant today. We’re struggling daily to keep track of what’s happening in the world. Is it legal? Is it ethical? How does it affect us? In an age of “instant” information, diminished international reporting, social media disinformation campaigns and simplistic interpretations, it’s no wonder that we need to work hard to figure out what’s happening. It’s just as important now to do one’s own footwork. We must ask questions and analyze information carefully, just as when Yosef the Babylonian sat with his teacher, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, sometime between 135 and 170 CE.

We can get swept up in the technical aspects of our lives, whether it’s sourdough baking or legal proceedings. Yet, we also have that practical compass that guides us. I know intuitively, after decades of practice, how to throw together flour, salt, water and yeast, when to add sweetness, oil or eggs, and why. It’s a gut feeling, as deep as my internal moral compass that reacts when I see something wrong happening. Perhaps it’s how Judaism, my family or my community has shaped me, just as environment shapes all of us. Perhaps it’s an innate sense of the worth of each human being, as we are made in the image of the Divine. We know when things are going off the rails, and when we need to keep asking the hard questions to make change.

You could infer that all this refers to the current US upheaval, but it also relates to many other issues. For instance, at home, recent research found that Canadian Jews weren’t wrong about the CBC’s bias in reporting on the Israel-Hamas war. Statistical analysis indicates that yes, headlines, interviewer choices and perspectives lacked objectivity. If you, like me, questioned the CBC’s reporting over the last two years, just like Yosef questioned Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, this information is reassuring.

Farther away, Israelis care passionately about democracy. Israelis ask their government tough questions, including protesting its poor record in protecting Arab citizens and its failure to provide a sufficient inquiry concerning Oct. 7. Regarding Iran’s upheaval, the Islamic regime’s repression means protesters risk murder, injury, torture and rape. Brave questioning of authority and pursuit of truthful information aren’t specific to one culture or country.

Yosef the Babylonian doubted himself. He repeatedly nudged his teacher. He worried that he’d made a mistake, but then bravely sought clarity to understand the bigger picture. We, too, can be so persistent that authority figures, like our teachers and government officials, must answer with thorough responses. Let’s not get bogged down in the technical details. It’s not whether you say that your bread dough rests, or uses an autolyze. Rather, listen to your gut. Go for the big questions. Think hard. Act to take the moral high ground. We all deserve something better. Let’s hope soon to break bread together, in peace and safety, with emotional, deep discussions.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

When boundaries have shifted

The beginning of January has not been easy in Winnipeg. We’ve dealt with hate crime graffiti, including swastikas, on Shaarey Zedek Synagogue, Kelvin High School, the Abu Bakr Al-Siddique Mosque, as well as a hookah café, residential properties and street signs. For my household, it was personal. It hit our congregation and my kids’ school. It marred street signs near where we live. It defaced a mosque where I know one of the members. This is a lot to deal with. The police triumphantly made an arrest, but, from what I’ve heard, it seems unlikely that this individual did all these crimes. The story is familiar to Canadians at this point. Here it is.

Hate crimes happen. “Oh!” our leaders say. “Hate crimes are horrible. This isn’t Canadian. We will seek justice!” Then, an intermittent flow of outrage and misinformation follows. Suddenly, there’s an arrest. Everything’s solved. Canadians live happily ever after.

That is, until a new crime pops up. When that’s reported, the response sometimes is, “Well, this isn’t fitting into our narrative. We don’t know how this happened.” It even extends to, “Oh, we (police or officials) don’t clean up graffiti, so you can go ahead and do this yourself.” Essentially, another episode is swept under the rug as inconvenient.

I learned about the Overton Window in a social science class years ago. However, when it came up in reference to societal change and antisemitism, I had to review its meaning. The term is neither positive nor negative. It defines something that we have all experienced. Imagine you have a spectrum of beliefs: about school choice, disabilities, tolerance and diversity, human rights, whatever. The term was originally designed to describe how a politician might use a “window” to define policies on this spectrum. Occasionally, it’s used to say where someone’s beliefs fall on the political spectrum. We can shift the Overton Window; for instance, towards increased accessibility for those with disabilities. Some shifts are good, some are not. This term helps describe what’s happening with respect to antisemitism.

As the police described their arrest of the suspect in this recent series of hate graffiti, they said something like they “would have to examine the motive behind the crimes.” I was flummoxed. How could a swastika on a minority’s place of worship or a public school be anything other than an act of hate? Discussion followed about the suspect’s mental health situation, as he is unwell. Soon after he was released from custody, he was arrested again, for breaking into a home and violating the conditions of his release.

Many people have mental health issues, but going out in the dark at 4 a.m. to paint swastikas isn’t a normal, common expression of those challenges. People who perform hateful acts should face consequences. The Overton Window of what is considered “acceptable” antisemitism seems to have shifted.

I’m guessing there are multiple people committing this hate in our city. Yet the narrative here indicates that “Hurray! We’ve got the culprit” and no more effort is being made to resolve the bigger issues.

Meanwhile, I concluded my Daf Yomi (daily page of Talmud study) of Tractate Zevachim, on how sacrifices worked in the days of the Temple in Jerusalem. I’m lucky I didn’t start my learning with this – it felt like a slog. However, I continued studying the tractate, even while I found it somewhat dry and lacking in fun aggadah (stories).

Zevachim examines questions like when is a religious ritual sacrifice acceptable? What is the right physical and mental space for doing these holy rituals? When is it considered transgressive because it’s done wrong? When is it accepted even if it is not done in quite the right time or place? What rituals are exempt from repercussions, even if they are not done exactly right or considered acceptable practices?

These questions are intellectual exercises. We have no Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbis quoted in this approximately 1,500-year-old text didn’t have a Temple anymore. We Jews in modernity don’t do ritual sacrifice. Still, questions about what feels acceptable or forbidden, exempt or meaningful, have real-life repercussions. When the rabbis discussed different parts of ritual, they considered shifting their Overton Window about what they could see as correct, acceptable, exempt from punishment, or such a violation that one was cut off from the Jewish people.

Historically, the Overton Window about what’s considered appropriate discourse or hate speech has also shifted – multiple times. Slurs and crimes against Jews are commonplace throughout millennia. We’ve also had some golden eras, when things felt safe.

This January was another shift in Winnipeg. It’s been horrible, but we knew it was coming. It’s part of a worldwide shift of what’s considered “acceptable” antisemitism. I’ve been asked what can be done. I suggested giving this hate a broad, inclusive definition. Re-read the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition. Nothing good is intended when someone spray paints a swastika on a synagogue door. It’s even more of a threat when it’s on a classroom whiteboard or hidden in a Jewish kid’s locker, as was the recent case.

We must educate people about history, including how to avoid antisemitic hate. Make that education required. With definitions and education, our window of what’s acceptable or a crime firms up.

These experiences have felt like a terrible personal violation. It feels threatening and unsafe. Yet, our congregation responded with courage and love. We welcomed many non-Jewish supporters at our Shabbat services afterwards. We responded with pride and inclusivity.

The kid was so brave. He took a photo of the graffiti on his locker, asked a parent for help, went to the school office. Now, there’s a police report, all his classmates know what happened.

The kid also faced extended questioning from administrators about “if he’d told the whole story.” He was told that “everyone makes mistakes.” One lesson the kid learned is that maybe reporting the hate crime itself was a mistake, because, instead of supporting him, the approach involved the suggestion that the victim did the graffiti to begin with. This is bad news, and a familiar type of antisemitism, where Jewish victims are blamed for having “brought it on themselves.” We shouldn’t say this to any victim. It’s not OK. If this is treated as being OK, it means that victims may trust institutions less, and report less often.

Sunshine is the best disinfectant. Actions like education and transparency can clean up and eradicate hate. We don’t know who did this, but we know who we are. We’re Jewish. We’ve been here before. We’re made of stern, proud stuff. The Overton Window has shifted. It’s time to ask our allies to all lean in to help shove it back again.

The complexities of identity

More than 16 years ago, I was accepted into a master class for writing fiction with a well-known regional author at a university near me in Kentucky. I’d written lots of non-fiction and dabbled in fiction. I thought this would be a good opportunity. Shortly after arrival, I realized that this was a fiction class that specialized in Appalachian themes. Although I was from Virginia, my background wasn’t Appalachian. I felt like an outsider. I was also the only Jewish person there. As things progressed, the author suggested we should always “write what we know!” He talked a lot. The class was a lot drier than I’d hoped.

When it was time for short writing exercises based on prompts, I let loose. I purposely wrote to fit in, creating a vignette around church. When it came time to read these pieces, everyone nodded along with my church scenario – I was fitting in, but only because I was purposely faking it. First, I’d proved to myself that “write what you know” wasn’t always necessary, because, of course, famous fantasy or science fiction authors don’t truly know the alternate worlds they dream up. Even fiction authors don’t always know how to do everything they describe in their imaginary worlds. Second, I’d faked being part of the majority religious culture and those classmates bought it.

In the afternoon, it was time to workshop pieces we’d submitted earlier. I’d submitted writing that had been favourably reviewed elsewhere. I felt somewhat confident. However, the workshop’s approach was to criticize without complimenting – and many comments didn’t even seem relevant to what I’d written. When I tried to respond, I was shushed and told I must not know how these kinds of workshops worked. Responding was bad form. I was meant to be “shamed” without recourse. I felt vulnerable and took their unhelpful comments to heart, forgetting that I’d been part of different yet successful writing workshops long before, as a teen at the University of Virginia. The day dragged on. I noted the famed author’s agitation and cigarette smoking at the breaks. I wasn’t having a great learning experience.

I returned home to spend the evening with my husband and my father-in-law, who was visiting from New York. They’d just heard of the sudden death of a close family friend in a skiing accident. I devoted my evening to them and realized that skipping day two of this workshop to be with family was more important. I sent regrets to the famous author’s class, but I mostly felt relief.

Later, I learned that the famous author, whose work was described as traditional, heterosexual rural Kentucky, and who had a wife and small kids, was going through a divorce at the time of the workshop. Later, he became happily married to a man. I wondered again about the “write what you know” and “represent your identity” advice.

This all came to mind when I recently read obituaries of Tom Stoppard and Frank Gehry. Stoppard, a great Czech/British playwright, only addressed his Jewish heritage later in life, when he learned more about what had happened to his family during the Holocaust. Gehry, born to a Polish-Jewish immigrant family in Toronto, heard Talmud from his grandfather as a child. Although Gehry claimed he was an atheist, he attributed his questioning and creativity to the rich encouragement of his childhood. Gehry changed his name from Goldberg to Gehry at the urging of his first wife, who wanted to avoid antisemitism.

I gained access to this fuller description of these creative figures not from a single write-up but from several. If I’d relied on the CBC’s account of Gehry, I’d only have known about his Judaism from his name change and antisemitism concerns; CBC never used the word “Jew” or “Jewish.” The retrospectives on Stoppard’s work came from both the CBC and Jewish publications, but Stoppard’s last name came from a non-Jewish stepfather. That man wanted him to stop using the name Stoppard when his work became too “tribal” or Jewish for his stepfather’s taste.

Stoppard and Gehry were ethnically Jewish and had identity struggles. They and their families wrestled with who they were in a cultural climate that made it hard to be Jewish. I didn’t know either of these men or their families, but the public obituaries and descriptions brought into sharp focus that same feeling I’d had when I wrote about church activities from a first-person perspective.

I remember a family friend who changed his name to avoid quotas, to get into medical school more than 60 years ago. I’d hoped that this need for identity code-switching would no longer be so pressing when I moved to Winnipeg in 2009. For a time, this was true. I didn’t have to be so careful about saying who I was and what that meant. Now, after Oct. 7, this struggle has risen to the forefront again.

Since Oct. 7, 2023, we’ve faced options like whether to downplay our ethnoreligious identity, embrace it with joy and pride, perform it by speaking out against hate or by being a “good Jew” who doesn’t, the kind with whom many non-Jews feel most comfortable.

This isn’t an obvious choice. Many of us code-switch daily. It’s no different than what Jews did during the Hellenizing days leading up to the Maccabees and the Hanukkah story, or the days of the European Enlightenment, when Jews were finally considered “citizens” – up to 1933 or so.

There isn’t a “one size fits all” answer, nor is it clear that anyone would have the same answer for every situation. I often think back to that “famous author,” carefully performing as a heterosexual, married man and droning on as an expert. It may be that we’re all experts on our own identities, but it’s also necessary to name the experiences we have when we purposely or unconsciously obfuscate, struggle or react with pride when it comes to who we are.

Some parts of our identities loom large. Other aspects of who we are may lurk in the background most of the time. We cannot examine these issues until we think about them and name them. It’s easy to tell people to “write what they know.” It’s much harder to write who we are and what we don’t know, especially when it feels unsafe. Further, just like how Gehry and Stoppard’s names changed, we, too, evolve, morph and change over time, even if we don’t know how to describe it.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Post-tumble, lights still shine

I recently celebrated Shabbat morning in a way I don’t recommend. I stepped out of my house for the dog walk, thought, “Oh, slippery!” The next thing I knew, I lost my footing. I fell down several stone steps. I ended up on the sidewalk. I’d let go of the leash. My large dog stood patiently, looking concerned, as I lay on the front walk, assessing the situation.

We’ve had a long and temperate fall here in Winnipeg. The light glaze of ice that covered everything was an unfortunate surprise. I’m very lucky. I was able to get up. I went back up the front stairs with the dog and got help. While I’m bruised and my hands were bloodied, nothing broke. While I would have preferred to go right back to bed, I stayed active enough to manage the rest of the weekend. My kids volunteer at services, so I still had to go there, too. Sometimes, what we want isn’t possible, so we make the best of the situation.

I think about Hanukkah, and the adversity that Jews face, in this way. In the best possible situation, we wouldn’t have to fight physically or verbally to maintain our traditions. We would be able to celebrate in a full-throated way, without hesitation. Yet, that option doesn’t always feel possible, even if we might think that embracing Jewish joy is the best way forward.

The issue arose for me recently when I participated in an accessible “make along.” This event, called Fasten Off, has a period each fall where knitting and crochet designers offer a big discount on their downloadable patterns. It is intended to be as accessible as possible to people with disabilities, as well as those with other challenges. There are multiple categories of challenges: non-gendered, low-vision, sizing for those who are taller or larger than average. For the first time, this year, there was a category on the form that one could tick off that said, “marginalized religious group.” I really didn’t know what to do.

It’s true that my designs include kippot and a hamantashen baby rattle stuffie. I have never hidden my identity. Now, in Canada, Jews are a marginalized group, with documented hate crime numbers and antisemitism rising. However, I wondered what would happen if I checked off this box. Would it mean fewer people would buy my work? More? What benefit would it have? I both ticked off the box and contacted the organizer to mention my concern. I got no response at all, which made me feel even more worried.

My sales stats show what a huge shift the last two years have been. Previously, one of my kippah patterns, as an example, had been a dependable seller. I looked up this design’s sales and found I’d sold only about 16 kippah patterns (all styles) on three sales platforms during two years of the Gaza war. In the previous year, 2022/23, I sold 14 copies of this pattern on only one sales platform. As a result of this drastic sales drop (I have more than 80 designs online), I ended up taking a break from designing. It no longer became cost-effective to sink money into creating new designs when knitters no longer make even these small purchases. It doesn’t mean my business interests changed. The situation has. I’m still marketing my work, offering discounts and trying to attract interest – even while being part of a “marginalized group.”

Our tradition teaches us to pivot when things are challenging. In the Torah parsha (portion) Toldot, Isaac grows successful as a shepherd. (Genesis 26:13 and onwards) However, when he increases his household and flocks, he needs more water. When he digs new wells, he runs into trouble. First, the Philistines fill up his old wells and, then, as he moves onward, digging new ones, other herdsmen object. He pivots, digging new wells in new places until he finds one that works out. Meanwhile, in time, those who objected to him previously seek a reconciliation, seeing Isaac’s divine fortune, and they make peace. (Genesis 26:31)

After hearing this portion chanted in synagogue, a friend reminded me that sometimes being resilient means pivoting or waiting with patience when faced with adversity. Things don’t turn around right away. We both have engaged in a lot of Jewish advocacy and antisemitism education work over the past year together. She is a professional, public figure, while I tend to write and reach out behind the scenes as a volunteer. Sometimes, my efforts net quick responses, and I know what I said mattered. Other times, I have no idea if anyone received my email or if they read it. I keep trying, as I’m invested in this effort to make life better for Canadian Jews for the long haul.

I believe that bringing up issues concerning antisemitism education, equity reviews in schools and school curriculum matters makes a difference. Sometimes my message reaches the right reporter or school official. Sometimes, it doesn’t or it fails. Yet, in every situation, it’s important to pick myself up, dust myself off – and start all over again, even if the setbacks can hurt.

During Hanukkah, we celebrate the triumph of regaining religious freedom and peace. We use candles to illustrate the metaphor of bringing light to dark times. Sometimes that light is sweeter because of the struggle beforehand.

I’m still very sore from tumbling down our icy front steps, but I’m also incredibly grateful. This morning, the dog barked, asking for her walk and, while I may still be hobbling and bruised for a bit, I was able to get outside again.

That opportunity, to keep digging wells, reaching out to others and continuing to try? It matters. Some might see Jews as marginalized, but it’s also possible to take another read. Rather, we’re lucky and resilient, too, a people offering religious freedom and Hanukkah light to other nations.

Give yourself the gift of love

A friend shared her plans for a “great” day off. This included a deep dive into her refrigerator to clean things out. This household task is necessary. Food safety is important, but that doesn’t make it fun. When the kitchen is completely clean and there’s nothing growing where it shouldn’t, it’s a relief. I also feel much better after a big clean up, even when it’s an effort.

I’m studying the Babylonian Talmud Tractate Zevachim, which is about how sacrifices must be done in the Temple, including what is prohibited. It’s mostly an intellectual exercise. The rabbis discussing this all lived after the destruction of the Second Temple. They were ironing out the minutiae, even when the whole sacrifice infrastructure no longer existed. Some see this debate as a grand effort of the imagination. Others read it to witness ancient legal debate in action. Many ask what we draw from these rabbinic texts today.

Since I’m a mom with twin teenage boys who eat a lot, I think about it practically. The concept of piggul pops up often. This is a disqualified offering, a sacrifice that cannot be accepted because the priest’s plan is to eat the sacrifice after the correct time for doing so. In modern terms, imagine purchasing food for a family gathering with deep spiritual meaning, but intending to wait to cook and serve it after its “best before” date. “Here, beloved relatives, please have this expensive roast that I chose to spoil before cooking!” It feels like a rabbinic prohibition that says: “It’s disqualified and forbidden to make a holy sacrifice this way because it’s wrong to give people food poisoning.” It’s bad housekeeping.

This food poisoning reference is meant in jest! Yet, sometimes we forget to be grateful and celebrate the amazing foods and gatherings that our families and friends offer us. One of my teens is taking a food and nutrition elective at school. This wasn’t a class he rushed to sign up for but he’s learning a lot. When he missed classes due to a field trip, he cooked at home instead. This kid likes to be our salad chef, but now he’s learning to make muffins, cakes and pancakes. He’s suddenly aware of how much goes into making meals. He now feels bad when he sees that I’ve produced (yet another) dinner without help, or when his dad stays up late frying eggs or making pancakes for breakfast the next morning. We don’t want our kid to feel bad. It’s both our duty and gift to our kids to feed them well, but I’m thrilled that he’s learning what goes into this labour so he can contribute, too.

I’m a “maker.” I find meaning in making things by hand, whether it’s sewing clothing, spinning yarn and knitting sweaters, or baking bread. The calm and focus I feel while making things is one of my life pleasures. Still, the drudgery of producing endless meals or sewing 10 pairs of pyjama pants for fast-growing twins can seem less pleasurable.

Since I have high standards for how things are made, my household often claims it is hard to buy gifts for me … so they don’t. (Note: I give them lists, I point out things I admire by other artisans and even voice when something is too expensive!) This past week, I gave myself a gift instead.

First, I came up with easy meals. I arranged grocery pick up so that the rest of the household could do it and then put the items away. Next, I lined up several necessary, but enjoyable, making activities that I wanted to do when I didn’t have work deadlines. As the week unfurled, I spent hours at the sewing machine and hand-sewing. I knitted and read. I took long dog walks. I relished wearing new flannel PJs that I’d just made myself and using new dishtowels I’d sewn. I even sewed a new, natural-fibre oven mitt rather than shop for a subpar one.

On Friday, I scheduled a walk by myself to two well-regarded artisan markets. I didn’t buy much. I came home with a new pottery service piece (for family food production), an industrial sweater pin made by Cloverdale Forge, a blacksmith, and a lot of inspiration for future creativity.

My weekend was also a big present. Our incredible cantor, Leslie Emery, was formally installed at Congregation Shaarey Zedek, though she has worked in our community for many years. My children and I chanted Torah at her installation Shabbat service. We heard amazing music at a Saturday night concert. We celebrated our cantor as a community. It was full of love.

The congregational installation guest was Elana Arian, an accomplished Jewish composer, performer and educator. It turned out I knew who she was. When I attended and worked at what used to be called UAHC Kutz Camp – the international leadership summer camp for Reform Jewish teenagers in Warwick, NY – Elana was one of the children running around. Her parents, Rabbi Ramie and Merri Arian, often came to teach at Kutz Camp. It was a full-circle moment to hear this Jewish musical talent at my congregation. I remembered the joyful little kid she’d been at summer camp, too.

Elana Arian taught us a song from her new album, If We Loved Like That, which is based on the talmudic teaching to “love your neighbour as yourself.” First, Elana pointed out – we need to love ourselves. Sometimes, making time to do this great service, to love ourselves, feels like too much. It’s too hard to offer ourselves a clean refrigerator or a staycation of rejuvenating creative work. It’s too much work to learn to chant a new Torah reading. Fact: we often don’t make time to go to bed early or sleep late, make and eat healthy food or take a long walk. Yet, these are the greatest gifts we can offer ourselves.

Don’t do “piggul” and eat spoiled meat. Carve out time, when you need it, to honour yourself and do things right. By extension, those chores for family, community and the world will feel easier. As one of Elana’s famous songs goes, “I have a voice. My voice is powerful. My voice can change the world …” – but to be the most powerful you? You need to fill your own cup up first.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Add Jewish joy to the mix

In Grade 9, the English teacher rotates table placements monthly because sitting with different students helps expose everyone to new worldviews. In general, this makes sense; discussions about literature require us to hear lots of opinions. This was also where, last week, my kid got exposed to a view that our household could have done without.

I didn’t know about the rotating seating until one night at dinner, when my kid asked if I knew of a short video that I could recommend. He needed to explain to a classmate that “all Jews are rich” was an antisemitic stereotype. Both parents stalled for a moment as we sought more information.

It turns out that other tablemates shut down this classmate immediately. They told her to be quiet and do her schoolwork. Let’s call the student Anna. These other female classmates’ backgrounds were Filipina and African Muslim. While grateful, my kid can’t wait until the seat assignments will be changed. He believed that Anna got her information about the Gaza war and Jews from TikTok and that maybe fighting this misinformation with facts, using shortform videos, would help.

When pressed, we learned my kid didn’t have a social media connection with Anna for forwarding information, nor did we think she would watch the video. After all, Anna’s grandmother was Palestinian and liked Jews, saying we were cousins. We parents concluded that someone in Anna’s life or online introduced hateful stereotypes to her. That’s what she believed – not her grandmother.

My husband retold the story of when his family was forced to couch surf. They were homeless for a year. My father-in-law, a young architect without financial backing, sold their family home to fund future work, including their new, half-built house. When the bank lost the deposited cheque from the house sale, they had nowhere to go. My husband, a kindergartener, his toddler brother and his mother spent the year at his grandparents’ New York Lower East Side apartment. My father-in-law had to stay with his parents in New Jersey. When the awful lost cheque episode resolved, they finally moved into their half-built house. They washed their dishes at the only faucet – in the bathtub. My husband could have gone on: his grandfather, raised in Mezrich, Poland, lived in a home that they shared with their cow for winter warmth and financial security. His great-grandmother had 13 children. This included three sets of twins, but none of the twins survived.

Our son said he didn’t want to share any family information. Our truths didn’t matter to Anna, he thought. He didn’t want this kid spouting hate to think he cared or even discussed this with his family. He wanted her to think her prejudice hadn’t affected him. He felt, aside from showing a video to counteract it, he’d get nowhere in explaining how she’d upset him.

This reaction correlates to a JTA article by Ilana Horwitz, a Tulane University professor. Noting that her Jewish studies students didn’t choose topics concerning antisemitism or Israel, she asked why. Her students are constantly facing antisemitism outside her classroom online and in person. Their anxiety about “saying the wrong thing” when it comes to Israel means that they don’t want any more discussions or pressure than they already face. Exhausted, they come to her class to find ways to deepen and strengthen their Jewish knowledge and history and find “Jewish joy.” They want “to remember what we’re fighting for.”

My child’s experiences echo some of the code-switching I did as a teenager in Virginia more than 35 years ago. As an adult, I realized that my Jewish identity, practice and ideals were carefully separated and toned down when we were a small minority amid Christian Southerners who were perhaps ignorant at best when it came to treating Jews as equals. Not much has changed, although, in Winnipeg, the majority culture is coded as secular Christian rather than religious, and there are many more Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and other religious traditions around.

I recently attended a Jewish-Christian interfaith event on the 60th anniversary of Nostra Aetate, when the Pope decreed that the Catholic Church should guard against antisemitism and that Jews hadn’t killed Jesus. The event’s planners had great intentions. The speakers were good. Rabbi Lisa Grushcow (PhD) and Dr. Murray Watson, a Catholic theologian, brought thoughtful, intellectual views on the subject. They didn’t shy away from much-needed dialogue as a bulwark against rising hate. Unfortunately, the event moderation left something to be desired. The well-intentioned Catholic senior citizens, who rose during the Q&A to speak, didn’t have critical questions. Instead, they wanted to “testify” about the “great Jewish boss” they’d had or seek reassurance that it was OK to disagree with the nice “quite Orthodox Jewish couple” in their senior living facility when it came to the West Bank/Judea and Samaria. I couldn’t help myself. Leaning over to a Jewish friend, I whispered that it’s good there are these amazing Jewish examples mentioned, because of what it suggested about the rest of us “no-goodniks”!

After several awkward moments, I felt relieved when the event ended. As a small minority in Canada, we need allies and connections. We cannot afford to give up on building bridges with others. First, we might make deep friendships and gain positive community, but also, with rising hate, it’s important to have allies (like those school tablemates) who stand up and tell haters to stop when they spout prejudice.

That said, this work to counter antisemitism isn’t solely our problem. Perhaps my teen and those students at Tulane are right. We should devote more energy to our Jewish joy, culture and history. Let’s embrace all the good, rich parts of our identities and re-invest in our learning and celebration. My kid, and most of his tablemates, didn’t want to give hateful stereotypes any airtime. In this instance, he was probably right. Lots has changed since I dealt with this in high school. I was often forced to give all the explanations and information about Jews, since I was the only Jew there. Then, afterwards, there was Jew-hate spewed towards me anyway.

What’s changed is our understanding of what causes criminal behaviour. We now recognize that a short skirt doesn’t cause sexual assault. Nothing we do specifically, as Jewish individuals, brings on this hate. Nothing the modern state of Israel or individual Jews do created this ancient hatred. It’s not our behaviour or fault. We don’t have to own this or fight this alone. Antisemitism is an old symptom of a much more invasive disease of ignorance and hate.

The solutions are complicated. Meanwhile, let’s consider shutting down these biases when they pop up, just as they did in my kid’s Grade 9 class. Let’s offer some Jewish joy to the mix – and let’s also remind one another that it’s not all on us. What causes antisemitism? Antisemites.

Cheshvan a great month, too

The Hebrew month of Cheshvan, or “Mar Cheshvan,” is the second month on the calendar after Tishrei. It comes right after all the fall holidays end. The rabbis called it “mar,” or bitter, because it doesn’t have any holidays or special mitzvot (commandments). This mom has an entirely different take. I’m very tired … and relieved.

This doesn’t take away from any of the meaning, pomp or special parts of the fall Jewish holidays, which are all fantastic. I’m still holding one moment as dear: sitting in my sukkah, I could see the clear sky, with a few clouds floating past, see and hear the migrating birds, smell and see the fall leaves, and embrace the chill in the air. It was a fabulous family meal moment, only topped by the solitary lunch I ate on the back porch, in the sukkah sunshine. I had the newspaper, along with a big plate of food. I was warm. There were no wasps. A true triumph, considering it often rains or snows in Winnipeg during this harvest holiday.

Yet, I’m also worn out, and not just from two years of worry about the war. If you live outside big Jewish population centres and you want celebratory holiday meals, the options are limited. In Winnipeg, if you want kosher food, there’s only catering from two or three places. If you’re OK with kosher-style food, there are more options, but, for instance, a beautiful big challah is not always easy to procure at the last moment. Even if you’re not strictly traditional, purchasing and putting together a holiday meal can be expensive and time consuming, even if you don’t cook it.

Challah is a good example. If you want a buy a single challah, it costs somewhere between $6 and $12 in Winnipeg. I like to cook and bake. From what we’ve observed, my recipe is richer and has a higher food cost than these commercially produced challahs. In the past, I used to make one batch (about three pounds) using my bread machine and produce three loaves. One would go into the freezer for a future Shabbat or holiday. Two would go out on the table and last the weekend. I now have twin teenage boys. All three challahs might last through Sunday lunch. Doubling the recipe and doing it all by hand results in more loaves to freeze for another day, but I receive grumbling from the peanut gallery because it doesn’t taste the same.

The person in charge of food prep in your household is well-aware of the grocery planning and food preparation time needed. They’ll even know the time it takes to set a holiday table and get everything out onto it before a holiday starts. Yes, it’s sometimes easier if others help, but sometimes it results in bellyaching and goes slower than if the most efficient person does it all by themselves.

In recent years, this effort has been given a few names: mental load is one. I’ve carefully tried not to gender this task. However, just as women’s pay rates in Canada still don’t equal men’s, it’s also true that women tend to shoulder much of this unpaid burden. Yes, there are exceptions, absolutely. There are women who’ve never left the workforce to have children, haven’t married or compromised in any way for a man’s career, and never been a caretaker. These women might make an equal wage for their work, and that’s great. It’s also true that there are men who shoulder most household tasks. Just like the example of Golda Meir as Israel’s prime minister, simply because an exceptional woman has achieved equity or high office doesn’t mean we’re “there” yet in terms of equality and equity for everybody.

I recently pitched a class for Limmud (an international program offering Jewish learning, where everyone pays to attend and shares the cost) about positive tips for raising Jewish kids. Many of the tips I thought of relate to this situation: special foods or cooking together, holiday celebrations, Jewish stories, activities or events, and Jewish learning and home life. Again, many of these tasks often fall to women, even though there’s no essentialist reason why they should. If a mom wants to do some quiet quitting and pull back to regain some time for herself, her work life or other pursuits, it doesn’t always follow that the other partner will jump into action to fill the void.

While mainstream Jewish organizations bemoan the cost of Jewish life, it’s rare that the supports exist to make this kind of unpaid labour easier. One exceptional example is when Jewish preschools provide parents with a way to order challah for Shabbat. Every Friday or holiday when school was in session, we were able to bring home challah affordably. It made a huge difference.

This isn’t, of course, a new phenomenon. I recently read about the requirements of the priests’ clothing in the Babylonian talmudic tractate Zevachim. Essentially, in the days of the Temple in Jerusalem, if the priests’ clothing wasn’t appropriate, it could make a person’s animal sacrifice invalid. To do a sacrifice, a person incurred a lot of costs: raising or purchasing an animal, getting to Jerusalem, and more. An invalid sacrifice could result in a horrible outcome for the person and their family, the priest and the community. Yet, no one discussed in this section how the priests got the clothing in the first place. Other information indicates that predominantly women spun all this yarn (on spindles, by hand) and wove the fabric and likely sewed it all together for the priestly garb. This effort was thousands of hours of unpaid work behind the scenes.

I’m looking forward to a hopefully peaceful and easier Cheshvan ahead. It’s a time that some may find bitter, but, like a bitter coffee served with dessert, sometimes a little less hoopla might be a nice, restful contrast. It also might give families time to reflect on who provides all that planning and labour to make your home celebrations special and your holidays a reality – there are many ways to alleviate that burden. Further, we should stop using examples of truly exceptional cases – that woman with nine kids who works full time and makes all the meals – to shame everyone else. A better outcome would be more equitable distribution of these Jewish tasks – to increase holiday or Shabbat joy in every household.

Grammar insight on holidays

This year, I volunteered to help during High Holidays at my congregation. As a result, I became one of the “ticket ladies” on Rosh Hashanah. I used a cellphone that scanned bar codes on service tickets. When I first saw this being done on a holiday, I was surprised because of the technology use at a Conservative congregation on a day when some might not carry a phone. My family chose to print out our tickets, but times change. Even though everyone in my family had a printed ticket, we carried our cellphones anyway as we volunteered. It seemed safer to have our phones while walking to synagogue and while we were there. After all, that’s what the tickets are for, too. They indicate that the person belongs or has a spot and that the person is “safe.”

The police and private security guards asked where they should position themselves. More than once, they indicated that being indoors in the lobby might be a good spot. Instead, they were asked to stand outside, in autumn’s sunny weather, guarding the doors and/or directing traffic. I heard only one incident of loud, angry shouts on the street, near the police officer there. That was enough for me. I was relieved police were there, and that there were master lists of everyone who might be in the building that day, just in case.

While outsiders might think that this security is new, this is just the usual necessity at Jewish gatherings, though admittedly now more than ever. At odd moments between ticket scans, I thought of a dear family friend named Marge, who passed away in her 90s. Marge was a venerable and respected volunteer at the temple where I grew up. She was famous for her High Holiday ticket lady efforts. Marge was all business at the front door, a big smile for those she knew as they flashed their tickets. Yet, even if Marge knew you for 50 years, if you forgot your ticket, that grin vanished. A stern reprimand ensued. Marge kept us safe, and she wasn’t playing. She took that job seriously.

The congregation where I grew up, Temple Rodef Shalom in Falls Church, Va., is right near Washington, DC. Rodef Shalom started out small in the 1960s, when my paternal grandparents were founding members. It grew rapidly, along with the Washington area. My mom started its preschool, ran the entire education program, and ended her career there as the administrator/executive director. As a Jewish professional’s kid, I knew where the emergency alarm buttons were and that synagogues near DC were frequent targets of hate. Congregation members who worked for the FBI or CIA formed part of the volunteer security patrol for the High Holidays, too. Everyone smiled as they said that “no-nonsense” Marge ran a tight ship. She was their best line of defence.

Nobody knew this history in Winnipeg when I was given the ticket lady designation. I’d emailed with Marge right up until her passing. I tried to see her at every family visit. She loved to tell me about her Canadian grandfather, a fur trader whose family came from Sault Ste. Marie. The whole holiday, in between wishing everyone gut yontif, shana tova or sweet new year, I longed to tell Marge all about how I was a ticket lady now. I knew she’d love it. When I mentioned this to my mother, we both smiled over the phone. I’d never be as good at it as Marge was, but my mom also said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure Marge knows. She’s proud of you.”

Being a ticket lady was an education. I’ve been in Winnipeg 16 years, so I recognized many names on the tickets, but definitely not all the faces. As people rolled in, I also recognized how diverse we are as a people. Some of us are early, others right on time – and then, there are the rest.

This experience let me greet new people and hold on to lifelong connections. It made me think about a grammar term that’s fallen out of use. I wondered at how, as individuals, we are also dependent clauses. For years, we have seen news, books and other sources where the editing allows a sentence to start with “and” or “but” in a way that’s clearly dependent on the prior sentence. When I see this, I want to chastise, just as Marge might have. To me, that editorial choice still grates, but the volunteer experience made me see how the Jewish community works together. At the best of times, we are an enormous team, dependent on one another to function at our best.

Volunteering is an important part of Canadian identity. It was a required topic to study for my Canadian citizenship test, and I wondered why more congregants hadn’t volunteered. It was a vital part of my holiday this year. It reminded me how reliant we are on one another, as well as on our allies, our laws and law enforcement. Dependent clauses aren’t full sentences on their own. We, too, must remain connected to maintain meaning as Jews in Canada.

In the Babylonian Talmud’s tractate of Zevachim, which I’m now studying, there’s a lot of time spent on what happens when a Temple (animal) sacrifice goes wrong. If the priests in the Temple had the wrong intention or person in mind when performing a sacrifice, it could mean the person’s sacrifice wasn’t valid. We don’t sacrifice at the Temple in Jerusalem anymore, but our intentions, towards ourselves, the community and the world, still matter. Volunteering wasn’t a sacrifice for me. It felt like I was fulfilling my role with the best intentions while I depended on others to keep me safe at that open door. Instead of any kind of sacrifice, it was a High Holy Day bonus.

Be more solution-oriented

Leaders are simply people, of course. And all people have strengths and weaknesses. Just like the traditional approach to weaving Persian rugs with an intentional mistake, we must remember that only the Almighty is perfect.

But some leaders become lionized and celebrated, their human failings swept under the rug (sorry). However, we’re in a political moment where some leaders’ mistakes are all too obvious. No need to name anybody. Many fit this description. It’s upsetting and confusing to realize that even those chosen as “the best” or “brightest” fail sometimes. It’s a useful learning experience, too.

Awhile back, I was discussing politics online with other Canadians. I came upon something that stopped me cold. A poster criticized a political leader. I asked what she saw as solutions. The questions I asked were how, if she were in charge, she’d do things differently.

Her response surprised me. She said the only thing she could do was vote and complain. That, essentially, it was her right to find fault, but not her obligation to offer solutions. Her opinion was that she wasn’t passive because, well, she voted consistently and complained vociferously.

From a Jewish perspective, we have plenty of examples of whiners. Remember the Israelites, wandering in the desert, who wanted to go back to Egypt because they didn’t have meat, fish, onions, garlic, leeks or cantaloupes? (Numbers 11:4-5) It’s a normal response to crave foods when you’re unable to get them. As a high schooler studying abroad, I craved M&Ms so much that my mother brought them when she visited. They were superfluous, but I wanted them.

The opportunity to complain is always available, but it’s unattractive, especially if there’s something you can do to fix the problem yourself. Since that high school moment, I’ve lived many places where I’ve craved food but couldn’t buy it locally. As a result, I’ve become a more creative cook. When traveling, it’s good to “load up” on cravings if they’re available. Not to hoard, but just as an extra pleasure.

Worldwide political upheaval made me study the Babylonian Talmudic tractate of Horayot with more interest. It’s a small part of the Talmud but it’s about how people in charge (kings, high priests, judges, teachers, etc.) can make amends or do the right sacrifices or actions to atone for their mistakes. This text assumes that there will always be errors in judgment. People in certain important positions have societal roles to play, and that means their atonements to seek forgiveness for errors must be bigger sometimes than if they were private citizens.

This may sound irrelevant but consider the role of a teacher. Teachers make mistakes. The best resolution to this would be a public acknowledgement of the error and a demonstration of how to fix it. We might shrug and get on with things after a private math mistake. Yet, if a math teacher makes this error in front of the class, the best lesson is having a student find and correct the error. Then, the teacher can perform the act of learning from their error, thank the student, and acknowledge that no one is perfect.

In our lives, even if we are not teachers, parents, supervisors, or in any authority roles, it’s a great idea to try to practise this approach: to remember that no one is perfect and that it’s all our jobs to find solutions. As Rabbi Tarfon teaches, “that it’s not upon us to complete the work, but neither are we free to stop doing it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:16)

This sounds simple. But, in the tractate of Horayot, there’s a very powerful ending about how our pride and ego can get in the way. It’s about three rabbis and their leadership roles: Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (Rashbag) was the leader of the Jewish community in the Galilee during the late second century, after the Bar Kochba Revolt; the head of the court was Rabbi Natan; and a great scholar at the time was Rabbi Meir.

Rashbag is upset with a lack of protocol in the Torah academy. He wants everyone to stand when he comes in until they’re told to be seated. Rashbag suggests that, for Rabbi Natan and Rabbi Meir, who he perceives as less important, those studying should rise when they enter, but students can sit down again right afterwards. Rabbis Meir and Natan try to put Rashbag to an intellectual test to prove that he isn’t above them, but Rashbag finds out in advance and bests them.

Rabbis Meir and Natan are expelled from the Torah academy and forced to study outside. However, the academy couldn’t continue without their expertise, so there was the ancient equivalent of paper airplane communication happening. The expelled rabbis would throw questions into the academy, students would try to answer. If the students couldn’t, they’d ask for more help.

Obviously, this was a bad way to learn. Rashbag was forced to readmit the scholars, but only with the proviso that their rulings couldn’t be under their own names. Essentially, the glory of Torah was more important than the glory of Torah scholars. This remained true for all except for Rashbag and his descendants, who insisted on maintaining their grudge and hereditary leadership and denying these two learned men their due.

Where does that lead us? Leaders are fallible. Each of us has the potential to uplift, lead and find solutions. When necessary, we need to stop being passive and lead more. Sometimes, that means trying to avoid big egos or coming up with creative responses to difficult problems. It can feel uncomfortable to raise our voices and act, if we’re used to letting others do the hard work. Also, we need allies to help make change. This means building connections with others, particularly outside the Jewish community.

The pressing example for the Canadian Jewish community is our political leaders’ refrain after antisemitic incidents: “This isn’t who we are as Canadians.” Well, in fact, it is who we are, as evidenced by the dramatic rise in hate crimes. We have leaders who aren’t acting to solve this problem. It’s getting worse. In response, we must step up and ask our allies to do so, too. Nobody’s perfect. People make mistakes. That said, we must hold leaders – and all those passive followers – to account if we expect to remain safe in Canada. It’s time to find solutions. Complaints alone don’t cut it.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.