Op-Ed – Page 10

Selina Robinson’s full speech – rally for Israeli hostages March 17/24

My friends,

I am sorry that I could not join you in person for safety reasons, but I thank the organizers for sharing a few words on my behalf.

My heart has been with all of you these past five months. I join you in seeking release of the hostages now. I join you in seeking peace – peace for the Palestinians – peace for Israelis – peace for us all.

I am told the theme for this week is resilience and so I have spent the last few days reflecting on my own resilience – as the lone voice in government speaking up for the Jewish community and how difficult it had become while others remained silent. I also focused on how much more difficult it became after I was forced to resign, feeling punished for speaking up about Jew-hatred.

I reflected on where the strength, the koach came from to persist, when it would have been so much easier to be silent, to fade into the background, to go along with the others and to pretend that everything was okay.

So, from where do I draw the strength?

It comes from different places:

A husband outraged that his wife is poorly treated by her colleagues, forced from a role she loves and who now keeps a baseball bat in the bedroom because others are threatening her life.
A son who stopped going to his gym shortly after the massacre on Oct. 7 because the Port Moody gym owner and city councillor decided that putting up a large Palestinian flag in her gym demonstrating to the world that she suddenly cares so deeply about a complex geopolitical conflict thousands of miles away is more important than the hurt this causes friends, colleagues, and customers.
A daughter who now must find significant financial resources to make sure the Jewish children in her care are safe this summer.

My strength has also come from:

The two Jewish professional women who, as a requirement of their jobs, came to hear the Throne Speech at the Legislature in February. They were forced to find a safe route into the building as there were dozens of protesters aggressively calling for a unilateral ceasefire and the destruction of Jews.
The physicians who refuse to train Jew-hating UBC medical students.
The teachers who organize to push back on the Jew-hatred we are seeing in the [BC Teachers’ Federation].
The people working in the public service who are telling their stories of intimidation like being told that their Jewish star necklace is a symbol of genocide.

Resilience for me comes from the countless stories from people who talk about being fearful at work, from Holocaust survivors who say, “It’s happening again.”

Resilience comes from Jewish community leaders and volunteers who are doing everything they can to keep programs running, to push government to do the right thing, to care for their congregants who are scared and worried, and who lead by example.

Resilience comes from the emails and letters from hundreds of people, Jewish and non-Jewish alike, who remind me that even though I felt alone in my caucus and in government, I was not alone. I am not alone. We are not alone. Many were seeing what I was seeing, what we are seeing and are prepared to stand up to Jew-hatred.

Resilience comes from reaching out to others who are hurting too and finding out that they want to help heal our wounds together.

Resilience comes from seeing the Oct. 7 survivors of rape and torture pick up the pieces of their lives. It comes from seeing Israelis gather once again to protest their government. It comes from so many of you who have reached out with words of support, encouragement, and love.

Resilience comes from us gathering our collective strength as we lift each other up and remind ourselves that we are not alone – that together we will find the strength – the strength to bring peace.

Making meaning in diaspora

“We’re planning a family event in June.” That’s how I start nearly every contact with vendors while trying to arrange it. Sometimes, I say a “party with family and friends.” I avoid saying b’nai mitzvah. It’s just easier and safer.

One of my twins has a locker at junior high near a student who uses her body as a sign of protest. “Free Palestine” is written on her cheek. Other days, messages are emblazoned on a sweatshirt. My kid says she seems to stare at him, but I recommended he just stay away, don’t stare back, and don’t cause any kind of confrontation. “Do you know this person?” I ask him. “No,” he says, “she doesn’t know us.” What he meant is perhaps more obvious to us now – he doesn’t think she knows we are Jewish.

The transition from a bilingual Hebrew/English public elementary school to a junior high where Jewish kids are few and far between has been a big one. To my surprise, it went smoothly, but, over time, the ramifications have become clear. We knew our kids would figure out that we were, in fact, a small minority in Canadian culture. In elementary school, they would choose surprising moments to discuss Jewish things or use words in Hebrew with people at the dentist’s office or on public transportation. At first, our explanations about how people were different, with various religions and backgrounds were confusing. In their minds, they still believed everyone was Jewish.

On one hand, I loved that they didn’t have to learn to code-switch as early as I did. Code-switching is a way to describe how we switch between dialects, languages or personae in different settings. That is, a person might speak one language at home and another at work. In Jewish settings, one might use what linguists call “Jewish English,” English interspersed with Yiddish or Hebrew or other Jewish languages. At home, we might be encouraging someone to “daven at shul” with friends. We might shout “Dai, maspik!” (“Stop, enough!”) when someone misbehaves. In public, we might say “go to services” or “Behave yourself!”

Some people say that learning this kind of nuance takes maturity, but that doesn’t always ring true. I knew, by age 5 or 6 when my ethno-religious identity needed to be kept to myself. During times of extreme antisemitism, children were forced to keep this hidden, or even not told they were Jewish until old enough to manage the information. Giving my kids this extended time of safety felt like offering them a special oasis, a honeymoon that I missed.

Years ago, I worked with an editor and writer who shared with me that she had a Jewish background, although she was adamantly secular. I often felt the need to code-switch with her, as something made me feel like I was “too Jewish” for her comfort level. Since Oct.7, things have changed. She has become public in her Jewish identity, speaking out against antisemitism. Recently, she has been reading history and research for a book-length project. Today, she said, reflecting on an historic “golden age” for Jews in Polish history: “There is no safety in America now just because it’s been a golden age for my lifetime.” Yeah, I responded. I know.

Everyone copes differently. On social media and among friends, some dig into their Jewish identities. They’re consistently posting about their Jewish pride or activities and asking others to do so as well. One local friend who regularly attends synagogue told me that, if anything, this war has made her want to “do Jewish” even more, so she’s physically attending more services and gatherings than she had previously. Others decide to keep their kids home from school on days where there might be safety issues or have stopped attending anything at all connected with the Jewish community. They keep a low profile. Being loud and proud isn’t their way.

I have seen all these approaches (and many variations) from the Jewish people I know. And there are the minority Jewish viewpoints, too, on the political right and left. Those who claim more of an affinity with their progressive causes than with Jewish ones are often vocal on social media and at pro-Palestinian protests, either finding ways to disown their background or use their Judaism to explain their activism. Some particularly outspoken ones demonstrate, at least to me, that they don’t have a solid grounding in Jewish history and tradition, particularly as it relates to Israel, but instead embrace narratives around colonialism and apartheid instead.

Lately, I have been longing to ask where these “land back” Canadian Jewish activists live, if not in homes on occupied land taken from Indigenous communities. If homes here are on occupied ground, where do they believe it would be acceptable for Jews to live? I wonder how they mesh these theories with their everyday lives, or the archeological, historical and literary references to the Jewish past.

Living in grey areas of nuance is exhausting. There are so many references in Jewish texts to back this up. We have, after all, been struggling with these identity issues for millennia. We’re the ethnic group for whom the Greek word of “diaspora” was invented. Yet, this is one time where more evidence seems pointless. For those of us who feel this discord and disconnect, it’s not news. For others, who either manage to live wholly in the Jewish world or outside of it, these retellings of history aren’t useful. So many people have made their place, and it’s not in the margins of subtlety.

There’s no one response that suits. For me, I understand the value of having a rich interior and family life. The moment I’m absorbed in braiding challah and reciting the blessing blocks out some of this noise. Although I’m alone, it’s meaningful spending that small moment to send love and prayers for the hostages, the Jewish community and my family. I knit sweaters for ever-growing twins, anticipating their big birthday ahead this spring. I fall deep into intellectual arguments online, or into gazing at a pileated woodpecker whose rat-a-tat vibrates throughout the neighbourhood.

Finding one’s authentic self, the comfort zone where all the discord falls away, offers a brief respite. As we meet this complex moment in time, finding small outlets of escape can enable us to keep on going. Perhaps this is about good mental health or, as generations before us have explained, it’s nothing new. It’s about making a meaningful life in a diaspora, amid struggle.

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.

To heal a fractured campus

Last November, I interviewed my grandmother for an oral history project – one I had been meaning to do for a long time – about her experience surviving the Holocaust. As the grandson of two Holocaust survivors, I can affirm the reality of intergenerational trauma. Yet, as I listened to her story, I realized she was teaching me valuable, timeless lessons which the University of British Columbia community can apply on campus. That is why I am obligated to share her story – so that we avoid repeating the mistakes of the past.

My grandmother was 13 years young when her parents and most of her family were taken away from her and deported, either to be shot on their way to Bergen-Belsen or exterminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. My grandmother, my safta (as I call her in Hebrew), was a little girl, orphaned, vulnerable and left all alone. She had every right to be bitter and resentful, to identify herself as a perpetual victim and to rightfully blame the Nazis for her suffering. But she did not.

She could never forgive nor forget the evil perpetrated by the Nazis. However, with this in mind, she had to move on with her life. The way she redeemed tragedy was not to define herself as the victim of the past, asking, “Who did this to me?” but rather by taking responsibility for the future, asking, “Given these circumstances, how can I help to put this situation right?”

This is the greatest eternal lesson I have learned from my grandmother and all the Holocaust survivors I have met: never internalize a victim mentality. Otherwise, you will not only become consumed with hate but also enslaved to the past. As the late chief rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks once said, “To be free, you have to let go of hate.”

My grandmother took the negative energy and elevated it toward a higher purpose: toward marrying my grandfather, toward raising a family, toward giving back to her community. Her all-encompassing identity, attitude and purpose in life has been not based on the hate of others. Rather, her identity is based on the love of her fellow Jews, of being grateful for her heritage and everything else she had.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” Eleanor Roosevelt once said. There was one thing from my grandmother that even the Nazis could never take away: her will to be proudly Jewish.

UBC campus today

For my grandmother, the Hamas massacre that took place on Oct. 7, 2023, triggered painful memories from the Holocaust. “Never again,” the lesson we learned from the six million Jews murdered, has now become “ever again.”

The amount of toxic hate I have seen on my campus (and other universities as well) since Oct. 7 has been both disheartening and overwhelming. From disrespectful comments on social media posts, to provocative posters on campus demonizing the other side, to verbal and physical harassment of students, there is a small, yet vocal, minority of students who create a highly flammable atmosphere on campus.

At UBC, I have witnessed students chanting the phrase “globalize the intifada,” a term that has historically been used in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict not for “peaceful resistance,” but for terrorizing Jews with suicide bombings, shooting attacks, stabbings and other means of armed violence. I have witnessed students blacklisting other students because they do not agree with their opinions. I have witnessed students rudely spamming hateful comments (which are now taken down) on UBC’s social media page to take advantage of International Holocaust Remembrance Day to push a political message. When I hear that “hate has no place on campus,” I unfortunately continue to observe the opposite.

This is the reason why I dropped my Middle East studies minor. Every time I walked into the classroom, the negative energy was palpable. I was walking on eggshells bringing up my Jewish identity or even mentioning the word “Israel.” Every day, I had to hide my kippa under my hat so that my classmates with different viewpoints would not identify me as Jewish and publicly shame me. In short, I did not feel welcome.

At a university, a safe space should not be a place where you are protected by those with whom you agree from those with whom you disagree – that is called groupthink. Rather, a safe space should be a place where you make space for those who disagree with you so that each can listen to the other with respect.

Whether or not you agree with Israeli, Jewish, Palestinian, Arab, Muslim or any other claims, there is no justification whatsoever to scream, silence or slander those with whom you disagree. Right now, the university needs more civility and calm for all students.

Yes, we must acknowledge that there are significant casualties on both sides of the conflict. Yes, we must acknowledge each other’s suffering. At the very least, we can all agree that every human life is sacred with equal dignity.

While we cannot control external circumstances halfway across the world from us, we can control how we respond to it. We can choose to wallow in misery and demonize the other (asking “Who did this to me?”), or we can take action to recognize each other’s suffering and elevate it to something positive (asking “Given these circumstances, how can I help to put this situation right?”).

Now, how do we do that?

Listening, not labeling

Opening yourself up to someone whose colour, culture, class or creed is different from yours can seem daunting. In an age of echo chambers, filtered media and narrowcasting, we all have a tendency to tune in to that which aligns only with our own viewpoint, while tuning out others. However, it is precisely the people not like us that make us grow.

From clubs tabling on campus to classmates sitting next to you, there are plenty of opportunities to actively seek out diverse perspectives. We need to learn how to listen for the sake of learning, not labeling.

If one has a monopoly on the truth, then why bother listening to others? Because, as a mystical Jewish saying goes: “A full vessel cannot receive.” It is only by acquiring humility, the sense of opening ourselves up to something beyond ourselves, that we realize our own perspective is merely one finite fragment of an infinitely fractured truth. Thus, I’ve reflected on three ideas worth sharing.

First: there is no justice for any person or people without listening to the other side.

Second: true peace, in our relationships with others and toward ourselves, comes as a result of active listening.

And third: in the words of C.S. Lewis, “Humility is not thinking less of ourselves, but thinking of ourselves less.”

Listening to the other is the first step toward recognizing the “dignity of difference.”

The antidote to hate

Hate, like COVID-19, is a virus. Viruses do not distinguish between different types of people, but rather fester and grow into an infectious force that threatens us all. Historically, for example, the Nazi regime may have started with targeting Jews, but it didn’t end with Jews. Nazis also targeted Roma, Sinti, LGBTQIA+, people with disabilities and political dissidents. Hate knows no bounds.

With this in mind, I offer three practical suggestions for what each of us can do on an everyday level to bring more hope to campus – and perhaps other places.

First, take a moment to unplug your AirPods or headphones. Just do it! Whether it’s while sitting on the bus or walking on campus, withdraw from your isolated world for five minutes and acknowledge someone you don’t know by saying hello with a genuine smile. Give them your full, undivided attention and start a friendly conversation. Humanizing starts with acknowledging the other.

Second, take a class from a perspective you have never heard from before. I am a history major. I had never considered taking an environmental history course before simply because I was not interested. But it is precisely for this reason that I am taking the course. Now, I realize how I could see my preexisting knowledge and interests from a new, oblique angle I would never have seen otherwise.

And third, follow social media accounts of people with different viewpoints from your own. Just like our earbuds, we are constantly using our phones. Every time we open Instagram or Twitter, we are training ourselves to focus on our interests and are quick to judge other accounts as not worth our time. Instead of judgment, be curious and interact with accounts to train yourself to learn from others, not label them.

We are first and foremost a community, of students and professors, of friends and family, of human beings with human emotions. Divided, we are more susceptible to hate. United, however, we have the potential to become force multipliers of hope over hate.

Each one of us should ask ourselves: Are we taking actions to further fracture our world, or heal it?

If we are to heal our fractured world, we must first recognize that each and every one of us has the power and influence to turn negative energy into positive energy, just like my grandmother did. If she could continue to spread light after going through the darkest chapter in human history, how much more so can every one of us dispel the darkness of hate by becoming beacons of light in our communities at UBC and elsewhere.

It all starts with one positive thought, one friendly compliment, one good deed.

It all starts with you.

Eitan Feiger is a fourth-year history student and the vice-president and treasurer of the University of British Columbia’s Chabad Jewish Student Centre. This article was originally published in the Ubyssey.

Danger in cancelations

Leah Goldstein was supposed to speak today at an International Women’s Day event but her invitation was rescinded. (photo from Leah Goldstein)

Leah Goldstein, a BC woman who is a professional road-racing cyclist and inspirational speaker, was supposed to be sharing her story with an audience in Peterborough, Ont., today, International Women’s Day. Instead, first she, then the event itself, was canceled, a byproduct of tensions around the Israel-Hamas war and its overflow into domestic affairs in Canada and around the world.

Goldstein, who lives in Vernon, was told her invitation to share her story – one of resilience and recovery following a devastating 2005 road accident that nearly ended her career – had been rescinded by the group organizing the IWD event in the city northeast of Toronto. The event had become the target of protests and threats after local activists learned of Goldstein’s service in the Israeli military.

“Their sponsor threatened to pull support after receiving threats from a small group of activists,” Goldstein told the Independent.

Goldstein spent most of her 20s first in the Israel Defence Forces teaching the martial art krav maga, then in elite Israeli spy and police agencies.

“I was made in Israel,” Goldstein said. “I was born in Canada.” The family made aliyah when Goldstein was a child, and she has dual Canadian and Israeli citizenship.

Perhaps in keeping with her martial arts background, Goldstein pulls no punches over her cancelation. In the climate since the start of the war, in October, it is not just Israelis who are being targeted, she said, but Jews.

“It’s not the IDF or whatever,” she said. “Even if I didn’t serve in the IDF, I still question whether they would’ve had me present.”

If the shoe were on the other foot, Goldstein said she would have no problem listening to a person with a different perspective.

“I can promise you this, though. If I were a Palestinian woman, I would not have been canceled,” she said. “As a Jewish woman, I would also not be offended listening to a Palestinian woman talking about her life. Why would I be offended?”

Whatever caused the organizers to disinvite her, whether her identity or the fact of her military background, Goldstein said, the content of her presentation would not have been controversial.

“I’m not political,” she said. “I’ve been speaking for 11 years. Not one time has anyone ever come up to me, my manager or the organization I work for and said they felt offended by anything I said. Not one time in 11 years. I speak about my athletic career, about my crashes, my recovery, some of the hardships that many women go through. That’s it.”

By focusing on her past, rather than her current message, Goldstein said, it is other people who are making Israel and Palestine an issue.

“They are almost forcing me to be political by making a comment or a statement,” she said.

Goldstein’s story is one of literally too many to keep track of recently, with anti-Israel activists targeting individuals, groups and businesses for cancelation or boycotts. In some cases – the defacing of a statue in Toronto of the late Canadian Jewish actor Al Waxman with Palestinian slogans – there is no pretence that the target is Israel rather than Jews.

Here in Canada, recently, other incidents are just this side of plausible deniability of overt antisemitism.

An anti-Israel march through the streets of Toronto took a moment to linger outside Mount Sinai Hospital chanting for “intifada.” After condemnations from Toronto’s mayor, Canada’s prime minister and other top officials, protest organizers insisted there was no antisemitic intent in targeting a hospital with a Jewish name founded by Jewish doctors.

“[Mount Sinai Hospital] just happens to be along our regular rally route, which we pass by on a usual basis, as we head to rally in front of the U.S. consulate,” they said in a statement.

If any form of racism was at play, they insisted, it was on the other side.

“The irony is that portraying the raising of the Palestinian flag as a hate-motivated act of antisemitism is itself perpetuating anti-Palestinian racism,” they contended.

Days later, an anti-Israel rally at McGill University in Montreal blockaded the Samuel Bronfman Building on campus, home of the university’s management department, accusing the faculty of a “long history of complicity in the occupation of Palestine.” The choice of location had nothing to do with the famous Jewish name plastered on the front of the building, they said.

Closer to home, Muslim organizations in British Columbia threatened that representatives of the NDP provincial government would not be permitted in Muslim spaces as long as Selina Robinson remained in cabinet because she made an offhanded remark about the arability of desert land three-quarters of a century ago. As one of the country’s most prominent (and only) Jewish elected officials and one who has unashamedly defended Israel, Robinson’s expulsion was a big coup for the activists.

These are all of a piece with similar reported events and, doubtlessly, many more such incidents unreported.

The Jewish-American singer (American, note, not Israeli) Matisyahu is currently in the midst of a kerfuffle in which concerts in Arizona and New Mexico were canceled. The venues assured the public that the concerts were canceled because of security concerns and short staffing, not because he’s a Jew.

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld was recently subjected to chants of “genocide supporter” and “Nazi scum” while leaving the State of World Jewry address by author Bari Weiss at New York’s 92nd Street Y. He got, perhaps, a better sense of the state of world Jewry outside the event than he did inside.

The group Art Not Genocide Alliance is calling to exclude Israel from this year’s 60th Venice Biennale. Officials at the Eurovision Song Contest are fine-tooth-combing this year’s Israeli entry to make sure there are no hidden political messages. Soccer governing bodies from 12 countries – almost all of them among the world’s worst human rights violators – are calling for Israeli teams to be excluded from FIFA, the international football entity.

In each of these instances, there is an argument to be made that the targets were not chosen because they are Jews (or are institutions founded or funded by Jews) but because they were at a Zionist event, or they made an impolitic remark or the people in the building are guilty of some unspecified Zionist infraction. This, though, is to unjustly justify their actions.

Whether Israel is being fairly or unfairly untreated is not the point here. Goldstein’s cancelation and the raft of similar examples are not targeting a country but Jewish individuals and entities. Yes, we are assured, these Jewish individuals and entities are also Zionist people and groups, a differentiation that is presumed to excuse this extraordinary singling out. Yet, we do not see performing artists from China, a country that is holding hundreds of thousands of Muslims in concentration camps, denied admission to Canadian or European cultural festivals. Citizens of Saudi Arabia, which holds mass public executions and subjugates the female half of the population, is not excluded from world soccer events. Citizens of the 50 or so other countries in the world that (unlike Israel) are categorized as “not free” or “partly free” are not subjected to slanders on the streets of New York or banned from speaking in Peterborough.

Never mind human rights abominations like North Korea or Iran. The brutalities perpetrated by their governments are almost entirely ignored by commentators and activists fixated on Israel. Again, though, that is only part of the problem. What we are seeing here is not an attack on official representatives of those countries. Rather, it is akin to screaming at people leaving an exhibition of Iranian art or boycotting a Chinese-Canadian-owned business. It is the sort of guilt by proxy that led apparently millions of otherwise decent Canadians to see little wrong in interning “enemy aliens” during wartime – except even that parallel fails because Canada is not at war with Israel but has longstanding and justifiably friendly relations and shared values with that country.

Agree or not with the approach, movements targeting a country and its official representatives operate in a realm of legitimate political discourse. There is something parallel but significantly different happening here. People and organizations perceived even remotely as associated with Israel are being targeted for boycotts – in some cases, to all appearances, merely being Jewish is enough to earn condemnation and cancelation. This is a textbook case (well, a codified illustration) of antisemitism.

Holding Jews collectively responsible for actions of the state of Israel is one of the examples accompanying the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance Working Definition of Antisemitism. This is largely moot, though, because the very people who employ these tactics explicitly reject the definition because it is accompanied by precisely examples like these. (If you don’t like being accused of xyz, redefine the meaning of xyz.)

Ultimately, there is no way to prove motivation. We can say the people shouting outside a Jewish hospital or calling Seinfeld “Nazi scum” are antisemitic, they can say they’re not, and no one is any further ahead.

There is something irrefutable, though. The Overton window, the spectrum of ideas that are deemed acceptable in a political discussion, is widening. Every time a Jewish speaker is targeted or a Jewish singer is subjected to cancelation and the public responds with a yawn, the bounds of what is acceptable broadens. It is by no means hyperbolic to suggest that this is precisely the way a society begins a slide into despotism or mob rule.

The context or content of the complaints cease to really matter. Organizations issue diktats demanding the ouster of a Jewish politician, thugs threaten to disrupt a concert, a religious group threatens a governing party’s standing in a few swing ridings and political leaders, event producers and concert venues capitulate. Pretty soon, activists and malcontents of all sorts see that threatening violence or boycotts is the easiest way to silence their targets because middle-of-the-road people fold instantly behind valid concerns for safety.

Motivation and intent probably matter less than outcome. These targetings have the effect of isolating, sidelining and menacing Jewish people – call them Jews, call them Zionists, call them whatever.

This is, without overstatement, a dangerous threat to bedrock ideas of a democratic society.

Knishes and relationships

My kids came home asking about knishes. Did I know how to make them? Where do we buy them? I thought this was weird. I asked for more information.

Their school resource teacher and International Baccalaureate coordinator, Ms. T, plays an important role in their lives. She does lunch time enrichment clubs, coaches sports, and her responsibilities include supporting kids with disabilities, and the IB program. When I say that I’m not sure how she does it all, one of my kids springs up out of his seat, showing how she crouches in front of a computer in one office, typing madly. Then he dashes across the kitchen to indicate her rush to the next office, to crouch at another desk. She is, simply, everywhere.

This is when I learned that Ms. T said knishes were not, in fact, everywhere. In Winnipeg, people buy these ethnic foods from synagogues who cater, a Jewish deli or bakery. Due to a strange confluence of events, two Winnipeg synagogues are under renovation currently and without their usual catering kitchens. Other sources for knishes apparently hadn’t worked out. As a result, one of our favourite teachers was bereft of knishes.

As a kid in Virginia, I experienced knishes in two ways: one involved a street cart vendor when visiting New York with family members. The other came from a frozen packet from a far away kosher grocery store in Maryland. I’d never made one at home. I’d never considered it. It wasn’t eaten frequently in my house. Winnipeggers eat them more often. Of course, since moving here, I have, too, but I don’t miss them when they aren’t around.

I was thinking about our relationships with knishes, teachers and community recently, when I took a class from My Jewish Learning on the Hadran prayer, taught by Rabbi Elliot Goldberg. What’s that? Funny you should ask. When a person finishes studying a tractate of Talmud, they recite this prayer. I’d never heard of it until I started studying Talmud daily. When we got to the end of the first tractate, I learned that, when one finishes this kind of thing, there is a siyyum, a celebration of one’s completion of study. I’d never heard of a siyyum as a kid at a Reform congregation. When I first attended one as an undergraduate, it seemed like something that I would never be involved in. I remember an awkward party at the Jewish Living Centre with stale cookies, juice and cheers about the gawky guy with glasses who had finished studying … I’m not sure what. In a siyyum, there’s food, there’s a public teaching of something you’ve learned, and the community cheers you on.

With the start of the pandemic, my own siyyum events have been online, usually through My Jewish Learning. There’s no food on Zoom, so that aspect of the celebration is muted, as is the cheering and crowd. Nonetheless, I have grown to love these events. It’s an hour that I pull out of my day at random, whenever it’s held online, and even during remote school or summer break or whatever, it’s “Mom’s siyyum time.” I’m learning with rabbis online via an iPad, even while making peanut butter sandwiches for lunch or hiding from the whole household to concentrate. It’s cerebral. It’s a shared learning community. It’s oddly emotional.

The first time I heard the Hadran prayer read, I cried. I found myself wondering what was wrong with me, but this class spelled out why it feels meaningful. The Hadran is usually said after studying a seder (order) of Mishnah or a tractate of the Babylonian Talmud, but sometimes it is said at a rabbinical school graduation, a Jewish high school graduation. It’s an acknowledgement. It starts with, “We will return to you, Tractate X (whatever tractate you’re studying), and you will return to us; our mind is on you, Tractate X, and your mind is on us; we will not forget you, Tractate X, and you will not forget us – not in this world and not in the next world.” The prayer goes on to talk about the blessing and value of studying Torah, and the hope that our descendants will have the same opportunities. It’s well worth a read. (Look up “Hadran” on sefaria.org.)

The entire text creates emotional ties and intellectual relationships. I’m connected to the mysterious 10 rabbis from long ago and to unknown great-grandchildren in this text. I’m connected to a cycle of learning and a return to sacred study. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and mindful that it takes work to study, even if it’s a holy endeavour. It’s a prayer that acknowledges that readers have relationships with texts, which mimics what I learned in graduate school about some literary theory, too. That long-ago English professor taught that, when we read novels or newspapers, our life experience, reading skills and emotions bring half of the meaning to the words in front of us. We’re in relationship with texts, just like we’re in relationships with our teachers and communities.

We had an afterschool Reach for the Top trivia tournament to attend with Ms. T. I knew what to do. I figured it out in advance. I made potato knishes. As we hopped out of our car, my twins recognized Ms. T’s bright blue Jeep. They rushed towards her, with carry-out containers full of potato knishes.

I joked, saying, “Who makes knishes?! They come from a cart in New York City!” With a sombre smile, she said, “My baba.” Her grandmother used to make her knishes. Oh. I gave a flip response, saying, “OK! I’ll be your baba now.” She put the knishes in the car and we went off to the three-hour tournament. Ms. T rushed out later. That night, she sent me an email of thanks, saying it made a delicious snack when she headed to her next meeting.

We’re in a cycle of relationships in life, with lots of connections. A siyyum is an opportunity for us to celebrate and acknowledge hard work with a closure ritual. The Hadran tells us that “we will return” to a beloved text or, perhaps, to a beloved teacher.

The trivia tournament might not be Talmud. The knishes aren’t always round, or even necessarily knishes, but the connections between text, teachers, generations of learning, eating and love are real and they’re part of making Jewish meaning, too. A siyyum’s ritual of completion is always linked to food and a sense that we’re part of a bigger family and cycle of life. We return to you – whether it’s a knish made with love or a tractate of Talmud.

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.

Speaking up for safe spaces

Although I have been doing Daf Yomi (studying a page of Talmud a page a day), I fell asleep a few days ago before I could finish learning my page of Talmud. I was worn out. And it was a page particularly relevant to my life.

Bava Kamma 99 talks about the value a craftsperson brings to the raw materials. For instance, if a customer brought wool to be dyed but something went wrong and the dyer made a mistake, the dyer would owe the customer the value of the wool. The value of the craftsperson’s enhancement is a different, additional calculation on top of the raw materials’ value. The skill and artistry that the craftsperson brings to their craft has economic value, which is part of what this tractate of Jewish law covers.

I’m a maker. I create lots of things, from baking bread to making labneh and many homemade family meals. I can make jams and pickles. I’m a hand spinner. I also dye yarn. I knit and design things. I even occasionally weave. I sew clothing, too, if in an elementary way. I appreciate it when I read about how a craftsperson adds value to raw materials in a Jewish text because it’s personally relatable. It shows that, in a time when everything was handmade, the rabbis valued the skilled work involved to make functional and sometimes beautiful things.

Since I had to study the rest of page 99 before heading on, I did half of that page and the next on the same day. Bava Kamma 100a talks about how teachers “go beyond” – not just in how they teach Torah, but in how they do mitzvot (commandments) and help others. Even though I trained as a teacher long ago, nobody’s an expert at everything. I teach some things, like hand spinning, and not others. I’m not able to “go beyond” as a sewing teacher, for example, and, instead, I searched for someone who could teach my kids.

My kids took sewing classes and attended sewing camp for two summers at a studio nearby. The small business owner was warm and inviting. It seemed to be a safe place. When she asked people to write blog posts for her, I did. It didn’t pay much but I thought it was a good community business, promoting slow fashion and reuse.

As many people were, I was in shock after Oct. 7. I didn’t immediately see anything concerning about this business, as it felt like it was “mostly” about sewing. Then, eventually, I began to realize that, in fact, there was an increasing trickle of activism on this social media feed. Like many Canadian progressives, this was part of a wider theme. Nothing was expressed in solidarity with the hostages or those who died on Oct. 7. Rather, the business began acknowledging and amplifying Palestinian influencers, posting participation in a raffle for the Red Crescent and posting ceasefire comments.

Every time I ask questions of someone I know – Why are you posting this? Do you support the right to a democracy to protect itself? – the exchanges, often disappointing, take an enormous amount of energy. Being brave and speaking out is tiring with so much antisemitism circulating.

I finally got up the nerve to ask the business owner … why are you posting about this, what does this activism about Israel and Gaza have to do with your small business? Are you Israeli or Palestinian? Are you an activist about a lot of things beyond slow fashion? If so, where is your outrage about Nigeria, Sudan, Syria, Uyghurs…?

In response, she did say she wanted all the hostages released, but she had never posted that publicly. Instead, she had reposted images promoting a tatreez (Palestinian embroidery) class. Fine, I thought, this aligned with her sewing business – but the image posted showed the outline of Israel with Arabic on top that read “PALESTINE” across the whole country. It erased Israel altogether.

I engaged via social media messaging, but saw it wasn’t likely to help. She asked, well, what do you want me to say? I suggested one could choose to be an ally of people you taught or worked with, or could choose to listen and to not amplify only one side. She didn’t choose either of those options. Instead, she decided to take down my writing from her site. I’d suggested that she could remove my name, if she chose, as it was her prerogative, that she’d bought my writing and owned it.

She then made things clear, saying it was “Only Jews who told her to ‘shut up’ or ‘stay in her lane as a Canadian.’” She said plenty of Jews aligned with her beliefs … although, based on the polls, I responded they were likely a minority. I suggested maybe only those Jewish customers brave enough to say something had spoken up.

I was initially sad to lose this community connection. I could have unfollowed this person without this discussion. My kids would never have taken another class. I’d never do business with her again. The depth of her concerning opinions wouldn’t have been revealed.

By exposing this small businessperson’s attitude, I learned more about what was “out there” in the local makers’ community. This included a willingness to lose business and relationships with students and clients who feel uncomfortable with these views.

I struggle sometimes to create a positive sewing lesson environment for my kids at home. However, there’s a different outcome here. I might grow as a person from “adding value to raw materials” as a craftsperson, to teaching more. This was something I could do. I falsely hoped that, if I tried hard to communicate, build bridges and connect with this person, things would change. But I need to continue learning and growing, too. Even this negative experience might have positive potential for growth.

When telling my family about the experience at the dinner table, my twins surprised me by saying, “Well, what took you so long? We could never go back there again.” Indeed, sometimes we give intolerant people too many chances to rise to the occasion, to become upstanding people. In this case, my kids knew the way before I did.

Small but staying visible

A new novel blurb for Tilda is Visible by Jane Tara just arrived in my email inbox. I haven’t read it yet, but its premise is familiar. Publisher’s Lunch describes it as a book “about a successful woman who wakes up one day to discover her ear is gone, the next day her nose; she is diagnosed with a condition whispered about around the globe – as some women age, they start to disappear; she finds a renegade doctor, other diagnosed women, as well as a blind man who might see her more clearly than anyone ever has.”

The plot reminded me of an anecdote I heard. Since a person in a position of authority at work must be impartial, any outward expressions of her Judaism or feelings about the war remain mostly off-limits as a “boss.” An admin assistant proudly hangs a Ukrainian flag, but an Israeli flag is out of bounds. The boss feels that the current situation and increasing antisemitism make her feel smaller. Her recent solution? She put up a piece of tape on her door with a handwritten number. She does this to recognize how long Israeli hostages have been held in Gaza. This idea, started by hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s mother, Rachel, helps people show a visible sign of concern about the hostages. It’s a small way to stay visible during a difficult time.

Older women often experience the feeling of becoming smaller. As women age, their earnings can decrease, despite job seniority or wisdom. If a woman doesn’t dye her hair or “keep up” appearances, others comment that she is “past her prime,” as if worth is only wrapped up in appearances or fertility. Despite recent legal or financial protections, many older women’s financial worth depends directly on a higher-earning male partner.

Many Jews describe a similar feeling of “becoming smaller” after Oct. 7. Politicians pair antisemitism and Islamophobia when discussing discrimination and hate, but the numbers aren’t equivalent. In Canada, the Jewish community is a minority and, in terms of population, substantially smaller than the Muslim community. Jewish community members describe choosing not to shop in areas where they used to feel safe or trying to avoid conflict in places where protests take place. Protesters may hold Jewish Canadians somehow responsible for the Gaza war.

There have always been security concerns, but now when a Jewish event happens, organizers include information about security provisions. We are a small group, forced by circumstance to become smaller to protect ourselves. Our worth and safety as citizens feels tied to the majority’s interest in keeping minorities from harm.

For some, it’s a new and restrictive feeling. However, social media clips of Israeli soldiers singing “Gesher Tzar Me’od” show that this isn’t new. These words, which come from Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, with music written by Ofra Haza, are “The whole world is a narrow bridge and the main thing is not to be at all afraid.”

Rabbi Nachman lived from 1772 to 1811 in Ukraine and founded the Breslov Hasids. He was the great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, who started Hasidism. During his lifetime, Rav Nachman traveled to Israel, moved within Ukraine, and struggled with tuberculosis. Although he died at age 38, his teachings remain vibrant. While this song is old, the message remains contemporary.

One way to understand the feeling of becoming smaller or narrower is to look at Jewish texts that embrace the concept. Psalm 118:5 says, “From the narrow place I called out to you [G-d], G-d answered me from a wide space.” Another translation ends, “the Lord answered me and brought me relief.” The word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, holds within it this idea of a “narrow space.” How eerie that soldiers, heading south into Gaza, towards Egypt, reminded themselves of this.

Continuing the metaphor, when leaving Egypt, Moses took the people into the wilderness, which is seen as a big, uncharted territory. Diving into the unknown is scary. New endeavours feel this way, whether it’s something dangerous like a war or something less worrying, like starting something new or entering an unfamiliar place.

We’re often encouraged that, if we dive in and move beyond our anxieties, we will have great opportunities ahead. Surely Rabbi Nachman’s efforts to help people seemed novel in his time. He taught through niggunim, wordless melodies. He encouraged his followers to embrace uninhibited prayer, personal conversations with the Divine, and to fulfil the mitzvah of always being joyful. To those who just go to services and follow along, or who don’t pray at all, it all might feel a little ecstatic and weird.

Yet, getting beyond a narrow place or being made to feel small can sometimes result in something bigger and better ahead. Whether you make yourself bigger through prayer, protest, quiet signals (like masking tape numbers), getting out into nature and the world or singing, you are finding a bigger space for yourself. When I simply take a walk with my dog and pause to see the prairie landscape, to greet neighbours and be greeted, I feel momentary narrow places dissipating. In contrast, when we think of the truly small spaces where Israeli hostages spend their time, our feelings of being diminished in the diaspora may not feel as pressing.

We choose to see others and be seen when we consider wider possibilities or the wilderness ahead. Being acknowledged and “seen” for our contributions helps everyone. It scares away our inhibitions to make it past the narrow spaces and into a better time. Right now, advocacy through law helps some fight hate and discrimination. Some, like the Israel Defence Forces, physically fight. Others might bide their time in scary, smaller spaces to get to a safer space, a place full of potential, ahead.

When we’re afraid, our breathing becomes shallow. We get less oxygen to our brain. We think less clearly. Rabbi Nachman and Ofra Haza may not have known the biology behind why singing would open up our souls. Surely, those deep singing breaths help us take on bigger, harder things. Those deep breaths, like experiencing the outdoors in nature, offer us more power to conquer our fears. When we sing out, we also become visible. Our voices, even as a minority in the diaspora, may be heard.

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.

Critical thinking a vital skill

As a 20-something in the mid-1990s, I taught high school English. Part of my course load was a collaborative Grade 10 World Civilizations course that I co-taught with a social studies teacher. One day, I flippantly advertised our next assignment to a room of 16-year-olds, saying, “Oh, hey, we’re going to start reading Candide by Voltaire next week! You’ll love it! It’s full of sex, drugs and violence.”

To my surprise, many of those students talked to their parents. I received a flurry of concerned phone calls, messages and emails. Parents were worried about the curriculum. In the end, my explanations were successful. Yes, it’s true that Candide is probably rated R, but this fantastical satire was first published in 1759. It’s a famous classic, it’s definitely “literature,” with lots of intrigue and ideas we can learn from – and, oh yeah, it’s not true.

Literature teachers often speak of the great truths found in the classics, but fiction isn’t “the truth.” It’s complicated to untangle, and that’s why we study it to develop our critical thinking skills. In our multi-discipline history and English course, we had opportunities to discuss how history evolved, how we could examine primary sources to draw conclusions, and more. Literature was just a part of our opportunity to read and analyze important texts.

All this came to mind recently when some antisemitic posts came my way via social media concerning the Talmud. People started quoting the Talmud and inferring from brief quotations that Jews did all sorts of evil things. This was something of a modern blood libel approach; using brief snippets out of the huge body of law and literary work to condemn an entire ethnoreligious group. What followed was both a lot of nonsense and some deep belly laughs from Jews and scholars who study Talmud. Now, if you want to understand this text, buy all the tractates of the Babylonian (and don’t forget the Jerusalem) Talmud. You’re looking at a several-thousand-dollar purchase, which you can’t read unless you know Aramaic and Mishnaic Hebrew, as well as Rashi script, to read his commentary.

In recent years, Sefaria, an online database, has offered access to Talmud and many other Jewish texts, both in the original and in translation, for free. It’s been a tremendous gift and democratization of these ancient texts. However, having access doesn’t mean you have understanding. Like reading Candide for the first time, it’s helpful to have a teacher, some historical context, and lots of support to aid in your comprehension. These online X commenters, taking short rabbinic quotes out of context, had no idea what they were talking about. In many cases, the Talmud’s rabbinic musings explore arbitrary legal situations that never happened in order to explore and define the minutiae of Jewish law.

Also online, I saw others bemoaning how learning historical “facts” seemed solid and unquestionable – dates and events – but that, with modern events, it seemed hard to define what had happened and what was true as compared to misinformation. This anecdotal experience is common but it’s misleading. It takes a long time to establish a common narrative around a historical event, and “the winners” of war or political events create their version of history. Using multiple primary sources, as well as multiple historians’ accounts, helps learners see how historians lend their biases to their interpretation of what happened. We only get a full picture of “what happened” through exploring many perspectives from multiple sources. Even then, it’s hard to know if the history we’ve learned is “true,” or not.

Developing a mature understanding of literature and world events requires us to be critical thinkers. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in 1936, “… the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”

I’d say that, often, intelligent people explore complex political, historical, social or literary scenarios that hold multiple opposing ideas at once. But this kind of learning takes time and energy. It does not happen automatically. Our society loves binaries, where we get a quick yes/no answer.

My kids aren’t in high school. Yet, as a parent, I look forward to the day they come home excited about a “mature” literature assignment full of “sex, drugs and violence.” Each new milestone achieved fills me with hope. This year, for the first time, I have two kids who skate on their own, and I don’t always have to lace them up. At the same time, we’re trying to get to complex, but age-appropriate understandings of the Hamas-Israel war. We explore what is happening along with how the media depicts the situation. Who shapes our understanding of what’s happening? How? Most difficult is exploring the questions around whether anyone “wins” in a war when there is so much suffering involved.

The world is complicated. We can use literature and ideas for enjoyment, but also as tools to help think about big issues. Thinking critically about complex issues is a sign of intelligence and maturity. We must cultivate this skill. I hope it’s something my kids achieve as those long-ago high school students did.

Critical thinking is also a lens through which to examine the multiple simplistic social media and news narratives we’re facing every day. One can ask why the description of an event is so simplistic or who is consistently blamed in the narrative. Often, a short take on Talmud doesn’t demonstrate a deep understanding. A news article that fails to include the back story isn’t going to cut it. A view that always blames only one country – Israel – or one ethnoreligious group – Jews – might be similarly flawed.

Developing our thinking skills enables us to understand complexity. It also helps us discern an argument’s flaws. Let’s nurture smart thinkers so they can recognize and discard the nonsense, misinformation and hate that pops up so frequently now online and in the news.

Nuance is vital path to empathy

On the morning of Oct. 7, 2023, I was in Vancouver, celebrating the holiday of Simchat Torah with my family. We woke up, my father went to synagogue, and I lay on the couch sipping coffee and reading a book. Four hours later, I was sitting on the couch of the Mizrachi family. Ben Mizrachi z”l was one of my brother’s closest childhood friends, a pillar of joy in our community, and an attendee of the Nova Music Festival in Israel on Friday evening. I watched for two days in helpless disbelief as his parents waited to hear whether their son was alive. On the third day, his body was identified.

By Oct. 9, I had already unfollowed one of my friends on Instagram. By Oct. 19, the number had become too many to count. I opened my friends’ Instagram stories with a pit of dread in my stomach, wishing I could stop looking, but feeling compelled to know where they stood. Ignorance may be bliss, but knowledge is safety. I watched, feeling resentful and hopeless as friends with no lived experience in this conflict posted comparisons between the Israeli government and Nazi Germany, tokenized anti-Zionist Jewish voices, spread demonizing misinformation, labeled Israelis “European settler-colonialists” and justified sexual violence in the name of “resistance” and “liberation.”

Humans crave consistency. We naturally gravitate towards narratives with a clear villain and an undeniable victim. Research on cognitive dissonance theory has demonstrated that we experience intense psychological discomfort when faced with information that conflicts with a preconceived belief. In response, we can either change the preconceived belief, which requires us to admit we were previously wrong, or we can discount and discredit the new information to protect our self-image. The dominant narrative in liberal North American circles has become that Jews and Israelis are colonizers in a land stolen from Palestinians. In accordance with cognitive dissonance theory, if Jews and Israelis are oppressors, we cannot also be victims. So, we must not be victims, after all. This narrative feeds into classic stereotypes about Jews as powerful, wealthy, manipulative and, in modern parlance, privileged.

Prejudice and discrimination have psychological benefits. Research shows that the act of derogating a member of a stereotyped group has positive implications for self-esteem. One foundational study by Fein and Spencer (1997) found discriminating against a woman who fit the stereotype of a “Jewish American Princess” dramatically improved participants’ self-esteem after receiving negative feedback. In other words, putting others down makes us feel better. Many in my social circles would balk at the mere thought of discriminating against a marginalized group. Yet, if you can convince yourself that a marginalized group is privileged, you can reap the self-esteem benefits of derogation without suffering cognitive dissonance. If Jews are oppressors and not victims, then discrimination is not only warranted, it feels good.

In the study conducted by Fein and Spencer in 1997, research participants enacted their discrimination in private, by degrading the Jewish subject’s personality and job qualifications. Today, we can perform our discrimination publicly through social media. Public discrimination maintains the self-esteem benefits of private discrimination, with the bonus of entrenching belonging within a social in-group. Humans have a fundamental need to belong. We fulfil this need by affiliating ourselves with social in-groups based on race, ethnicity, disability, music preference and TV-show character fandoms. Posting socio-political stances on social media is not simply about sharing information, it is a means of signalling affiliation with a valued in-group of social justice advocates. The opportunity to simultaneously derive a self-esteem boost from the derogation of Jews is a heady combination.

Despite our pursuit of certainty in the face of cognitive dissonance, certainty is the enemy of knowledge, nuance and, in the context of the Israel-Hamas war and other conflicts or social divisions, empathy. Research in social psychology has shown that the more certain we feel about our socio-political opinions, the less likely we are to seek out information that might challenge our beliefs. Those who feel certain in their characterization of the current Israel-Hamas war as morally unambiguous cannot cave to nuance, lest their psychological well-being suffer. Yet, the embrace of two opposing truths is at the core of seeing each other as human, capable of being both villain and victim in the same breath. Sitting with cognitive dissonance is painful, but it is the only path to true empathy.

Shira Mattuck, MA, is a clinical child psychology doctoral student in the Genetics and Neurobehavioural Systems: Interdisciplinary Studies (GENESIS) Lab at the University of Houston. She was born and raised in Vancouver and is a graduate of Vancouver Hebrew Academy and York House School.

CANCELED Play should not be canceled

Christopher Morris as Jacob in The Runner. (photo by Dylan Hewlett)

Since this article was published, PuSh has canceled the production. For the statement, click here.

The Belfry Theatre in Victoria has removed Christopher Morris’s play The Runner from its 2024 lineup. I can see why it did so – the threats of violence are real, and scary. But it was the wrong decision.

“The Belfry Theatre presents contemporary work, with ideas that often generate dialogue. That is why, a year ago, we decided to bring the much-acclaimed play, The Runner, to Victoria. However, we believe that presenting The Runner at this particular time does not ensure the well-being of all segments of our community,” reads the Jan. 2 statement.

Last month, a petition was started to remove the one-man play about an Israeli rescue worker whose life is forever changed after he helps an Arab woman, who may have stabbed an Israeli soldier to death, before attending to the soldier. A counter-petition was started by members of the Jewish community to keep The Runner at the theatre. At press time, the protest petition had more than 1,400 signatures, while the counter-petition had more than 2,400.

The Belfry Theatre invited people to come and discuss any issues surrounding the play. That Dec. 22 meeting dissolved into chaos, overtaken by protesters with bullhorns and anti-Israel signs. The Belfry building was subsequently vandalized with multiple stickers that said “trash” and anti-Israel sentiments, topped off with a red-spray-painted “Free Palestine.”

The threat of more violence – implied by the aggressiveness of the protesters at the December meeting and the defacement of the theatre’s building – was probably a main reason for the Belfry canceling the show. It seems that the protesters have successfully bullied the theatre into changing its programming. Instead of contributing to a safe space in which ideas could be presented, considered, discussed, perhaps agreed upon, perhaps not, the protesters have created an atmosphere of fear. They have put other creatives on notice – unless you reflect only what we believe, we will shut you down.

By succumbing to the pressure, the Belfry has perhaps protected its staff and its building – the importance of which cannot be understated – but a dangerous precedent has been set. On the larger world stage, we have seen how screaming down other viewpoints, vandalism and worse violence, misrepresentation and misinformation, can win the day. The success of such tactics in Victoria is another reminder, if we needed one, of how easily freedoms can be removed. How easily voices can be silenced.

Accuracy and context matter, and the petition includes neither.

The petition describes The Runner as “a story of Israeli settlers in a dehumanizing exercise of whether Palestinian and Arab life is of value.” Its writers “demand[ed]” the Belfry “remove The Runner from [its] 2024 lineup,” claiming that it “features the violent and racist rhetoric of Zionism from an exclusively Israeli perspective.” They cite two unattributed, non-contextualized sentences from the script that ostensibly support their position.

The play is not about Israeli settlers, it does not celebrate Israeli settlers or militant Zionism. Jacob – a volunteer from Jerusalem with ZAKA (Israel’s nongovernmental rescue and recovery organization) – is the main character, the hero, the one the audience is rooting for, along perhaps with the Arab woman he helps save.

The quote chosen by the petitioners is spoken by Ari, Jacob’s brother, who is portrayed as a rabid settler nationalist. He is a jerk, and an awful brother. People like Ari do exist, but one of the points of the play seems to be that he is not the model human, that his views are not what people should think.

The petitioners have one aspect of the play almost correct: it does focus on Israeli perspectives (plural), as the main character is Israeli, and so are his mother and brother, and his colleagues. And I will admit that I had trouble with this aspect of the play, too. I felt that The Runner only asked questions about Israelis’ morality, that it disparaged Jews’ claims to the land, that it depicted every Israeli character other than Jacob harshly. While terrorism is shown, the terrorist characters aren’t held to any account, in my view, and there are no moral demands made of them.

I am proud that the petition to keep The Runner in the Belfry’s lineup was initiated by members of the Jewish community. I believe in Israel’s right to exist and to defend itself, at the same time as I believe in the right of people to criticize, question and protest. In a democratic country, I don’t see the need to attack people or destroy property to voice an opinion, especially not about the arts. It is no wonder there are multiple conflicts taking place around the world – even in Canada, where we enjoy multiple freedoms and are relatively rich in resources, we find it challenging to be open, civil and respectful of diversity.

If The Runner had encouraged violence or discrimination, I might have signed a petition against it, too, and even joined a rally, but I hope that I would have chosen to critique it instead, to share my point of view instead of trying to silence Morris’s. I certainly would not have chosen to threaten or commit violence against people or property.

Several aspects of The Runner bother me, but I think it is an excellent piece of work because it has taken up more of my brain space than almost any other play, movie or performance that I’ve seen or book or article I’ve read. It has made me angry, thoughtful, sad, and I continue to contemplate my various reactions. It has literally kept me up at night. In this respect, Morris has done his job extremely well. People should see this play. I sincerely hope the bullies will not succeed in silencing the PuSh Festival’s presentation of it as well.

For my interview with Christopher Morris, click here. To read statements about the Belfry Theatre’s decision to remove The Runner from its lineup, click here. For more on the Victoria situation, see thecjn.ca/news/runner-play-victoria.