Joanne Seiff

Bad behaviour affects us all

Recently, my kids walked home from high school late because of their games club, which meets once a week. On their way, they saw a man on the sidewalk, coming from a pedestrian trail. He wore a sign on his back that read, “Netanyahu, Butcher of Gaza.” They hung back, took photos and alerted me when they got home.

Here’s a good reason to give Jewish teens access to cellphones. I used the “Find My” app to watch them walk home. They used the phone to document this. We found this signage offensive and upsetting, but it hadn’t been an emergency incident, so they didn’t use their phones to call 911.

I reported this incident to B’nai Brith Canada, who suggested also filing a police report. Over dinner, we discussed the sign. Was this antisemitism or just free speech, when using the IHRA definition of antisemitism? Is the test for this, “Would anyone reasonably use this kind of language about other countries’ publicly elected officials?” The answer for us was, “Well, yes.” We don’t approve of it, but, in 2022, we heard all this as part of the truckers’ convoy that came through Winnipeg. They parked (and honked) at the provincial legislature, close enough to our home so we saw their signs and hateful rhetoric.

I Googled the phrase on the man’s sign. Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdogan started using this phrase in November 2023. It’s been used repeatedly in the last 2.5 years of the Gaza conflict. Knowing a phrase’s “origin story” doesn’t make it less virulent. It still didn’t feel OK. Something can be legal, but also shameful, wrong or antisocial, bad behaviour.

As a family, we debated whether we should do a police report. In Winnipeg, it’s not that easy to report something like this. There’s an online form, but it specifically rejects claims due to hate crimes or speech. In situations like this, there is calling 911 to report it or going downtown to the only police station that takes these reports. We chose to leave this one up to B’nai Brith, but the situation remained fresh and upsetting.

First, there’s the debate over whether something hateful and harmful is illegal or immediately dangerous. Our city’s police service is overburdened. Everyone in Winnipeg has heard of someone who has called the cops and been told that, unless the situation was life threatening, no police would show up. This means that squatters without life-threatening weapons aren’t immediately tossed out of vacant homes – but then the homes catch on fire. In one awful case, a panicked teen, trying to protect his grandmother, called the police during a home invasion. He was killed before the police arrived. This horrific incident puts our hate-signage sighting in perspective.

Second, though, is the question of whether we (Jewish people) or teens walking home from school deserve to feel safe. This man wasn’t walking in front of a consulate or legislature in protest. He was near multiple schools, a library, a synagogue, several churches, a hospital and a care home. If bubble legislation existed in Canada or in Winnipeg, it would have been possible to report this and expect a police response. As things stand, it didn’t seem forthcoming.

This incident reminded me of a conversation I had at Kiddush lunch at synagogue. A Jewish family at our table insisted, in alarm, that Bill C-9 (the one for federal bubble legislation) would interfere with their right to free speech. I asked how often they wrote for the press or how this risked interference with their current modes of protest. I asked if they felt that their right to protest was in jeopardy. When I Googled them later, I found that they don’t write widely. Their names don’t appear in the news regarding protests. Their right to free speech or protest was likely not being threatened in any way. It seems they had fallen prey to misinformation. At the table, I brought up multiple incidents that our children face as they leave a public school and walk home past our congregation.

When a protester is outside the synagogue just after school lets out, the police say that it’s public space. The protest is allowed, even though the signage blocks the sidewalk. Kids walking by are exposed to potential hate speech, and normalizing hate speech or graffiti can lead to acts of violence. This kind of protest first happened about two years ago, but, this spring, the signage on a man’s jacket left us in the same quandary.

Well-intentioned allies have asked, “Do you feel safe?” or “What can I do?”

The answer to the first question is, “no.” There are a lot of reasons for that. For one thing, I’d like my kids to be able to walk home without feeling threatened or having to dodge protesters or shoot photos.

I regularly encounter non-Jewish Canadians who ask the second question. I try to help them learn more about the issues, so they feel ready to be “upstanders” rather than just “bystanders.” Calling the police, paying privately for huge amounts of security or shielding children from hateful protest shouldn’t be something Jewish Canadians navigate alone. We’re less than 1% of the Canadian population. It’s necessary to educate and mobilize allies to help.

Political “free speech” can be legal and still hateful. A society that speaks up can make change, even if the offender isn’t arrested. Education happens when we say, out loud, that some behaviours are shameful and un-Canadian. Bad behaviour affects all of us. It’s time to find adults willing to speak up. If somebody wants Jews to feel safe in Canada, then the status quo is not what they want either.

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.

Taking life a step at a time

Feeding teenage boys healthy, homemade food is no joke. It’s a marathon and not a sprint. Every time, I start with “Where did the leftovers go? Did you eat them all?” and “What else can I possibly throw together from the produce in the fridge and meat in the freezer?”

For anyone who is immersed in household routines, food production easily moves from creative enjoyment to drudgery. This morning, I pondered what to make for dinner, as I walked the dog. Just like the need to think up meals, the dog walk feels heavy, each step weighing me down. Then I hear a noise and look up to see Canada geese migrating home. It’s a sign of spring and, after a long winter, a sign of joy.

We’re experiencing what looks like a failing ceasefire, ongoing wars and, in North America, ongoing antisemitic upheaval. I feel I have that sentence on repeat. The situations change but the worry about world conflicts and about friends and family remains. I’m afraid to invest in commenting on today’s news because tomorrow, we’re still going to wrestle with these issues, but the specifics will change. I feel swamped by it, and I’ll guess that I’m not alone in that.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Babylonian Talmud a day. Lately, I’ve been trying to follow the rabbis in Menachot, as they cover the particulars of grain sacrifices and how they were carried out in the Temple. The Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed just under 2,000 years ago, and these rabbis were discussing this more than 1,500 years ago. On one hand, the rabbis’ debate feels important – they worried that, should the Temple be rebuilt, they would need to understand and replicate these sacrifices. On the other hand, the incredible level of nuance in these discussions feels over the top. It’s way past “How one loads the dishwasher” and up there with “How do you clean out the sink drain?” and “Do you sort coffee grounds from tea leaves in your compost?”

It’s between these extremes that a lot of spiritual discussion happens. It’s something like “We are but a grain of sand on an endless beach” and, at the same time, “Listen to your heartbeat, as its beat is the centre of the universe.” As individuals, our lives are nothing in the eternal universe and, also, we are the centre of everything all at once.

I get mired in the minutiae, particularly when it comes to household management. Societally, this is common for middle-aged moms with kids at home. This past week, we bought our kids an old-fashioned clock radio, in hopes they would wake up on their own. Despite the clock, their dad goes in first to tell them to wake up. I come in 15 minutes later, to rouse them again. This morning, something occurred to me as I sang “Modeh Ani” at high volume to my teenagers and then a little Paul Simon, “Oh, my momma, she loves me, she loves me, she gets down on her knees and hugs me, she loves me like a rock!” (I can be annoyingly loud and cheery in the morning.) Maybe, even at 7:15, my boys like seeing us do this. Maybe these will be things they remember. Maybe this is how they are reminded that their parents love them.

Slogans that urge us onwards, to do “great things,” like “How we spend our days is how we spend our lives,” can really rub me the wrong way. After the raucous wakeup, I was outside, dressed and walking the dog 15 minutes later, wondering if this meant that picking up dog poop or reminding a kid not to forget his lunch was indeed how I’d spend my life. In a “loud” world full of people who boast of big world-changing endeavours, where does that leave me?

Some people I went to school with are, indeed, in big important positions in business or nonprofits, making change in the world, and that can make a person feel small and hopeless. The notion of tikkun olam, or fixing the world, feels far off. This umbrella phrase is a concept consisting of many individual mitzvot (commandments). It’s misleading and too broad when the individual commandments (visit the sick, provide food for the poor in your community, etc.) are accessible. Example: I saw a new mom of twins feeling desperate online. I knew, from experience, how to help.

“You can do this,” I wrote. “Take it one feed, one diaper change, one snack and one nap at a time. Take all the help you are offered. Think forward but only to the next thing you have to do.”

When I was in the trenches, alone, with my twin infants, I felt furious when smiling people said, “Enjoy it! It will all go by so quickly.” It was painful and slow, like being a grain of sand on an endless beach. Now, though, as I jostle my teens off to school with their lunch bags, I’m reminded that we can do big things, like raise a whole new generation, through these small details.

The rabbis spent a lot of energy trying to reconstitute what Temple sacrifice looked like. This seems a bit much to me until a kid loses his brand new, handknit mittens. Suddenly we’re retracing our steps, calling the places where he might have left them, and getting into the nitty-gritty. These little steps, how we spend our days, are, I believe, how we find our humanity. The global conflicts and issues change, but, if we can just focus on doing these small tasks for others, we can make enormous change over time.

It’s OK to be annoyed, bored and frustrated by all of life’s mindless tasks. That’s a real feeling that many of us share! It’s legitimate. Now, though, I have to go make chicken meatballs, with onions and dill and matzah meal in them, for supper, which we’ll have with potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets and a salad.

These endless details? They’re about nothing. They mean everything.

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.

Resilient joy in tough times

A few days ago, our beloved, big, senior dog had a limp. We went to the vet, on short notice. Our regular vet was away. It was icy and snowy. I got the dog into my 23-year-old car, backed it out of the 123-year-old garage. We made it there on time. The dog got help for what is maybe arthritis or an injury, perhaps from the ice. Driving home, I wondered if I should run an errand but decided, nope, it was windy and raw. The dog should be warm and cozy at home again.

I parked the car in the driveway, got the dog inside and then returned to put my car into our narrow garage. I heaved open the left garage door, planting it into the ice. I hoped the prairie winds wouldn’t slam it shut again. When I got back into the car, it was completely dead. Wouldn’t start.

Then I realized that the heavy garage door had come off its bottom hinge. Huge screws were hanging halfway out. I closed it as best I could and locked it. Inside again, I nearly keeled over because I’d missed eating lunch.

When I warmed up, ate, triaged my work and called the Canadian Automobile Association, I anticipated the worst. The day hadn’t gone as planned.

Yet, CAA help arrived quickly. Miraculously, the fix was simple. A terminal needed to be replaced on my battery. At that moment, the raw day tempered by a cup of hot tea and a moment to think, I was seized with gratitude. What if my car had died on a busy street, with the dog inside? What if we’d been stuck at the vet? What if I’d stopped to run an errand and then been stuck with a car that wouldn’t start and a dog hurting too much to walk home?

Back inside, I looked again at a garage door photo I’d taken. It could have been even worse. What if I hadn’t noticed the screws hanging off the hinge? What if I’d shoved the heavy door and it crushed me underneath it instead? The possibilities were far worse once I’d thought about what happened. This has a happy ending. My husband will repair the hinge when that ice melts. My car now starts. My dog is on medicine and will hopefully be better soon. Gratitude felt like the only answer here.

This was midweek, and we stayed close to home through the weekend. Though we live near downtown Winnipeg, where the national NDP convention took place, we steered clear. At synagogue, one kid played baritone sax for the family service on Shabbat, as little kids danced along in their seats. My other kid greeted families in the lobby as they arrived. Before the wiggly kids got there, we spent a few moments at the main service and did the Birchot Hashachar, the morning blessings, where we thank G-d repeatedly for the good things, the everyday basics, happening in our lives.

On Sunday, our teens spent time on science fair preparation and on helping deliver Passover hampers for those in need, and we adults worked on the household. My husband cleaned steadily but managed to burn something in the microwave, break a pencil sharpener and a cereal bowl. I began to worry again about this weird bad luck, when I thought of the Birchot Hashachar. I remembered what to do. Being resilient meant pausing and finding gratitude instead.

Emergency services had to be called to the high school earlier this week for a student, but, this weekend, my kids are safe, healthy and doing productive things. Though I walked past slogans calling for radical protests at the NDP convention and a woman attendee wearing a keffiyeh at the café right near home, we’re safe, for now.

This year’s celebration of Israel’s birthday feels emotionally like a larger, more difficult version of our small misadventures. War is no joke. Israel is really going through it right now. Via social media, I see these extended family members in my tribe, my community, running for bomb shelters and fighting. Yet, I’m so impressed by the way Israelis strive for beauty and everyday normalcy – trips to the park, surfing and making music – with so much violent disruption. It’s been scary to watch, and I’m not there. That said, maybe the lesson in this birthday is seeing how, after these horrible, life-shattering events, it’s possible to practice that mind shift. The gratitude one, where strangers care for one another in bomb shelters, sharing food, music and space while struggling with what could have happened.

It’s unsettling to be Jewish near a Canadian political convention peddling antisemitic tropes. I’m reeling from seeing a premier who lives near me, who is also a parent I’ve spoken to on the playground, say deeply unsettling words on the NDP stage. Even if Wab Kinew’s “Epstein class” comment wasn’t intended to be antisemitic, his words, about this “dumb war” horrified me.

Jewish tradition teaches that all lives are valuable. Premier Kinew said North American lives shouldn’t be lost – to stop a repressive regime that has already killed thousands of its citizens. Our lives are no more valuable than theirs. Iranians deserve help, as do all the people harmed by the horrible regime and its terror proxies.

In precarious times, it’s helpful to seek the good. To remember that heavy garage door, still dangling off its hinge, the car that died, thankfully, in the driveway and was fixed, and the veterinary help that came when needed. Being grateful and practising joy, even when it’s a strain, is complicated. I want to be happy on Israel’s birthday, but it’s a complicated emotion, too. It requires practising gratitude and celebration even when times are tough, but that’s what we’re “commanded” to do sometimes.

This year, I wish for peace and everything good for everyone in Israel and its neighbours, as well as in other places where conflict reigns. Thank goodness Israel exists, as a place of refuge for all Jews, but it’s OK to wish for safer times at home in the diaspora, too. May the year ahead be an easier one, without war or complication; one in which we can all embrace less fear and more simple joy.

Learning to bridge divides

A friend from my grad school, Jill, has a distinguished academic career. She’s now the chair of her university’s religious studies department. She’s co-authored a book on dialogue in education and works with an organization called Essential Partners, which “helps people build relationships across differences to address their communities’ most pressing challenges.” This work shows great promise in helping people listen and learn from one another.

This dialogue-oriented academic approach draws on the Socratic seminar, an ancient learning technique I was taught as a young teacher. It gets students to interact, do analysis and to listen carefully to one another.

I was thrilled that this technique was used in one of my twins’ public school English classes. His regular teacher was on leave and an experienced, retired teacher took over the classes as a long-term sub. As a former English teacher, I watched my Grade 9 student dig into the material. He did prep work to learn how to participate, including writing journal entries and eventually producing a literary analysis essay. The cherry on top was that this whole unit focused on Elie Wiesel’s book Night. The students finally accessed some Holocaust education (mandated by the province but not previously implemented) as part of this rigorous unit.

Then my kid reported that classmates said the sub was “trying to Jewify” them. Later, classmates said he only got high marks because he was Jewish and a teacher’s pet. In a polarized political climate, this teacher did everything right to facilitate safe dialogue and teach important texts. Even so, antisemitism popped up – showing how necessary dialogue like this is for our society at this moment.

Our household likes to discuss and debate. We don’t shy away from difficult topics. I think we succeed at this type of conversation at the dinner table, though we could all benefit from improvement in our listening habits.

When I became a parent, I stepped back from the academic work I used to love. I became a caretaker when we had twins, due to health challenges. I also mostly stopped teaching, due to all the moves necessary for my husband’s work.

To “get back” some of this work, I’ve explored different opportunities in the last year. I spoke on “finding hope,” as part of an ethics, politics and humanity panel at an interfaith conference. I committed to teaching two workshops at Limmud. In another foray, I took advantage of a podcast’s call for entries and applied. This local academic podcast focuses on “peopling the past.” They requested submissions to examine the relevance of the ancient world in understanding contemporary issues.

I wanted to explore how the Babylonian Talmud, in tractates Zevachim and Menachot, examines boundaries, definitions and understandings of “appropriate sacrifice.” I saw fascinating parallels between this ancient discussion and how textbook definitions of words like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “colonization” are being manipulated today. I thought it could make a great case study of how the Talmud recorded hundreds of years of comparison and dialogue between rabbis (scholars) and how that model might be applied to analytic discussion today.

The rabbis disagreed about definitions and details. It was a high stakes conversation for them. Ritual sacrifice in the Temple was a thing of the past, but they felt it essential to understand and record the right way to do this, so the Jewish people would know how to manage if the Temple were rebuilt. Further, if the Temple is never rebuilt, what could we learn from the “right” and holy way to do sacrifice?

Months passed. The deadline for hearing back from the podcast organizers passed. I inquired politely but heard nothing. Then, I did something I should have done in the first place. I researched more about the nearby academic organizing this. I learned this academic was heavily invested in Palestinian activism. Once I read this, I figured I would never even hear back about my proposal. Yet, to my surprise, I got a polite form letter, which (of course) turned down my submission.

My pitch might not have been competitive. I’ve got two master’s degrees but no PhD or university affiliation. The topic maybe was too controversial. Perhaps my write-up was too plainspoken. After sleeping on it, I realized none of that mattered. In fact, I was relieved. After all, considering my family’s challenges in listening more and talking less at the Shabbat table, I wondered if I could have pulled off a podcast conversation with a person so firmly entrenched in an opposing and confrontational viewpoint.

Studying Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) since January 2020 helps me shed light on these career-building experiences. Every day, I read rabbis’ debates, over centuries, that model dialogue and analytic questioning. There are aspects of the Socratic seminar in these texts and the ways in which scholars build relationships and bridge differences to solve their communities’ challenges. Repeatedly, I see this difficult, but meaningful, process play out between rabbis who lived almost 2,000 years ago, in a text compiled a little over 1,500 years ago.

A reflective teacher evaluates what was or wasn’t successful in an assignment or lesson plan. This recent rejection allowed me that reflection. I’d take off points if I assessed myself. First, I failed to do enough research to realize that this podcast, while geographically convenient, wasn’t a good fit for ideological reasons. Second, it helped me examine ways I can grow as a listener and work to create meaningful spaces for respectful, safe dialogue across deep divides. Studying Talmud for a few minutes a day, across six years, gives me even more respect for the role of civilized, rigorous discussion and safe spaces to disagree. Some people aren’t ready to grow this way. They cannot leave space for that intellectual growth. When challenged, they respond with rejection or name calling, as my kid experienced.

Finally, I realized why sometimes academics spend a lot of grant money and time on choosing the “right” professor to travel to their institution. It’s sometimes too uncomfortable to sit in the room with someone who is not an easy match. Still, we might learn more from the dialogue with those more challenging discussion partners. Learning to bridge divides and live together is sometimes the most meaningful work, after all.

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.

Ritual is what makes life holy

Years ago, I regularly walked with my two bird dogs on streets near my home, in Winnipeg. I had a setter-mix and a pointer, rescued from a Kentucky animal shelter as young dogs, before moving to Canada. I walked them once or twice a day. Our routines were solid. The dogs sat on street corners. They heeled while crossing streets. Strangers admired their obedience skills and called out praise. Others stopped to say hello. I said thank you, but the next question almost always was, “How did you do that? My dog doesn’t….”

The answer, every time, was the same. I walked these dogs for years. Every day, we waited at street corners for cars to pass, and I had my dogs sit. Every time we crossed in traffic, I aimed for two lively dogs who heeled at my side to make the street crossing safer. Now, I own a different dog (another setter mix from the pound) and have twins as well. My family gets complimented about those lovely teens with their good manners, and we all say thank you. How did we do it? The same way – with consistency and positive reinforcement.

Our Jewish lives are also full of ritual and routine. No matter your level of observance, some of those repetitions stick. Perhaps you say a blessing when you wash your hands or do blessings before eating. Others may light Shabbat candles, attend a family seder or use Yiddish phrases of endearment. Some hum Jewish music or embrace Jewish values. These visible and invisible parts of our identity are so ordinary that we may not think about them much.

I’ve heard rabbis express their congregants’ disinterest in the specifics of how to build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, in the wilderness in Exodus when reading the Torah portion each year. Yet these details mattered enormously to the many people who used the information as “how-to” guides. These were people with great skills, those who spun the finest linen yarn or wove the curtains, dyed the textiles the right shades using natural materials, or who worked gold and silver to create ornamentation. Later in our history, the priests who made the sacrifices in the Temple in Jerusalem needed to know how to do those sacrifices properly. The rabbis debated and recorded these routine details, even though the Temple no longer existed. The information was precious. It was a guide for the Jewish people.

The details illustrate how meaningful it was to create this beautiful “home” for the Divine. Today, we may not understand the details of how spinners, goldsmiths or hand-dyers worked. However, our texts record their efforts, these gorgeous descriptions, for a reason.

Just as our body is the “container” for our soul, our homes and synagogues are now our mishkan, our sanctuary. How we create beauty and routine matters. A house that’s functional and attractive is one where we find rest and peace to escape the outside world.

Like the daily dog walk, other routines or “sacrifices” make our houses and gardens functional and humming. It’s a pain to clean up thoroughly, whether dusting, scrubbing or sweeping. Still, these small moments add up to a clean, healthy and safe place to live. Clinging to these rituals also orders our lives when we’re mourning or stressed.

Many have seen social media images of Israelis, family or friends, rushing to their shelters to stay safe during the war. Recently, I saw a clip of a mom who taught her small children that, when they heard a big boom in the shelter, they should say, “Olé!” She created a quirky, positive celebration of life to respond to missiles and the Iron Dome response. That routine helps create resilience during anxious moments. We can panic when we don’t know what to do. Solid routines (rituals) create order during difficult times.

About eight years ago, I crossed a busy street in front of my home with my (new to me) adolescent, large dog. We tripped over each other. I literally fell and rolled at an intersection full of fast-moving cars. Kind people asked if I was OK as I got up from the pavement, but some stopped their cars to yell at us instead. This further panicked an already bruised and disoriented young dog and owner. My long routines of dog walks helped me get up, calm the new dog and get across the street safely. The drivers, jostled by this upsetting event, lost their calm commute. While I was bruised, I had the tools to get up again. I could proceed without yelling rude things back.

Every dog walk is an opportunity for training and reassurance. Every meal is a chance to rejoice in good, tasty food with people we love. We make the ordinary something special. When we’re faced with upheavals, a bad tumble or even a war, we can find resilience in the rituals and beauty of each day as it comes. Jewish life offers repeat performances, if we choose to embrace them.

While I sometimes dread chores like weeding, our small choices each day, what we plant or weed, can become glorious garden landscapes later. Similarly, big Shabbat meal prep for family and friends can feel overwhelming. However, when I break it down into first steps and familiar routines, baking challah or turning out salads, I regain calm. And, with each gathering, the bonds with family and friends are deepened.

We can choose resilience and ritual, meaning and beauty as daily practice even during hard moments. We can find the joy in the everyday, if we look around and see what we’ve created through those routines. The minutiae in our lives, the how-to manuals of our days, can feel like too much. Even so, a calm child or dog, a well-planned meal or a garden filled with colour are all signs of someone’s daily efforts. These household routines aren’t ordinary, but magnificent, like the ways we built the Mishkan, our wilderness sanctuary. Perhaps what’s limiting is the unimaginative person who yells negatively, for that’s the person who cannot see the countless steps that go into making the mundane into something holy.

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.

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.

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.