Op-Ed – Page 41

Climate a Jewish issue

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 Barzelai is 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).

Jewish routines help us cope

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 Seiff writes 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.

Compassion needed

“… 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 Hirsh is a Jewish Addiction Community Service (JACS) Vancouver volunteer and program committee member.

Yiddishkeit – a story of love

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.

Being a young Jew in 2017

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-Oberlander is 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.

Long-overdue reunion

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.”

photo - Left to right, Tanya Kogan, Olga Livshin and Lilia Apelbaum – Class of 1978 — Left to right, Tanya Kogan, Olga Livshin and Lilia Apelbaum – Class of 1978. (photo from Olga Livshin)

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].

Trying to be gracious of spirit

My family recently came back from a trip to Alberta. My husband (a professor) helped run a conference at the University of Calgary. We took our twins and went on vacation, too. I won’t lie. I felt intimidated about managing a strange city on my own with two active 6-year-olds, but I planned like crazy. Due to some lucky breaks, it went well.

More than once, I was reassured by a comforting sense of community. The first day, we took the fancy mini-van (an unexpected rental car upgrade) and it began to ding. A tire was low. I worried. I warned my kids that we might have to stop – if I could find a gas station – and check the air on the tire. Before I’d managed that, we’d arrived at Heritage Park.

We were surprised to find the Montefiore Institute (original 1916 prairie synagogue) had been moved there. The living-history interpreter sang Yiddish folk songs to us. She’d been raised in Winnipeg, where I now live. However, the most comforting thing? The man next to me as we watched our children on the kiddy rides. He said the new car sensors were overly sensitive and that if I checked the tires, I might find nothing wrong. (We did. He was right.)

On the way out, I mistakenly turned down an (empty) one-way street. A woman yelled, “Wrong way! Wrong way!” and frightened us terribly. I apologized to her. I figured out the problem and turned around. She, too, was looking out for me.

Next day, we were at the zoo – enjoying the eclipse and how it made crescent-shaped shadows on the pavement – with my friend and her baby. We commiserated about how scary it is to be raising kids. We want to help them be strong in what is suddenly a more threatening environment for minorities. She also waited, smiling, while my kids and I recited a brachah (blessing) I’d found online over the wonder of seeing the eclipse. My friend is Muslim. Her parents were born in Jerusalem.

In Drumheller, at the Royal Tyrrell Museum, my kids had a blast until exhaustion hit. It was very hot. We dragged them out in mid-tantrum. In the parking lot, my husband handed the expensive tickets to another family to use. We ended up at a restaurant. Everything was better after eating in air conditioning. On the way out, I apologized to the senior citizens near us if we had disrupted their meal. They smiled graciously. One mentioned that everyone had been a kid once.

On our day trip to Banff, we wandered into a theatre. We were the only people attending a magnificent children’s show, filled with dancing animals and an amazing set done by artist Jason Carter. The performers said, “Be our guest!” It turned out we saw an $80 show for free.

Why am I telling you this? In recent issues of the Jewish Post & News, some have commented on a child who happened to go up on the bimah (pulpit) of a congregation during services. Some bemoaned how children are poorly behaved in “adult” restaurants and theatres, as well.

While I would be the first to ask children to try to behave and to suggest that synagogues develop good Jewish programming options for them, the thing is, a synagogue isn’t a theatre or a restaurant. A shul is a house of learning, community and prayer. Who should learn to pray in a loving community? Kids.

During my trip, I encountered embarrassing learning moments (“Wrong way!”) and moments of gracious compassion. (“We were all kids.”) I also consistently had my kids in public, in theatres and restaurants, where I worked awfully hard to make sure they behaved – and those around me were big enough to understand the challenges of the task.

I wasn’t sure what to write for this column. Late last night, I lay awake, near an open window. Noise kept me up. Adults were laughing and shouting on a nearby patio of an upscale restaurant as they drank. In warm weather, this happens several times a week. I was tempted to march out in my pajamas to tell them to be quiet so I could sleep but, instead, I tried to be more understanding. I didn’t call the cops.

To those who would say that this child disrupted them during services, I suggest to perhaps be a little more generous of spirit. Synagogue is about community. That means it’s not just about “me” and what I should get out of the experience. It’s about what we can offer each other – as we learn, pray and support each other. Sometimes, it’s challenging, embarrassing, hard or sad and, you know, that’s life. It’s not a fancy dinner with cocktails, or an expensive concert.

Rosh Hashanah is upon us. It’s time to evaluate how we can aim higher and do better next year. There are plenty of things for which I can atone, things I haven’t done well and want to do better. Meanwhile, I just heard from old friends (who went to Cornell University as undergrads with me) who live in Houston. They are OK. Their house is OK. But, in their brief email, they relayed such horrible stories about flooding and drowning all around them. They mentioned that they were trying to help those nearby who were less fortunate.

We’re so very lucky, I thought. That random community of helpers is so important, whether in Houston or Calgary or Winnipeg. It helped me through a big first vacation on my own in an unfamiliar city with kids. Those people lifted me up and helped me do it, despite the challenges. My friends survived a major hurricane, and they were going to help gut a friend’s flooded house. Upon reflection, I’d say, we can all be that “better person” and help out.

Next time a kid acts out? Smile. Meet the family. Ask if you can chase her down the aisle to give the parents a five-minute break. Heaven knows they need it.

Wishing you a sweet, happy, productive, meaningful 5778.

Joanne Seiff, a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News, is the author of a new book, From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016. This collection of essays is available for digital download, or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her on joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Fighting for peace, or to win?

We need to redefine our “opponents.” In the news, it’s whites against blacks, Palestinians against Israelis. But we don’t have to accept these categories. In Pittsburgh, you can find black and white, Jewish and Arab Steelers fans united against the New England Patriots. (photo by Bernard Gagnon)

The past several weeks have been difficult, but also very easy. Difficult, because it feels like civilization could be spiraling into an irreversible Armageddon of hate, violence and destruction. Easy, because I feel like I know where I stand. I have moral clarity. The neo-Nazis marching down the streets yelling anti-black, antisemitic chants reminiscent of 1930s Nazi Germany are wrong. The people who counter-protest for equality, shouting that hate will not prevail – they’re right. They’re the good guys. The “bad guys” think they’re superior; they think it’s OK to disparage others because of their race or the colour of their skin. “We” believe in the dignity of every human being. Simple.

Until recently, when I had one of those moments of disconcerting humility. I saw a Facebook post of Trump Tower surrounded by big, white garbage bins. The caption read something like, “As usual, Trump surrounded by white trash.”

I am mortified to say that my initial reaction was to chuckle. The joke tickled the funny bone of my youth, growing up in small town New Jersey, where the “white trash” used to make fun of us and “we” would look down on them. But I felt horrible for my reaction, and was forced to ask myself, am I really so much different than those I am quick to blame?

I was similarly disturbed when I saw a video of counter-protesters in Charlottesville screaming at the white supremacists marching. They chanted, “You lost, we won. Go home!” Their argument being – our military defeat ended your right to be in public? Is that what we think? If so, when we “lost” and Donald Trump “won,” should we have conceded, packed it up and stayed home?

Of course not. Defeat makes us dig in our heels and fight back harder. When “we” do it, it’s right, but when “they” do it, they’re a bunch of cry-babies.

This summer, I had the tremendous privilege of participating in a four-day retreat with Pathways, a program sponsored by the American embassy that brings together Arab and Jewish English teachers in Israel to teach them “negotiating skills.” The program was powerful, intense, optimistic, and hopelessly depressing.

I was somewhat familiar with Pathways prior to the retreat because they’d done a workshop at my school with our 10th graders. Our students met with Arab kids from Nazareth, engaging in exercises that stretched their ability to think outside the box, and beyond themselves. They learned how to listen, cooperate and confront challenges with a variety of new and different tools.

One tiny example is when the students were paired to arm-wrestle. The challenge was for each kid to “bring the other’s hand to the table as many times as you can.” Intuitively, the kids begin to wrestle, but one clever boy said to his partner, wait, if we work together, letting each other win, we can both do much better than if we actually fight. The point being – you don’t have to lose in order for me to win. In fact, when we help each other, we both win more.

So, when, at our teachers’ retreat, we were divided in pairs and given the task to play a two-dimensional Connect Four game, I was prepared. Each of us was given a different set of instructions that we were not permitted to share with our opponent. This meant, of course, that we were playing by different rules. The challenge to both of us was to get “as many points as you can.”

My secret paper instructed me to get as many XOXO combinations as possible. I quickly figured out from his strategy that he was going for XXXX. Great. If we could have spoken and I could have explained to him the idea, we would have designed the board to maximize our mutual success. There was nothing that required us to get more points than the other person, only to maximize our own. However, we were not allowed to discuss, and my opponent was out to win. He didn’t understand that I had different rules. He thought he was clobbering me.

In our first round, I was happy to let him take his wins and I took mine. It looked to me like we were neck and neck. But, somewhere in the middle of the second round, his smug attitude was getting to me and I wanted not just to win, but to take him down. I started to block him, and I was scoring big, and he had no idea. It was fun.

When we got to the end and they revealed all the instructions and asked us to tally our points, we were both in for a surprise. It turned out that not only did we have a different set of rules, but I received more points per row than he did. The game was totally and illogically stacked in my favour. It would have been nearly impossible for him to win, even if he had all the information from the start.

It was an interesting exercise, but my partner didn’t really get it, not even after it was over. He protested that it was unfair – that I had all the advantages. And, while it was a game, I felt uncomfortable with this Arab person not understanding why I, the Israeli, had all the advantages and he never stood a chance. A little too close to home. And it was a bit depressing that my partner couldn’t understand that the whole point of the exercise was that it didn’t matter who had more points. It was never about winning and losing.

Sadly, it reminded me of another moment at the retreat, when I was seated by a different Arab man. He told me he lives in Abu Tor, a mixed Arab and Jewish neighbourhood on the border of East Jerusalem. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Hey! My best friend just moved to Abu Tor!” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized that many Arabs are not so happy that Jews are moving to Abu Tor. Indeed, he replied, “Yes, well, I’m sure her area is much nicer than mine because many more resources are invested in the Jewish section than where I live.”

I could have countered with the fact that most Jerusalem Arabs reject citizenship, or that they teach their children to hate us, but the truth is that I just wanted to cry. Because, basically, he was right. Why should he live in the same municipality as my friend and get inferior services? At the same time, why do I have to fear getting stabbed or blown up when I walk down the street? These two questions do not justify each other, they exacerbate each other.

With the “game” stacked unfairly on both sides, how are we supposed to learn to cooperate? We both wanted to; that’s why we were there. But we had to work extra hard to change the rules. And, if we couldn’t figure it out at a retreat where we were all there because we wanted to learn to live together, then what hope did we have out there, where everything is about who is right and who should go away.

From where do we get this need to win? When my kids were 6, 4 and 2, they had an amusing game. When we’d go from the house to the car or from the car to the house, the two older kids would race. They’d run howling and laughing, until they reached their destination, whereupon one would scream, “I win!” and the other would burst out crying. Then the little guy would come hauling up the back announcing proudly, “I lose! I’m the rotten egg!”

When do we go from the stage of enjoying the game and laughing simply because others are laughing, to needing to win and watch our opponents cry?

I’ve always hated competitive games. I happen to be pretty good at many of them and I come from a very competitive family, so I can easily get swept up in the challenge of winning. But I hate when I beat another person and it makes them sad. With my kids, it was often hard to balance the honesty and integrity of playing my best with the desire to see their pride when they win. Fortunately, today my kids can beat me at almost anything, but watching them try to clobber each other is painful.

Still, thanks to Pathways, I discovered an unexpected positive side to this not-always-pleasant phenomenon. When the Arab students came to our school, the kids from both schools were very nervous. What would they talk about? What would they do together? How would they get along with people who they had grown up to believe were their “enemy”?

In one of the first activities of the morning, they divided the kids into groups by table. Every table was mixed, with both Jews and Arabs. To start, they had to make a paper chain of things that everyone at the table had in common. They would write one thing on each piece of paper and attach them together, while everyone had one hand tied behind their back. The kids were laughing, joking, learning about each other and cooperating. By the end, each table felt a strong sense of solidarity. “Table 6 rules!” And “Table 3, we’re taking you down!” could be heard across the room. In less than an hour, having a longer chain than Table 3 had become much more important than who controlled the Temple Mount. It was beautiful. And scary – are we fighting about obstacles to peace, or are we locked in a cycle of violence because we can’t bear to lose?

So, how do we “win”? In Israel, we’ve tried with military might – if they see how much stronger we are, they might just admit defeat and back off. They’ve tried with terror – if we don’t feel safe walking our own streets, maybe we’ll give in, pack up and leave. But these strategies don’t seem to be working. Humans are not wired to accept defeat.

The problem is, as we learned in Charlottesville and as we see here in Israel every day, we can’t win by causing our opponents to lose. To win, we need to rethink the rules and reconsider our objectives.

We also need to redefine our “opponents.” In the news, it’s whites against blacks, Palestinians against Israelis. But we don’t have to accept these categories. In Pittsburgh, you can find black and white, Jewish and Arab Steelers fans united against the New England Patriots. And, at the supermarket, it’s everyone against the jerk in the express line with more than 10 items, who we all want to clobber, regardless of race or religion. And, sometimes, admit it, we’re the jerk in that line.

God knows that none of His children are perfect, but He loves us all just the same. If God is anything like me (and I was created in His image), what could possibly please Him more than if His children could create a new game – a game in which everybody wins?

So, as we enter the last part of Elul, a month of self-reflection, let’s try to shake up the rules – to question what we know and what we think we want. Let’s convert some of our anger into curiosity. Let’s turn a few of our screaming chants into invitations. Not because we’re wrong to be angry or to protest, but because, if we can find each other’s humanity, perhaps we can change the game entirely.

Emily Singer is a teacher, social worker and freelance writer. Singer and her husband, Ross, were rebbetzin and rabbi of Vancouver’s Shaarey Tefilah congregation until 2004. The Singers spent two years in Jerusalem and then moved to Baltimore, Md., where Ross was rabbi at Congregation Beth Tfiloh and Emily taught Judaic studies at Beth Tfiloh High School, until they moved to Israel in 2010. They have four children.

Ageism unacceptable

Contrary to popular belief, life as an older person is neither dull nor uneventful. We have experienced many things but have yet to see or hear it all.

A few years ago, my husband and I visited New York. We were in the process of checking into the hotel when our daughter arrived to greet us. The hotel clerk immediately shifted his attention to her. He explained how the elevator worked, how we could access hotel amenities, gave her the room keys and wished her a pleasant stay. In less than five minutes, blatant ageism had rendered my husband and me invisible, mute and incapacitated by age. Although we have endured strangers calling us dear, darling and sweetie in loud voices, the hotel episode left us stunned.

In his article “Ageism: I hope I (don’t) die before I get old,” Dan Levitt, adjunct professor at Simon Fraser University, defines ageism as “the stereotyping and discriminating against individuals or groups based on their age.” Ageist attitudes result not only in individual discrimination but they can also be found at the core of the design and implementation of services, programs and facilities for the elderly.

Lillian Zimmerman, in her 2016 book Did You Just Call Me an Old Lady?, takes a two-pronged approach to aging. First, she examines how medical interventions, technology and social programs have improved the quality of life for older people. Second, she cleverly unmasks the difficulties faced by an aging population living in a youth-obsessed culture and how these obstacles are reinforced and perpetuated.

Currently, the over-65 age groups are the fastest-growing population segments in Canada. The press has dubbed this “the Grey Tsunami.” Although many components are involved in reinforcing ageism and ageist attitudes, Zimmerman identifies language as one of the main preservers.

“Words are among the most insidious communication devices contributing to ageist attitude formation – tsunamis are catastrophes that bring death and destruction,” she writes. “As a metaphor for aging, it is simply not acceptable. We are now responsive and sensitive to demeaning and derogatory language. We need to take ageism out from the closet and ‘out it’ for what it is: a general dislike of older people. The list of unacceptable social attitudes should now read racism, sexism and ageism.”

Having a keen sense of humour is a highly desired quality. Throughout history, we have employed humour as a coping mechanism, a stress reliever and a route to gain social advantages. It is also used as a tool to manufacture “others,” and for them to appear less worthy and less capable. These jokes, whether narratives, cartoons or greetings, can be extremely hurtful and insulting. If heard often enough, they will become “alternative facts” and have the capacity to further cement negative stereotypes. Zimmerman cites a study of more than 4,000 jokes that found many in which older people were depicted as incompetent, forgetful, sexually frustrated, impotent males and infirm. As previously mentioned, ageism has not until recently been openly examined, so it is possible that the “jokesters” are not aware of imbedded ageist content.

The Ontario Human Rights Commission, in its research document Ageism and Age Discrimination, states that the first step to combat this derogatory ism is to “raise public awareness about its existence and to dispel common stereotypes and misperceptions about aging.”

Levitt concurs and goes a step further by citing a Slovenian project that has already been operationalized: “The Simbioza project’s goal is to improve e-literacy in seniors by young people volunteering to teach computer skills. Such a program is a win-win situation, as it puts technology in the hands of the elderly and instils social responsibility in the millennials.”

To quote Bob Dylan, “but times are a-changin’.” There is hope for the future. Through raising awareness of ageism and refusing to accept ageist discourse, the grips are loosened. The Ontario Human Rights research paper states, “The Supreme Court of Canada has made it clear that it is no longer acceptable to structure systems in a way that assumes that everyone is young and then try to accommodate those who do not fit this assumption. Rather, age diversity that exists in society should be reflected in design stages for policies, programs, services, facilities so that physical, attitudinal and systemic barriers are not created.”

Rita Roling is an executive of Jewish Seniors Alliance and a member of JSA’s Senior Line editorial committee. This article was originally published, as “We will not go quietly into the night,” in Senior Line, vol. 24 (2), which can be downloaded at jsalliance.org.

Teach it to your children

You’re reading the weekly congregational email. Something radical seems to have happened. Within a week, everything has changed. Well, maybe the format seems the same, ready to lull you into “services this week, events, make a donation …” but then it hits you. It’s like a revolution happened. Instead of the regular schedule, where the adult service is happening at 8 p.m. Friday night, and davening starts at 9:30 Saturday morning, it’s all changed. Imagine this:

Come for our weekly great Kabbalat Shabbat service at 4:45! Join us for prayers, story time, snack, dancing and singing. The service ends by 5:45, followed by an Oneg Shabbat with fruit, veggies, cheese cubes, challah and grape juice.

Want to stay up later? Join us in the sanctuary for a summer camp-style sing-along of Shabbat music and study the Torah portion with the rabbi and your friends.

On Saturday morning, daven with us! Services begin at 8:45, with morning prayers, movement activities, another great story (with a picture book!) and three dances to help us learn new psalms. We’ll learn the Torah portion of the week, act out some of it, and end with a rousing Adon Olam. Let’s march around and pretend we’re playing in a band.

Services end by 10:30. We’ll provide a healthy Kiddush snack, including whole grain crackers, juice and water, lots of fruits and veggies, and more. (It’s a nut-free environment, but feel free to bring along dairy or pareve snacks to share.)

If the weather’s good, after snack, let’s play outside at the shul playground. If not, we’ll run in the shul gym so you can get tired before going home to have a big Shabbat lunch and nap.

In the evening, join us for Havdalah at the shul at 5! We’ll be serving pizza and salad, with cookies for dessert. (Click here for costs, to register and for the Jewish movie of the week.) After dinner, we’ll be showing a G or PG movie in the gym for families who want to stay out late.

Also there’s a Saturday evening study session. This week: Jewish advice for managing our busy modern family life, at 6:30 in the library. (Free.)

Note: If doing the rabbi’s Saturday evening study session, please be sure one parent or friend is in the gym to supervise your offspring and enjoy the movie together.

Reminders: On Sunday morning, the shul opens bright and early as usual for religious school, yoga for parents, coffee klatch and the usual lecture series after the morning minyan.

Our congregational soup kitchen, visit to the local Jewish seniors centre, nursing facilities and once-a-month cemetery clean-up all meet on Sunday afternoons. (Cemetery group, next week is our hike at the lake, so bring your boots and bathing suit and we’ll see you on the bus – we might let others attend if there is room! Click here to register.)

See you then!

* * *

OK, as you read this, you’re thinking, this is all well and good for those few young families out there. I mean, maybe my children or grandchildren might go sometimes? But, for me, well, I feel left out. This doesn’t seem like what I’m used to.

But consider the model some congregations still use: Join us for a family Shabbat dinner! (It happens only once or twice a year.) Services start by 5:30. Food is offered, one course at a time, starting after 7. There’s no finger food or even challah on the table. The kids’ food comes after the salad course. Parents who don’t want to create a scene take their children home long before dessert is served to avoid a train wreck…. And nobody wants to come back.

Should Jewish life be all about young families? Well, no. We shouldn’t give up traditional services or customs, but the V’ahavta says “we should teach it [Judaism] to our children.” How do you do that better, so there will be Jews a generation from now? Should your congregation include positive experiences for younger people? Does that create a plan for the future?

Based on a random sampling of kids’ events in my Jewish community (Winnipeg) over the last six years, here’s a generic sampling of what I’ve seen.

If a shul schedules a Tot Shabbat irregularly – although kids thrive on routine – it happens during kid dinnertime or even at bedtime. If your preschooler eats dinner at 5:30 and is in bed at 7:30, how does that service at 6:15 work for you? Hear any angry screaming in that sanctuary?

How about the big kid events scheduled for 1-3 p.m.? Many kids are grouchy creatures around then. We love naps. If we’re skipping them, well, the activity had better be fabulous … and tolerant of crying, hitting and screaming.

Many congregations do a great job of integrating families into their activities and planning. Instead of having kids’ events as an afterthought once a year, most events are designed with whole families in mind … and preschool activities meet the needs of families with babies and small kids.

Teenagers and adults have relevant events. People of all ages have good family programming, too. Sometimes, this is all the same service. Can kids have roles in the service, like saying the Shema or leading a song? Can kids’ restless behaviour be tolerated at the same level as we tolerate adults’ conversation and restless behaviour?

How about making registration accessible and online? Include active learning as part of all events, so Judaism remains relevant?

The kicker – somebody always says: It can’t be done. This isn’t the way we do it here. It’ll be expensive. It’s not possible.

I say: dream bigger.