I never set out to be a collector. Whenever I read about millionaires with fabulous private collections of art and sculpture, I thought, why not just keep a few pieces you really love and give the rest on loan to a museum or gallery so that others can share their beauty?
Yet, I find now that I do have collections. They’re not worth any money and probably no one else would want them. Most people in my age group have accumulated possessions they can’t bear to part with, despite moving homes and maybe even countries several times in their lives.
Who remembers that song of yesteryear: “Among My Souvenirs”? Part of the lyrics were: “Some letters tied with blue, a photograph or two, I find a rose from you, among my souvenirs.”
What we are collecting are memories. There are moments we want to hold on to forever and, when we handle these mementoes, they bring a smile, a tear, a bittersweet wave of nostalgia.
I have more than a thousand books, and nowhere to put them all. Many are paperbacks, yellowed pages and tattered covers. But, to throw them out would be like disposing of dear friends. Lots of poetry – some by almost-forgotten writers like Alice Duer Miller, Rupert Brooke, A.E. Housman, Dorothy Parker. Novels by Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh, Hemingway, Steinbeck. Volumes of Jewish essays, which provide great divrei Torah. Books on philosophy, psychology, the craft of writing. They all represent my youth, when I discovered the world and the wonders it contained. No, I can’t throw them away!
Then there are the photos. They started out in albums, but there are too many and I’m too lazy. Beloved family no longer with us. Friends from long ago. Weddings. Babies, bright-eyed and dimpled. Rites of passage – first day at kindergarten and school, b’nai mitzvahs, graduations. Grandchildren. Holidays. They are all cherished, and overflow from drawers and cabinets.
Bric-à-brac. One earring (the other lost), given by my first boyfriend. Small children’s drawings. Their clumsy efforts at making you things from wood or papier mâché. A challah cloth with crooked stitches. A letter on a torn page that proclaims in shaky Hebrew letters, “Savta, I love you.” How could you ever toss those?
I also have a collection of shells and rocks. Most were gifts from grandchildren who wanted to give me something in return for the toys I gave them. There is a pinecone. There are stones I gathered at the Dead Sea on my sister’s last visit, when we spent a perfect, quiet day together, exchanging memories of our parents and siblings, our childhood, the dreams we realized and the ones we lost along the way. All precious. All irreplaceable.
“Get rid of the clutter,” we’re told. Not me. I shall go on collecting mementoes and memories until I die. And I hope my children, even then, will save a few of them. Because some things are worth more than money.
Dvora Waysmanis a Jerusalem-based author. She has written 14 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant, which was made into a movie, and her latest novella, Searching for Sarah. She can be contacted at [email protected] or through her blog dvorawaysman.com.
This academic year marks the second session of Writing Lives, a two-semester project at Langara College, coordinated by instructor Dr. Rachel Mines. Writing Lives is a partnership between Langara, the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre and the Azrieli Foundation. This fall, students are learning about the Holocaust by studying literary and historical texts. In January, students will begin interviewing local Holocaust survivors and will write their memoirs on the basis of the interviews. Students are keeping journals of their personal reflections on their experiences as Writing Lives participants. Many students used their most recent journal entry to reflect on the value of literature in transmitting Holocaust memory. Here are a few excerpts.
The role of literature in preserving history is controversial but important. Understandably, there are people who are reluctant or even vehemently opposed to recording the Holocaust through the lens of art, concerned that the act of rewriting events in a fictional context may undermine the significance of the tragedy. Others may worry that historical inaccuracies are inevitable in these artistic works, thus doing a disservice to the victims and betraying their memories.
I would argue otherwise: that literature and historical facts can and should build upon one another, used to educate and not obscure. For me, reading our history textbook this semester has not always been easy, but reading the short story A Ghetto Dog by Isaiah Spiegel took the experience to a different level. Such is the power of narrative. As Menachem Kaiser wrote in his article “The Holocaust’s uneasy relationship with literature” (The Atlantic, Dec. 28, 2010), “literature affects us in ways that even the most brutal history cannot.” Literature makes the event close, immediate and personal. It’s hard for me to imagine being a Jew in Second World War Europe, but personal accounts and narratives come close to letting us immerse ourselves in the tragedy.
– Athina Leung
In his article “The Holocaust’s uneasy relationship with literature,” Kaiser argues that Holocaust literature is an important part of history. It can provide the emotional connection that reading facts cannot. It is a window to understand what people felt without having to experience the ordeal that the characters or author went through. Literature has the power to move the human heart. Facts are important, but they do not give the reader the ability to connect with history in ways that a more emotional and personal experience can provide.
– Tina Macaspac
I found the assigned reading, “The Holocaust’s uneasy relationship with literature,” to be incredibly relevant and thought-provoking. This article discusses the various difficulties associated with Holocaust literature, including the opinion by some historians that the only valid way to recount the Holocaust is through historical facts and memoirs. I agree that acquiring factual knowledge about the Holocaust is integral, and that reading historical documents is essential. However, I find myself disagreeing with the perspective that Holocaust literature is distasteful or discrediting to the Holocaust. Rather, literature provides an alternative, more emotional perspective that one cannot acquire from reading a fact-based history textbook. This week, for example, we read the short story A Ghetto Dog, which narrates the tale of the Jewish widow Anna and her dog Nicky. While I was aware of the facts (in this case, Jews being rounded up by Nazi troops) from a historical perspective, the story emphasized the feelings of helplessness and exhaustion that Holocaust victims and survivors felt. It touched a part of me in a way that facts and statistics could not.
– Emma Proctor
In A Ghetto Dog, the widow Anna and her dog Nicky are persecuted under the Nazi regime and forced to move into a ghetto. It is very clear from the beginning that Nicky is extremely important to Anna, and that he is her last remaining tie, not only to her deceased husband, but to her home.
The Nazis took livestock and any useful animals away from the Jewish people in order to make a profit. The livestock had value, which is why they were kept alive. People’s dogs, however, were not valuable to the Nazis, and that is one reason the dogs were killed.
Another reason was psychological. To the Nazis, it was important to wound people emotionally in order to conquer them. In the story, there were Jewish children dragging their dogs on ropes and leashes, bringing their pets, beloved family members, to be put to death. Dogs were part of a support system and, as with Anna, were reminders of home. To kill these dogs was to kill hope of return. The deaths of dogs were a stern reminder that just as easily as they could kill animals, Nazis could kill humans.
Awhile back, I was talking on the phone to my mom in Virginia. Oh, she said, your dad is busy. He’s out at the cemetery. It turned out that he had taken one of my brothers with him. The two of them used their fix-it skills to mend a broken gravestone. The next time I visited the Jewish cemetery in Alexandria, Va., my dad pointed out the neatly mended marker. The person had died 100 years before. Despite good records, they couldn’t find any surviving family to maintain the gravestone. So, my dad and brother stepped up to the job.
Reading the Torah portion for this Shabbat, Chayei Sarah (Sarah’s Life), Genesis 21:1-25:18, makes me think about this cemetery story. This week’s portion is full of family lifecycle events. Here’s a quick summary from the ReformJudaism.org website:
Abraham purchases the cave of Machpelah in order to bury his wife Sarah. (23:1-20)
Abraham sends his servant to find a bride for Isaac. (24:1-9)
Rebekah shows her kindness by offering to draw water for the servant’s camels at the well. (24:15-20)
The servant meets Rebekah’s family and then takes Rebekah to Isaac, who marries her. (24:23-67)
Abraham takes another wife, named Keturah. At the age of 175, Abraham dies, and Isaac and Ishmael bury him in the cave of Machpelah. (25:1-11)
There is so much in this portion that it’s lucky we reread it every year. The first thing I noticed is how the Hittites, who owned the land around Machpelah, honoured Abraham. They valued him so much that they tried to give him the burial land for free – but Abraham honoured them back, and made an effort to pay for it. This exchange reminded me of how careful we need to be in managing Jewish burial sites. My mom has often had the opportunity to help families who need a cemetery plot and don’t have one. “Real estate” in Jewish cemeteries can be expensive. Sometimes it’s hard to get a spot when there’s an unexpected family death. The bottom line? Nobody comes out of this alive, so let’s help each other when dealing with death.
Next issue: finding the right life partner. Abraham works hard to find Isaac the right wife. Although love matches are usual these days, your family’s opinion is often pretty useful in making such a big choice. Rebekah makes a good impression.
Abraham then remarries. Rashi indicates that Keturah is actually Hagar, although other commentators disagree. In any case, this brings up another issue. Some people vilify Hagar, but here it seems that some believe she and Abraham are actually a likely couple. They go on to have several more children. How does that work? When one marries again and has more children, does parenting differ? Do religious differences work themselves out? How is it that some people outlaw intermarriage, and refuse to incorporate kids from intermarried families, when it was clearly prevalent in the Bible?
When Abraham dies, Ishmael helps Isaac bury him. However, Isaac’s name is mentioned first. Why? Some rabbis indicate this is because Ishmael repented and acknowledged Isaac’s superiority, even though Ishmael is older. Others indicate that, since Sarah was Abraham’s wife, her son should go first, before Hagar’s. While this sort of discussion about whose name is first seems out of date, we need only look at the succession of the British (Commonwealth) monarchy to acknowledge that we still look at birth order with some importance. How has our view of this changed over time?
Also, if Ishmael is the father of Islam, was this an interfaith funeral? Or just two brothers who loved their father?
This week’s portion also relates to Remembrance Day. How do we dal with profound issues of life and death? How do we confront mortality, embrace issues of loyalty and honour, while embracing our family responsibilities to the living? What are our priorities? Why?
As my family walked through that old cemetery in Virginia, we passed familiar names on gravestones. My dad told stories about the different family friends he knew during their lives. My uncle, visiting from Boston, chimed in. The conversation continued. We also celebrated another important milestone in life with my uncle. He and his high school friend Don were celebrating 50 years of friendship this year, too.
Someone recently said that my newspaper columns are about relationships. I’d suggest that the primary relationship I explore here is with Judaism. Many of us associate our religion with other people, in a sort of club or tribe mentality. However, what if we saw it as a tool? Imagine Judaism as a tool that helps us navigate life’s events and how to behave with others.
If so, we can often use a Torah portion as a guide – just as we might do with other kinds of literature or non-fiction – on how to respectfully bury our dead, and maintain meaningful relationships with family members and also in the wider Jewish and non-Jewish communities. We can offer support, as the Hittites did, in a time of grief. We can build new or rekindle relationships, as Abraham did with Keturah.
Sometimes, doing the right thing might mean repairing a gravestone for someone who is long gone. Maintaining long relationships with friends or with communities takes a different kind of work – emotional as well as physical upkeep. Do we put the same amount of effort into our relationship with understanding Judaism as well?
Joanne Seiffwrites regularly for CBC Manitoba and is a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News. She is the author of the book From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
Have you heard about the sacred text in which the Almighty says, “Stand back from this community so that I may annihilate them in an instant?”
What about the king who gives permission to a people “to destroy, kill and annihilate the powers of any people or province that oppressed them, [even] young children and women, and to take their spoils.”
How do you feel about stoning a rebellious child?
That isn’t our religion! That’s not Judaism. It must be from some other religion’s holy book, right? Wrong. Actually, these come directly from the Tanach. Respectively: Numbers 16:21, Esther 8:11 and Deuteronomy 21:18.
Religious literature – heck, all literature – has concepts that might shock or offend. What about ideas that one doesn’t understand? Many educated people don’t read these sections as the literal truth. Thousands of years of commentators, in all religions, help us understand ideas that perhaps don’t make sense to modern sensibilities. These uncomfortable statements are sometimes proving a point by hyperbole, or creating metaphorical relationships to prove a point.
Many of us don’t take literature or anything we read – never mind the Torah – literally. We also know that, when something seems dubious, we should look it up. Use a dictionary, an online encyclopedia or even … a book.
Awhile back, an acquaintance sitting at a Shabbat table said something that seemed outrageous about Islam. His language and vehemence made me wish that there weren’t kids playing nearby. The man insisted he quoted the Koran correctly – nonetheless I felt concerned. Was he taking it out of context or distorting the point? When I got home, I looked it up. How? Easy, I have a copy of the Koran on my bookshelf. I took a whole course on the Koran as an undergraduate at Cornell.
Much of the time, we are too gullible. We believe what we read or hear from others or what we see reported in the news. We take it as true without thinking about it critically. We’re not always thinking about the words used in media reports … was the killer in Las Vegas a “lone wolf” or a “terrorist”? Does religion or race matter when it comes to how the media portrayed him? It does matter. A white man with Christian origins often doesn’t get called a terrorist or an extremist.
In that vein, many – including politicians and media commentators – feel free to make comments about Islam without actually reading the Koran. That sometimes results in a pretty skewed understanding of that faith tradition. Why am I talking about Islam? We live in a multicultural society. It’s important to know about our traditions and those of our neighbours.
Recently, Dr. Ruth Ashrafi gave a series of lectures to Catholics in Winnipeg about Judaism and the New Testament. She did it in connection with the Manitoba Interfaith Council, an important community organization. The president of the Interfaith Council is Belle Jarniewski, another member of the Jewish community.
These types of outreach efforts benefit everyone. Both Christianity and Islam have Jewish roots. Many Christians and Muslims want to learn more about Judaism. Further, Jews could learn a thing or two about others’ beliefs. Mutual understanding and education go a long way towards bridging differences and building on our common values. Ignorance breeds hate. We could all do with less of that, so let’s work on education.
It is easy to get whipped into a fervour when dealing with media reports or reading the newest bestselling polemical book about another people’s faith traditions. Yet, we aren’t experts in those traditions – unless we start from the beginning, read their holy texts, understand their customs, holidays and values before reading the newest polemic. Most of us aren’t even experts in our own traditions. When I was required to read the Hebrew Bible from beginning to end in graduate school, there were definitely upsetting things I read that I hadn’t known before. I had to read commentaries (both Jewish and non-Jewish ones) in order to get a better grip on what it contained.
I’m reminded, when seeing hot media rhetoric, of how my twins tell me about one of their fights. I hear the dramatic narrative from one side, and an entirely different tale from the other. The truth – or my understanding of their fight – lies somewhere in between all the different versions of their stories.
A friend of mine reads the news in multiple languages. If he has particular interest in one issue, he might use one piece of paper to take notes from all the international news sources. When he’s finished, he has created something like a Venn diagram. The news everyone seems to agree on, no matter the language or political agenda of the news source, is somewhere in the middle.
It’s only through study, asking questions and gaining knowledge that we become educated enough to understand difficult conflicts, religious disputes and political issues. We’d benefit from the programming of organizations such as the Manitoba Interfaith Council. As well, we can take time to read our sacred texts and others’ holy books in order to understand ourselves and our neighbours better.
Living an upright life as a Jew includes seriously taking responsibility for engaging with our foundational texts. Then, maybe, we’ll be living out our mandate as the People of the Book.
The next time you read a polemic against someone else’s religion (or your own) or hear a skewed media report and believe it without further research, remember that Venn diagram as a way towards better understanding.
We’re People of the Book. Maybe it’s time to crack some open? We can always learn more.
Joanne Seiffwrites regularly for CBC Manitoba and is a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News. She is the author of the book From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
The World Health Organization has labeled climate change “the greatest threat to global health of the 21st century.” As a physician, it is difficult to ignore such a dramatic statement.
Climate change is real. The sea levels are rising, temperatures are increasing, more violent storms are becoming the norm. As Canadians, we are seeing consequences of climate change even more than other countries. Last year, Fort McMurray in Alberta was almost destroyed by a massive forest fire. This year was the worst year in British Columbia’s history for forest fire damage. (While climate change is not the sole cause of these events, it is known to be a contributing factor.)
Our glaciers are shrinking, as anybody who has visited the Athabasca Glacier in the Rockies can confirm. Temperatures in the Yukon and Northwest Territories are rising faster than in most other parts of the world. Traditional indigenous life in the north is being made much more difficult by the shortening of winter and the melting of the permafrost.
Climate change is also a Jewish issue. When the environment is changing so dramatically that human lives and well-being are at stake, Jewish values tell us that we must take action.
Pikuach nefesh (the saving of a life) is a fundamental Jewish principle. Climate change is believed to share some responsibility for present-day wars and loss of life, including the conflict in Syria. The World Health Organization predicts that 250,000 people will die each year between 2030 and 2050 due to the effects of climate change. Is it not incumbent upon us as Jews to try to mitigate these effects in line with the pikuach nefesh principle?
Climate change is a complex issue. Many people find it too complicated and too overwhelming, such that they are paralyzed into inaction. So what we can do about it?
In line with Jewish practice, the first response should be educating ourselves about the issues. There are many articles and books about the subject. One of the most compelling authors for me is Bill McKibben. He has written a book called Eaarth (Henry Holt and Company, 2010) in which he describes how the earth is changing, such that it is becoming a new and unfamiliar place.
Fossil fuels are the main culprits. Weaning ourselves off coal, oil and natural gas is paramount. Substituting sources of renewable energy such as solar, wind, tidal and geothermal is crucial.
On a society level, we can try to prevent further construction of oil and gas pipelines, and further development of the LNG (liquified natural gas) industry in northeast British Columbia. We can elect members of the Legislative Assembly and of Parliament who share our concerns.
On a personal level, we can drive less, fly less, use hybrid or electric vehicles, and support public transportation. We can eat less meat, as the cattle industry is a major contributor to increased greenhouse gases. We can consume less, recycle more and compost more.
Everybody can do something to help mitigate the effects of climate change. Doing nothing is no longer an option.
I take inspiration from the talmudic Choni, otherwise known as the Circle-maker.
One day, Choni was walking on the road and saw a man planting a carob tree. Choni asked the man, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?”
The man replied, “Seventy years.”
Choni then asked the man, “And do you think you will live another 70 years and eat the fruit of this tree?”
The man answered, “Perhaps not. However, when I was born into this world, I found many carob trees planted by my father and grandfather. Just as they planted trees for me, I am planting trees for my children and grandchildren so they will be able to eat the fruit of these trees.”
This week, as we are sitting in the sukkah, let us contemplate the fragility of our planet, and strive to make the earth a more secure place for our children and grandchildren.
Larry Barzelaiis a Vancouver-based family physician, who has a special interest in geriatrics. He administers the annual Public Speaking Contest organized by the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver. He is a member of the board of CAPE (Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment).
At 7 a.m., I came downstairs on a school morning and discovered that one of my 6-year-old twins was busy. He’d filled up a container with water so he could watch his expandable water toys grow – again. After the toys grow enormously in the water, we dump out the water. We let them dry and shrink and put them away for a month. This is a frequently repeated ritual in our house. Any good science experiment is one worth repeating, right?
Good teaching requires frequent repetition. Life, it seems, is also probably the best teacher. I’ve been thinking about how to cope with and learn from the repetition of the Jewish calendar as it applies to life’s ups and downs.
One of our dogs, Harry, has been very ill with lymphosarcoma. By the time you read this column, Harry, aged 13 and a half, may no longer be with us. For people who have animals, you know how hard this transition can be. Yes, there are all sorts of veterinary interventions for pets now, but this cycle of life and death can’t be avoided. Although, historically, some Jews have lived in cities, away from animals, Jews have also lived, worked and loved animals on farms, in villages, towns and cities. The Talmud teaches us that we must feed our animals before we eat. More generally, Jewish tradition teaches that we must treat animals humanely, and cannot allow an animal to suffer unnecessarily. (This applies even in kashrut, to animals we eat.)
Harry’s illness requires our kids to be careful. Our dog is very sore, and cries out sometimes at night, which wakes up the little boys. We’ve been slowly introducing the topic of dying at odd moments, when we sense our kids need to talk. Jewish tradition has supportive rituals for illness, death and burial. While these aren’t necessarily applicable to our bird dog, it’s a useful way of remembering that our tradition gives us help during times of illness, death, and in mourning.
The timing of all this has also hit my husband and me. When we pray to be inscribed in the Book of Life, both of us recall relatives who passed away around the time of the High Holidays in years past. If you keep track of the Jewish calendar (as well as the secular one), you may connect Jewish holidays with your personal history, such as associating, as I do, Kol Nidre with the death of a great-uncle, who was walking home from shul when it happened.
Tying our lives to the Jewish calendar and to these mourning rituals helps us connect to generations of Jews who came before us, who mourned people (and animals) and who made an effort to live with joy as best they could.
Recently, my husband and I became Canadian citizens. We juggled our citizenship ceremony with three trips to the vet in one day. At the ceremony, the official suggested we would always remember the date. Instead, I wondered if I could forget Harry’s medical needs while we were at the ceremony.
When we got home, we chose to celebrate becoming Canadian. Friends came over. They’d planned to meet our kids after school if we were late getting back from the ceremony, but we all gathered together instead. My husband got us a cake from Eva’s Gelato, and Marcello, one of the (Jewish Argentine) owners, insisted on a big cake – because our citizenship was a big thing! (Thank you, Eva’s!)
As Sukkot and Thanksgiving occur, we have this opportunity to reflect, with gratitude, on the amazing things we have. We can be thankful for plentiful harvests and food, for the opportunity to celebrate outside with our families and friends before winter hits, and for our good times, together.
Watching those silly toys expand in the water generated memories of other holidays and happy occasions. When we lived in Kentucky, we were fairly isolated and did not have many Jewish friends nearby. However, we mail-ordered a lulav and etrog, and we built our sukkah on a brick patio in our backyard.
Over the years, we had some big Sukkot dinner parties there. We lit candles, as it was dark in the sukkah, and we would eat a fancy meal with some (non-Jewish) friends to celebrate. Meanwhile, in the yard, just beyond the sukkah, the fancy table setting outside and the lights, I saw that our bird dogs, Harry (the setter mix) and Sally (the pointer mix), were doing every kind of rambunctious (and embarrassing) and loud dog play. Our guests were biology professors, like my husband. They laughed, making jokes about how to observe and understand dog behaviour, before returning to enjoying their meal and time outdoors. Harry the dog stopped roughhousing so he could chase crickets as they hopped about on the bricks.
We use ritual and holidays to mark time passing, and to observe our traditions in many ways. The Jewish calendar can help us embrace both the hard times and the sweet and memorable happy ones.
Harry the dog has been a laidback, playful, loving and opinionated part of our household, much like his movie namesake in When Harry Met Sally. I’m hoping to hold onto the dancing lights, those fall sukkot and the young, cricket-chasing dog. I’m remembering the frolicking while doing my utmost to ease the last days of an elderly, sick dog.
Chag Sukkot sameach.
Joanne Seiffwrites regularly for CBC Manitoba and is a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News. She the author of the book, From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her on joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
“… what the Lord doth require of thee: only to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God.” (Micah 6:8)
Despite its solemnity, Yom Kippur is my favourite of the Jewish holidays. The ritual of atonement, the accounting for our soul’s transgressions, humbles and connects us.
When we ask God for forgiveness, what are we asking for? Not for His acceptance, nor His condoning of our transgressions. What we are seeking is His compassion: the recognition that we are human and that, to be human, is to have both divine potential and to be inherently flawed. Atonement humbles us; His compassion restores our dignity.
As a physician specializing in addiction medicine, I see and support people who truly believe they are unworthy of this compassion. Many people believe that addiction is not something that affects Jewish people. I can attest that Jews are as susceptible to this neurological disease as any other group. From the Downtown Eastside SRO (single-room-occupancy) hotels, to the extravagant homes of Shaughnessy, substance dependence is having a deep impact on our community as a whole.
Our failure to acknowledge the addiction issues within our community has forced people with substance dependence into hiding and fostered ignorance over compassion. Isolating drug users can be deadly. We know that, statistically speaking, the majority of the lives lost throughout the overdose epidemic have been people who have used drugs alone in their homes.
Is it possible for us to consider extending the compassion, the dignity that we desire to receive on Yom Kippur, to people who are dependent on drugs?
For most of my patients, drug use began as a coping tool, a way to manage physical or mental pain. Haven’t we all resorted to coping strategies at some time, sometimes constructive, sometimes foolish?
What is your coping mechanism? When you don’t want to deal with a situation, do you binge on Netflix? Do you eat junk food, work too much, smoke? Fiddle with your phone, endlessly scrolling through social media? Do you sometimes misuse a prescription medication to help you manage your thoughts or worries?
Have you ever experienced shame around your coping mechanism? Do you find yourself shutting the phone off when your spouse walks in the room? Eating differently when others are around?
Imagine if your coping mechanism was not easily hidden. Imagine if, when you realized that it had become a problem and you tried to stop, you plummeted into severe anxiety and physical withdrawal – convulsing, vomiting, sweating, aching everywhere – but you couldn’t afford the days or weeks it would take to withdraw because you had a job to do, a family to care for. So, you spiraled deeper, always in search of a way to manage your pain. Until, eventually, it became impossible to hide.
Drug addicts are our vulnerability and suffering made visible. Or, as Rabbi Shais Taub said, “Addiction is but the human condition writ large.”
Last September marked the launch of Jewish Addiction Community Services (JACS) Vancouver, an organization created to provide members of our community with support around the effects of addiction. Rabbi Paul Steinberg spoke at the opening event. His words continue to resonate: “… I pray that we can tear down our walls of fear and provide a safe place to express our vulnerabilities, truly embracing teshuvah as a real agent of transformation. If our congregations cannot be a place for the depressed, the addicted, the junkie or the ex-con, then what claim are we making on our Judaism? What kind of temple have we really built?”
This Yom Kippur, let us acknowledge and have compassion for the addict in all of us. Let us welcome those with substance dependence into our congregations, and into our hearts and prayers. If you know someone with an addiction problem, let them know that you are grateful for the effort they are making, an effort that reflects a persistent theme in the history of the Jews – escaping enslavement and finding freedom. We all have something to learn from their struggles.
And let them know they are not alone. Tell them about JACS Vancouver. For more information, visit jacsvancouver.com, email [email protected] or call 778-882-2994.
Dr. Alana Hirshis a Jewish Addiction Community Service (JACS) Vancouver volunteer and program committee member.
Dear Yiddishkeit, I’m home! Did you miss me? Sorry I was away for so long. I got kind of lost in the desert. But I’m finally back, and living happily in … well, different places: at Ohel Ya’akov Community Kollel, at Chabad of Richmond and, recently, at the National Jewish Retreat in Palm Desert, Calif. (Not that other desert.)
I met your family, Chabad Lubavitch, about 13 years ago. They seemed authentic and sincere, and welcomed me warmly. I got the sense that they live what they preach: that every Jew is important and has a unique mission in life. This really resonates with me and makes me want to search for the mission that drives my life. Even though I’m not a Torah-observant Jew, your family treats me like one of their own. I don’t dress all that modestly, but I never feel judged by them. It’s funny, I grew up living a fairly secular life, yet I’ve never been more certain about where I belong, and that’s Chabad.
Oh, Yiddishkeit, I’ve admired you from afar for years. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on everything – you know, that Shabbos thing, the kosher thing. But there’s always been a chemistry between us. Even if it was unspoken. I have to admit, I’m enthralled; I want to know everything about you. Your likes and dislikes, your temperament, what you look for in a partner. I do know you’re a veritable buffet of fascinating facts and your family’s unabashed optimism and positivity inspires me beyond words. You and your family are smart, solid, attractive and respectful. How could I not love you?
So, how come we’ve played a game of “come here, go-away” most of my adult life? You were shy, yet inviting, all at once. And me? I was just non-committal. You never pushed me into anything though. You just waited me out until the time was right.
I remember in 1997 when one of your family – Rabbi Avraham Feigelstock – called me in the hospital when he found out I was very sick and had been there for 43 days. I’d never even met the man, and here he was calling me: “How are you feeling? Do you want a visit? Can I bring you anything? Let me give you my home and office phone numbers, in case you feel like talking.” I will always be grateful for that. I knew that there was more to this than mere friendliness.
After I recovered, I began going to weekly Friday night dinners and Saturday Shabbat services at the Kollel, where I met Rabbi Shmulik Yeshayahu. His Shabbat sermons jumpstarted something inside me that made me want to know you better. The Kollel is also where I met my bashert, Harvey. I owe you a lot, Yiddishkeit.
Until recently, I wasn’t even sure where I stood with you, Yiddishkeit. But now I know for a fact that I’m smitten. You swept me off my feet. And it only took 61 years! The turning point for me was last year at my retirement party, where another of your family members – Rabbi Yechiel Baitelman – gave a beautiful speech. He said: “Retirement doesn’t mean retiring from life. It means going on to do mitzvahs, and study and do good things.” This fanned the fire inside, and now I enjoy weekly Torah study classes at Chabad of Richmond and volunteer with the Light of Shabbat and Israel Connect programs. I have even attended the Jewish Learning Institute’s National Jewish Retreat. Twice! Rabbi Baitelman’s enthusiasm, encouragement and positivity are infectious.
But let me back up a bit. Early last year, I had a personal issue that was troubling me deeply and I needed someone to talk to. So, I asked Rabbi Baitelman if he could spare the time to speak with me. Long story short, we met at a Starbucks in Richmond and, for the next one-and-a-half hours, he looked directly at me and focused like I was the only person in the world who mattered. That, Yiddishkeit, made a huge impression on me. It reinforced everything I’d heard and read about Chabad – that they consider every Jew important and indispensable.
I once heard someone say, “We don’t choose Judaism. Judaism chooses us.” I am unspeakably honoured that you chose me, Yiddishkeit. I’m sure there are others much prettier, smarter and more devoted than I. Why me? You must have your reasons. Never mind.
All I know for certain is that you have given my life meaning and purpose. I’m more committed than ever to doing mitzvahs, studying Torah and learning about all things Jewish. What started as curiosity has blossomed into commitment. I regularly listen to Jewish scholars like rebbetzins Rivkah Slonim and Menucha Schochet and rabbis Moshe Bryski, Yitzchak Schochet, Y.Y. Jacobson, Mendel Kalmenson and others on Torah Café; and watch Rabbi Simon Jacobson’s videos from his Meaningful Life Centre. Books like The Secret of Chabad, Toward a Meaningful Life, My Rebbe, The 613 Mitzvot, The Empty Chair, The Rebbe’s Army, and books on davening, healing, Tanya, Shabbat and Jewish grieving have enriched my life unimaginably. One of the most life-changing events, though, was the National Jewish Retreat.
As I do more Jewish reading, I come across Yiddish and English adages that impress me with their profundity. It’s what I try to live by now. Check them out:
“Tracht gut, vet zein gut,” “Think good, and it will be good.” (Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson of Lubavitch)
“Who is wise? One who learns from every man.” (Ben Zoma from Pirkei Avot, Ethics of the Fathers)
“Always remember: you are never given an obstacle you cannot overcome.” (Rebbe Nachman of Breslov)
“Gam zu l’tovah,” “This, too, is for good.” (Nahum Ish Gamzu)
My Jewish learning is like a prospector who shuffles the rocks around on his sieve, hoping to find gold. The more I infuse my life with Yiddishkeit, the more gold I find.
Let me declare, Yiddishkeit, in front of heaven and earth, that I commit, forever more, to being faithful, trusting and open to the love you give me. I promise not to squander or minimize it. I promise to hold you close and be there for you, like you are for me.
Fast forward. Hashem and I are now on a first name basis. We live together blissfully and share the chores. We hold each other up, and we’re true partners. I admire and adore you, Hashem. There is You and only You. Always.
Did I come to this love story overnight? Heck, no! It’s taken me decades of searching, questioning, losing and then finding myself. Yet, here I am – home. Where I’m meant to be.
My husband Harvey says there’s nothing quite as cloying as a convert. Even if it’s a Jewish-to-Jewish convert, like me. I’ve become a cheerleader for Yiddishkeit. Everything excites me, because it’s all so new. Learning to read Hebrew – let’s celebrate! Torah study class – break open the Manischewitz! Trying to keep Shabbat – woo-hoo!
I’m taking it all with baby steps. Nothing too drastic or radical, even though there are days I want nothing more than to totally immerse myself in Yiddishkeit. I’ve learned there’s no speeding up a process that has its own timetable. For now, lighting Shabbos candles, saying certain blessings, going to Torah classes and giving up certain foods is where I’m at.
At this point, I’ll slow dance with Yiddishkeit, keeping a respectful distance. And I won’t let anyone cut in. It’s just the two of us. The perfect shidduch!
Shelley Civkin recently retired as librarian and communications officer at Richmond Public Library. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review, and currently writes a bi-weekly column about retirement for the Richmond News.
From the beginning, Jews have struggled to define ourselves within the societies we inhabit. Since the time of the Babylonian exile, we have carved out spaces in other peoples’ countries, walking the fine line between self-definition and belonging.
We have sacrificed much to belong. In becoming part of patriarchal societies, we lost knowledge of the sacred feminine goddess whose statues still stood in the Temple hundreds of years into its use. We lost countless songs and stories and figures of whose existence I will never know. We also lost members of our tribe, ancestors no one is descended from, in crusades, pogroms and massacres across Europe and elsewhere.
But still, we fought to belong. We, know that, above all else, community sustains us, so we infused our culture into traditions that keep us together and nourish us, like foods and songs. When we were exiled from one country, we found shelter in another. We did the jobs they allowed us to do, we lent money and became merchants and bankers. I was taught early that, in each generation, there are those who will oppose us, who will seek our demise. But, after each setback, we found a new place, we salvaged what we could and reinvented ourselves. This is what it is to be diasporic. We were silent about painful things as necessary, and we did what it takes to continue.
And now it is the year 2017. We live among Europeans and Americans, and everywhere in the world. The last genocide is still within living memory, my grandmother having witnessed Kristallnacht, her sister lost in the Holocaust. Now, my grandmother is hugely successful, she has the Order of Canada and never speaks German anymore. We are so adaptable.
They were persecuting us before the word genocide was even coined. Now, we almost sit at the table of whiteness. I have never walked on the street and been profiled for the way I look – any prejudice surfaces after I reveal my own identity. This is my privilege. We are meant to laugh at jokes about Jewishness, because they are not as potentially harmful as jokes about other races. They do not mask death tolls like jokes about our black or indigenous friends; Jews aren’t being murdered or incarcerated at the rates of other people. The jokes about Jews are about how supposedly wealthy we are, a thing we are expected to be proud of.
But still, we are afraid to be openly Jewish in many spaces, because we know we will be asked about Israel, held responsible for the actions of Israel, or at least asked if we have ever been to Israel. The word Jewish or a Magen David on a sign at a Pride march or other progressive gathering could well put us in danger, perceived by some as condoning colonialism or being Zionist, though displaying pride in our Jewishness in these instances has nothing to do with Israel. A minority, we are still tokenized, even by our progressive colleagues. Still proving we deserve to belong, we are used to comments like “you don’t even look Jewish.” What will we sacrifice in the search for belonging in a system that may never really accept us?
Our sages teach that our responsibility is to be a light in the world, that the world we were born into is fragmented and incomplete, and ours is the work of repairing it. I struggle with what this looks like. How can we seek to repair the world even while we ourselves are so broken? I feel very broken these days, astonished by the rise of public fascism in a world that needs healing in so many ways that call on me to help.
I remember, as a preteen, reading about neo-Nazi groups that existed in secret in Europe and being shaken to my core. Now they walk in our streets and our neighbours tell us it is rude to “fight hate with hate,” or they joke about “punching” the agitators, as if the heavy, daily history I carry in my body was as simple as a meme.
We are taught that, since all corners of our universe are fragmented, that means God is also that way. Perhaps then it is alright to be broken, to be incomplete but still trying. Our very name is our task – Yisrael, those who wrestle with God. Those who do even the hardest and most impossible work. Work that it is impossible to ever finish – no one can win against God. But we keep showing up, even as we struggle and break and repair ourselves.
Part of the task of my generation is healing the inheritance we received from elders who escaped the Holocaust or watched family perish, and parents who were raised by people with broken relationships to wealth, food and affection, among other things. We carry these legacies in our bodies and they manifest differently in each of us. For me, I see in my family the deep need to prove we deserved to be the ones to survive. I see the need for material success and productivity and external praise. I hold the grief in my body in moments when I don’t know where the small judgmental voice in my head is coming from, and I recognize the pain of my ancestors rising to the surface in me, now that it is safer to process it than it’s ever been before. My vow is that this healing will happen in my lifetime. It may not be completed, as we are taught that intergenerational trauma lives for generations, but I am not free to abandon the work. I will never tell my – or anyone else’s – daughter “you’ll do well with dating because you’re pretty for a Jewish girl,” as I was told.
Jews are supposed to question everything, our holy books are full of questions, discussions and interpretations. Let us use this training to continue to challenge the status quo. Perhaps being a broken vessel will help – perhaps if we were whole, we would not have such a capacity to hold fragments of others’ pain. Having lost so much and started over so many times in the last 2,000 years, can we not see that anything is possible? Can we not be the ones who discard systems that do not unify a fragmented world? We need to believe that anything is possible – there is nothing to lose in pursuing a world full of our own light, which reveals the light of others along the way.
Ariel Martz-Oberlanderis a director, writer, teacher and community organizer seeking to find the personal in the global. As a Jewish settler on Coast Salish territories, her practice is rooted in a commitment to place-based accountability through decolonizing work.
Left to right, Lilia Apelbaum, Olga Livshin and Tanya Kogan, during their reunion in Vancouver. (photo by Tanya Kogan)
For two weeks this August, my apartment was unusually crowded. Friends from Haifa and Los Angeles were staying with me. We talked almost nonstop the entire time they were here. While they have already left for their respective homes, the memory of their presence still lingers in my house, in the photographs and in my fond recollections.
In 1973, the three of us, three Jewish girls, high school graduates from different Moscow schools, lived in the Soviet Union. We met for the first time when we enrolled in the Moscow Institute of Economics and Statistics. For five student years, we were inseparable. We studied in the same groups and partied with the same friends but, after graduation in 1978, we parted ways. This year, 39 years later, the three of us met for the first time since then, at my place in Vancouver.
Many things have changed in our lives, of course, but, despite the grown-up children, deteriorating health and multiple wrinkles, all three of us have stayed basically the same: the same personalities, the same interpersonal dynamics, the same feeling of closeness as friends. And our relationship with our Jewishness also has stayed basically the same.
At the time of our youth, all observance of Jewish traditions in the Soviet Union was suppressed. Not banned, per se, but not encouraged. There was one synagogue in Moscow and, I have to admit, I never visited it. My parents tried to blend in with mainstream society, so they never visited it either. We didn’t celebrate Jewish holidays, and I didn’t even know about most of them. Only my grandfather went to synagogue on most Saturdays and some Jewish holidays. He tried to instil some sense of Jewish identity in our household (as he lived with us) but, unsupported by my parents, he was unsuccessful. I was never interested in anything Jewish when I was young.
The situation was a bit different with my two friends. Tanya Kogan (née Schneiderman) lived in a similar household to mine. Her parents’ one ardent desire was to blend in. Being “the same,” not sticking out, was safer in Communist Russia but, after her high school graduation, Tanya broke away from the “blend-in” mold.
“I wanted to know who I was,” she told me. She immersed herself not only in her academic studies at the institute but also in Jewish customs and traditions, to the extent they existed in Moscow of that time.
“I tried to learn Yiddish from my grandmother, even though she was ashamed to speak it. I went to synagogue for some Jewish holidays and, every year, for Simchat Torah. It’s such a fun holiday. Lots of students from our institute were there. Not many colleges and universities in Russia accepted Jewish students, but ours did, and there were many of us. We danced in the streets together,” she remembered. “I bought matzos every year and fasted on Yom Kippur.”
My other visiting friend, Lilia Apelbaum, was also part of the group of students that danced in the streets outside the Moscow synagogue on Simchat Torah. Her father came from a family where tradition was paramount.
“We bought matzos every year when I was a schoolgirl,” Lilia said. “We would travel on the Moscow Metro with the big packs of matzos wrapped in brown paper, to a seder in some relative’s home, and I would think: ‘I’m special. I’m better than all the people around me. I know something they don’t.’ I felt very proud.”
In 1996, Lilia, her parents and her young son immigrated to Israel. She still lives there, in Haifa.
“My father went to synagogue often when we lived in Moscow, but he stopped going after we immigrated,” said Lilia. “In Moscow, he needed it to prop his Jewish identity but, after we settled in Israel, he said he didn’t need it anymore. He felt Jewish and happy without the support of religion.”
Lilia herself doesn’t follow any Jewish tradition, doesn’t keep kosher and doesn’t attend synagogue, but she is still, as in her childhood, intensely proud to be a Jew and an Israeli. “I love Israel,” she said. “It’s a wonderful country, very humane.”
She told me a story about her neighbour and friend. “She is very sick. Once, we walked outside together, and she fell. Her legs wouldn’t support her and I couldn’t help her – she is a big woman, much bigger than myself. I panicked; didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, a couple cars passing along the street stopped. Totally unknown men climbed out of those cars, lifted her, helped her to a bench, and then drove away. Where else would a car stop just to help a strange woman on the sidewalk? Only in Israel.”
She talked about the urban improvements being undertaken in Haifa, about Israeli healthcare and technology, about her fellow Israelis, and her eyes shined with love for her country.
Tanya also left Russia. In 1996, she and her family immigrated to America and settled in Los Angeles. “I almost never go to a synagogue here,” she said. “But I do keep kosher. Mostly. In my own way. During Passover, we don’t eat bread. I make so many interesting dishes with matzos, my family always anticipates the holiday. They don’t want bread – they remember that torte and this pie for years after and always ask if I would make them again. It’s a game we play. It’s easy and fun to be a Jew in America.”
Like my friends, I left Russia, too, at about the same time. In 1994, I came to Vancouver. Unlike my friends, though, I didn’t get in touch with my Jewish roots right away. It took me some time to become a part of the Vancouver Jewish community. At first, I was busy with my computer programmer job, raising children as a single mother, and generally integrating into the Canadian society. But life has a wicked sense of humour. It pushed me toward my Jewishness in a roundabout way.
In 2002, I got very sick. My illness altered my worldview and induced me to change my priorities. In 2003, I started writing fiction. A few years later, I quit my computer job to dedicate myself fully to my writing career. At that time, I tried to find a writing gig. I took a course on a mentored job search, and one of the assignments was to find a mentor.
I scoured the internet for some Vancouver writing professional to approach, to ask to be my mentor, and came up with the name Katharine Hamer. At that time, she was the editor of the Jewish Independent, a newspaper I had never heard about before. I sent her an email and, to my amazement, she replied. She said she didn’t have time to mentor me, but she offered to add my name to the list of her newspaper contributors. I grabbed the opportunity.
My first article for the Jewish Independent was published 10 years ago, in July 2007. I write about Jewish artists and writers, teachers and musicians. I love my subjects, every one of them, but I have never written about myself before. This is the first time and my 301st article for the paper.
Three friends from Moscow, three Jewish women from around the world, spent a wonderful week together during their reunion in Vancouver. We are planning to meet again soon. We are not going to wait another 39 years.
Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].