Op-Ed – Page 50

Learning from the Holocaust

The following remarks have been slightly modified from the original address given at the closing session of the interdisciplinary conference Global Connections: Critical Holocaust Education in a Time of Transition, which took place at the University of Victoria Sept. 1-3. Participants “had the opportunity to discuss how decades of research on the Holocaust can be used to help understand and educate about other human rights issues and, in turn, how local histories can shed light on the way the Holocaust is represented and taught.”

I would like to thank the organizers for imagining and then managing a complex, well-structured, well-organized and thought-provoking conference that allowed us to think and talk about one of the most disturbing dimensions of human and political history.

In the last three days, the scholars and community members who gathered for our Global Connections conference have traveled great distances in time and space. We have moved from the meeting rooms of Versailles to the war rooms of Berlin, from Jewish homes to death camps throughout Europe, all the way to 1990s Rwanda, and then to present-day Turtle Island and the borders of Hungary and Macedonia.

We have learned about the pedagogical challenges facing Holocaust educators in North America and Europe. We have heard heartbreaking stories from survivors, from the children of survivors, from the grandchildren of survivors, from the children and loved ones of heroes, and from people deeply affected by the dehumanization of colonialism.

We have talked and we have listened. We have heard poetry and music and watched films. And now it falls to me to do that impossible thing – to offer some final words. It is impossible, of course, not just because I am surrounded by scholars who have spent their whole careers studying genocide, but also because I am surrounded by individuals and also by family members and by communities scarred and burned and torn apart by suffering that precludes closure.

In the face of such suffering, sometimes the right thing to say is nothing – sometimes that is the most fitting way to honor the missing parents, the lost siblings, the worlds that were not created because of these violent ruptures. But, in Europe, Rwanda, North America, Armenia, Cambodia, or the many other places torn asunder by inhumanity, silence colludes with geography and distraction, and prevents us from seeing, feeling and knowing things we must see, must feel, must know.

So, speaking is inadequate, but necessary. And so, like a good yeshiva student, I will respond to what I have been taught by posing questions. I would like, in particular, to leave you this afternoon with four questions or issues to consider. There are others one might pose, of course, but these four seem to capture many of the general themes we explored in the last three days.

First, what does it mean to talk about the Holocaust or any other genocide here, in Victoria, on what I only half-jokingly call Fantasy Island? One of the conference speakers reflected upon her students at Smith College, whose approach to the Holocaust often surprises and disappoints her. Many of us here on Vancouver Island who teach about the Holocaust experience similar things. After all, many of our students feel they have won a kind of political lottery by being born, or at least now living, in one of the most peaceful societies on earth. How might we reach such students, make them uncomfortable with their privilege, make them aware of the blood on the ground, the dark clouds hovering over the world for centuries – and still?

Second, the past has been made present in this room – but so, too, has the present seemed to haunt our discussions of the past. Every day, almost every hour, someone drew attention to the current refugee crisis that is stirring up so many anxieties not just in Europe but, as Wassilis Kassis (professor of educational sciences, University of Osnabrück, Germany) insisted, in the world. Of course, there are so many differences between the Europe of the Shoah and the Europe of today’s refugee crisis, but perhaps it is at this moment that we will see some of what we have learned from the Holocaust. If we fail this test, then we will have more people beside us when, in the coming decades, we ask ourselves why we did so little.

Third, we have mostly avoided talking about the ways people come to take possession of great catastrophes even when the individuals are only remotely connected to them. What kind of social capital and political momentum are generated by such attachments? To put it another way: what should we make of people who feed upon the misery of others in this way? The flipside of this question, of course, is what we should make of – and how we should respond to – the will to forget, the drive, the public demand, just to move on, to turn the page. The answer is not obvious, but the question needs to be asked.

Fourth and finally, we have been looking at mutilated bodies and mangled politics and sadistic ideologies, but where can one finally locate the pathologies that led to this pain? Is the origin economic inequality? Religion? Ignorance? Capitalism? Colonialism? Patriarchy? Fascism? Stalinism? Xenophobia? Racism? Yes. No. Partly.

I have heard many tidy post facto explanations of why such and such an act of colossal cruelty happened in place X, or why it didn’t happen in place Y. They are all good and interesting explanations, and we need more of them. We need to continue to improve the ways we explain both singular convulsions of violence, as well as systematic campaigns of extermination. Nonetheless, no matter how well we build our explanations for why an event occurred in a particular place, with particular actors in a particular historical period, some mystery always remains. I must confess that I worry that these accounts give us a false sense of the predictability of human behavior and the preventability of future genocides.

Perhaps this underlines the value of simply sometimes standing at the edge of the abyss and confessing ignorance. This is not to suggest we ought to throw up our hands, but rather that we must sometimes invite deeper, more humble, more sustained investigations of the dark corners of the human heart.

I thank you all for taking part in these investigations, for helping us see better how the heart can break and how the heart, nonetheless, continues to beat. Thank you for joining us in these conversations.

Paul Bramadat is director of the Centre for Studies in Religion and Society, Department of History and the Religious Studies Program, University of Victoria.

From Israel to Poland

Dor Brown wrapped in the Israeli flag as he approaches Treblinka death camp. (photo from Dor Brown)

Israel’s Journey to Poland – the equivalent of the Diaspora’s March of the Living, but without the Israel portion – is organized by the Israel Education Ministry and funded mainly by the parents.

Sept. 4, 2015

Every year in Israel, senior classes from high schools across the country have the option to travel to Poland on an organized tour of those terrible, yet important, Holocaust death camps. I chose to join my class and am now writing this from the bus on my way back from the Majdanek death camp. It’s probably been one of the most difficult and emotional days of my life.

We were in Majdanek for a grisly four hours. Going into the “showers.” The barracks. The room where the Nazis burned the dead bodies. At the end of the tour, we held a very touching ceremony near the mountain of the ashes. Yes, a literal mountain.

With my hand on my heart, this trip is a must for every Jew worldwide. Until you go to Poland and see firsthand these horrific sights, you really cannot fully understand the depth of the horrors and misery and death.

A snapshot. One hundred fifty students from my school crying their hearts out while looking at those terrible sights. Weeping while holding the Israeli flag. While crying out loud, we were all shouting together in our hearts and minds and with great pride: “Am Yisrael chai!”

photo - Left to right: Dor Brown, Alex Katz and Oren Bizuener — Left to right: Dor Brown, Alex Katz and Oren Bizuener. *(photo from Dor Brown)*

Sept. 7, 2015

Today, we were in Auschwitz I, the labor camp and concentration camp that is now a museum. It was very difficult and very moving. Piles of hair. Piles of discarded shoes. Piles of glasses. It was unbelievably difficult to look at. An experience we should all have, however tough, to really understand how low civilization stooped.

After Auschwitz, we boarded our buses to the Plaszow labor camp. What remains is basically a beautiful memorial site. Amon Goeth was the cruel, barbaric and sadistic commander of this camp. He was the one who famously shot Jews for fun and practice. And tortured them in terrible ways.

Wrapping up the tour, our guide shared a story about a certain Jewish prisoner.

One morning, a Nazi guard came to this prisoner and told him he must run to his bunk. The prisoner did as he was told. When he arrived, he was greeted by Goeth. His meagre belongings were strewn across his thin cot.

Goeth was hunkering over his stuff with a picture in his hands. The picture was of Binyamin Ze’ev Herzl. “Who is this!” Goeth barked.

“Theodor Herzl,” replied the prisoner.

Goeth mocked, “The crazy Jew from Vienna who thinks there will be a Jewish country?!”

The prisoner was shaking with fear. He thought his death was near.

Goeth laughed and spat out, “The chances that it will happen are as slim as you becoming a cabinet member in that country’s government, or an ambassador.” With that, Goeth struck the man so hard that the poor prisoner blacked out.

Forty years later, that prisoner – Zvi Zimmerman – fulfilled Goeth’s prophecy. During his life, he not only was ambassador to New Zealand and a Knesset member in four Israeli governments but was also a deputy speaker of the Israeli parliament.

Upon finishing his story, the guide – with tears in his eyes – shouted, “Am Yisrael chai!”

For the rest of the day, we were all Zvi Zimmerman.

photo - The whole group at Auschwitz concentration camp under the infamous sign, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” “Work Makes You Free.” — The whole group at Auschwitz concentration camp under the infamous sign, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” “Work Makes You Free.” *(photo from Dor Brown)*

Sept. 9, 2015

Our last day in Poland. We woke up at 6:30 a.m. and headed to Auschwitz-Birkenau, the largest of the death camps. The largest death camp the world has ever seen. And, hopefully, the last death camp the world will ever know.

We saw lots of difficult places and sights over the past week but this was the toughest. I can’t describe the chills of dread going through my body as we entered the gate. The images of death running through my mind as I walked through the camp, the death place of my ancestors.

“Work Makes You Free.” Indeed.

The camp is huge. And beautiful. The surrounding trees are tall and green. To think that those trees were the last sight that almost one million of our people ever saw. How dare the camp be so beautiful today.

At the end of the tour, we had a ceremony where we each had to read out loud the names of persons who died in the Holocaust. It was a sad and exhausting roll call.

As the ceremony wrapped up, with tears pouring down our cheeks like rain, with hearts and souls broken, we all shouted together our rallying cry of the week: “Am Yisrael chai!”

As Yigal Alon said: a country that doesn’t know its past will have an uncertain present and future.

Dor Brown is the son of Bruce Brown, who immigrated to Israel more than 20 years ago from Canada. Dor and his family live in Rehovot. Dor is finishing high school this year, and will enter the Israel Defence Forces in October 2016.

Working in community

Sidney Shmilovitch retired this July from Jewish National Fund, Pacific Region, after 19 years. (photo from Sidney Shmilovitch)

Being at the forefront of the baby boom generation, I was born in Vancouver after my father returned from serving overseas. The opportunity of work on Vancouver Island saw our family move and live in the small communities of Maple Bay and Departure Bay for the next 10 years. Moving back to the Lower Mainland, my parents and I settled in West Vancouver, where I graduated from West Vancouver Secondary. I then attended B.C. Institute of Technology and graduated with a diploma in X-ray technology, followed by a two-year stint as a Cuso volunteer working in small hospitals in the north and south of Nigeria.

Upon returning to Canada, and after a number of years working in Toronto, I moved back to the West Coast. Living in Abbotsford, I met and married Dan Shmilovitch, who was heading efforts to form what eventually became known as Ha’Emek Jewish Community. Holiday programming in the community was enhanced by the services of Chabad rabbis from Vancouver. When our children became of school age, we began attending Jewish events in Vancouver. A wise rabbi there told us that if we wanted our children to remain Jewish, we had to move to the city, join a synagogue and put our children in Hebrew school. So we did, in 1987, which marked the beginning of our relationship with the Jewish communities of Richmond and Vancouver.

In 1988, I began my first job in the Jewish community, working in Richmond as part-time secretary for Eitz Chaim Synagogue. This was my first experience working in the Jewish religious world and learning the complexities of growing a young congregation. Two years later, searching for full-time work, I was hired for a joint position with the Canadian Zionist Federation, Camp Miriam and the World Zionist Organization aliya department at their shared office space at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver. The five years I spent working with these organizations introduced me to the important work of Jewish professionals, dedicated board members and volunteers.

In 1996, I joined Jewish National Fund, following in the footsteps of Maisie Myerthall, who was retiring after 26 years. And now, after 19 busy years working with JNF, it was my turn to retire this July. I will miss the special working relationships I had with colleagues in JNF offices from Vancouver to Montreal, especially of course, Ilan Pilo, Moran Nir and Liisa King in the Vancouver office – all part of the JNF family. It was a privilege for me to work with six JNF shlichim (emissaries) over the years, all of whom I admired for their humanity, love of life, energy, drive and determination.

As for me, now that I’m retired, I will volunteer with the JNF, and am considering other volunteer opportunities in the community – I’m open to ideas! And we will travel. So far, Dan and my travel plans revolve around visiting our kids and grandchildren on the east and west coasts of the United States.

I have many thanks to send. To my friends at the JCC, some of whom I have known for 25 years – keep up the good work! My sincere appreciation to the staff of communal organizations, synagogues and schools who were so accommodating and helpful to me. My love and thanks to the members of the JNF executive and board for all their support, hard work and devotion to Israel, and for being so enjoyable to work with. A thank you to all the leaders who have built a strong, vibrant and exciting community that will go from strength to strength. And, to the philanthropists, kol hakavod for your vision and inspirational generosity that make it all happen.

Longing for past headlines

How I miss those mundane headlines of my youth back in the ’Peg. Nothing more serious than potholes and (the more serious) urban decay of the city centre.

I even miss those mundane headlines of the local papers here in Israel from mere weeks ago. Nothing more serious than the stuck peace process, disputes with Obama, the Iran nuke deal, stray mortar shells from Syria and the like.

I used to love the quiet of those mornings. Sipping my Turkish coffee with the paper spread out in front of me. Catching up on those mundane Middle East headlines before waking the kids up for school, walking the dog and getting ready for work. A typical start to most days probably anywhere in the world.

Well, my world is not typical anymore.

As of late, the headlines blare the new insanity of terrorism in our midst. Random, lone wolf attacks – how random, how lone wolf? – shaking up our beloved routine. No longer so pleasurable reading the morning papers when the headlines shout about multiple terror attacks around the country. Alright, we might expect it in Jerusalem (don’t tell anyone I said that). But for stabbings and car attacks to take place in the cities of Ra’anana or Holon? Even in Tel Aviv. What the heck is going on?!

What is a car attack? It’s when a crazed terrorist rams his car into a crowd of waiting commuters at a local bus stop and then jumps out and starts stabbing the wounded and shocked. Have I disrupted your morning coffee?

This craziness has done more than ruin my beloved morning time. Not sure if it’s just me – I am kind of embarrassed to ask my friends – but I find myself looking over my shoulder much more frequently. Even when exiting the elevator of my condo, I kind of prepare myself for the worst; if I am with my dog, I will let him go out first, just in case (don’t tell my daughter that).

Of course, I worry more about my kids now. They, too, are also frightened. Especially my 14-year-old daughter. Even my son – with all the bravado of a pre-army teen – is, well, let’s just say, concerned.

I picked my daughter up from an after-school event the other day. Much of the activity took place outside. I had terrible visions. Fortunately, the area was more heavily guarded than usual. Not enough for a paranoid parent, but there were a number of police stationed at strategic points. Probably better not to think about it.

Do I want my son walking home from his friend’s this weekend at 3 a.m.? Or meeting his pals at the local ice cream parlor or mall after school? For sure not! Will he? Probably. Life goes on, he says. He just wants to have fun, as do most teens everywhere.

And take my wife. She called me from a business meeting in Tel Aviv today. The city was on high alert. Those dang terrorists again. Major throughways were blocked. Helicopters hovering overhead. The army moving about in full force. The White City in lockdown mode. Stores and malls shut their doors. People stayed inside. Luckily, my wife’s meeting took place at an excellent restaurant; at least she could enjoy a good lunch. Or could she?

Hmm. Looking forward to a quiet morning tomorrow with my Turkish coffee and newspaper; catching up on the insanity taking the country by force, and hoping it doesn’t become mundane.

Bruce Brown, from Winnipeg, lives in Israel with his Sabra wife and children. He actually doesn’t like Turkish coffee – his wife drinks it every morning with her paper – but took the poetic licence to describe himself as drinking the black goo while reading the headlines of his morning paper.

Join the effort to help refugees

For me, it was those little blue shoes. In the picture of little Alan Kurdi, laying there like he was sleeping on the beach in Turkey. Only he wasn’t sleeping, I had been sleeping, we have been sleeping.

It was the shoes that woke me from my slumber, from my disregard for the suffering of the Syrian people in the midst of the greatest humanitarian refugee crisis since the Second World War. More than 10 million people have fled from chaos … into chaos. There are 360,000 refugee children under the age of 11 in Turkey alone.

But it only took one. It was those tiny shoes, on those tiny feet, with their tiny toes. I know those shoes, those feet, those toes, my own children have them. They should not be laying there lifeless on the beach – they should be running through sandcastles, stomping in puddles, chasing the tide in and out.

Two hundred thousand people have died in the fighting, or while running or swimming for their lives, many of them children like Alan and his brother Galib. Millions of children are suffering from trauma and ill health. A quarter of Syria’s schools have been damaged, destroyed or taken over for shelter. More than half of Syria’s hospitals are destroyed.

But “it’s the children that catch us,” wrote Sarah Wildman for the Jewish Daily Forward. It’s the children who “bring those dizzying numbers into full focus. Their eyes round, their faces tired or hidden behind a parent’s legs. They are asleep on their parents’ shoulders; they walk beside them or are strapped to their bellies, legs dangling, as their mothers or fathers stride ever forward.

“They are far younger than the Syrian conflict so many of them flee. They have been trapped the entirety of their young lives, and now we see them, lying lifeless on beaches.”

Jonathan Sacks, Britain’s former chief rabbi, wrote: “I used to think that the most important line in the Bible was ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’ Then I realized that it is easy to love your neighbor because he or she is usually quite like yourself. What is hard – is to love the stranger, one whose color, culture or creed is different from yours. That is why the command ‘Love the stranger because you were once strangers’ resonates so often throughout the Bible. It is summoning us now.”

Sacks suggests a modern-day kindertransport, like that which was organized to save Jewish children on the eve of the Shoah.

But “save the children” is not “love the stranger.” To love the stranger, you have to take the parents, too. To love the stranger, you have to love the Syrians, who were taught to fear and hate Israel, to fear and hate Jews.

“Love the stranger” does not mean you have to open wide the borders to Islamists, fundamentalists or terrorists. But, in these numbers the world is dealing with, how many innocents will die while we carefully screen for the next Osama bin Laden?

I hear the concern, the alarm, the plaintive note of caution in our community and beyond.

“Think before acting.”

“It’s a Muslim problem, let those countries come to their aid. They hate us anyway.”

“Allowing millions of Syrians and others from the Muslim Middle East into Europe will end up as a catastrophe for Europe and, therefore, for the West.”

I read these statements and I can’t help swapping the word Muslim for Jew. Re-read them that way and they are indistinguishable from the statements that were issued when it was our people, the Jewish people, trying desperately to get out of Europe ahead of the Nazi menace.

Jews were desperate to leave. Yet country after country shut its doors. Nation after nation, in effect, said it wasn’t their problem. Or, more precisely, said they didn’t want it to be their problem.

We know well the tragedy of the St. Louis, one of the last ships to leave Nazi Germany in 1939 before Europe became involved in the Second World War. Denied entry at every port from Cuba, to the United States, to Canada, the ship sailed back to Europe and the Jewish passengers ended up in Nazi concentration camps, a third of them died there.

We know the infamous response of an unidentified Canadian immigration agent who, in early 1945, was asked how many Jews would be allowed in Canada after the war. He replied, “None is too many.”

This is not the Shoah, thank God.

What’s happening in Europe is a humanitarian crisis of the first order, but it’s not genocide. It shouldn’t need to be said that the Holocaust was the determined effort by one of the world’s leading industrialized powers to murder all the world’s Jews in the course of a nearly successful effort to conquer the globe.

Raising images of the Holocaust may help draw attention to the crisis. But it also shuts down reasoned discourse, and thus drowns out urgent questions that need airing.

“If the borders are opened wide, how many millions will want to flee the world’s no-longer-liveable regions for the safe haven of a continent that works?”

Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu, rightfully, reminds us that Israel is a small country that lacks geographic and demographic depth – it cannot take in masses of Syrian refugees. Yet Israel is not standing idly by. Quietly, so as not to endanger those it is helping, Israel is treating hundreds of Syrian wounded on its northern border.

“But,” as J.J. Goldberg wrote in the Forward, “in an atmosphere where every dinghy is the St. Louis, where refrigerator trucks smuggling migrants into Austria become boxcars transporting Jews to the gas chambers, where numbers thoughtlessly scrawled on refugees’ forearms in felt-tip pen by Czech police frantically trying to keep track of the human tidal wave are transformed into numbers tattooed on death-camp inmates – in such an atmosphere, there’s nothing left to discuss.”

Is Canada the best place for Syrian refugees? No, it would be better to keep them near their homeland so that, when troubles are over, they are in position to return to rebuild. Lebanon, Turkey and Jordan have taken in two million; the rest of the oil-rich Gulf States have refused – they need to do their part.

But, as Irwin Cotler reminded us at the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver campaign launch, quoting Rabbi Tarfon from the Mishnah (2:16): “It is not our responsibility to finish the work [of repairing the world], but we are not free to desist from it either.”

On the Thursday between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (Sept. 17), five Vancouver synagogues, their rabbis and lay leaders met with the Jewish Federation and our interfaith partners in the Anglican Diocese and the immigrant aid service agency

MOSAIC to explore the possibility of each synagogue sponsoring a refugee family. We will meet again after the federal elections to continue our planning and due diligence in preparation for family sponsorships.

This will not be a small project. We will be responsible not only for raising enough money to show the Canadian government that we can support a family for a year; we will also be responsible for everything from meeting them at the airport to finding them a place to live, from helping them learn English to helping them find work and schools. If you are interested in getting involved, I urge you to contact your rabbi or the Jewish Federation and offer your support to those who are in desperate need.

We will be responsible long after their images and stories have disappeared from the headlines of our news. But we will stand together with other synagogues – and people of other faiths – across North America, stepping forward to do what we can, to love the stranger because we were once strangers.

This is an excerpt from a sermon delivered by Rabbi Dan Moskovitz on Kol Nidrei 5776 at Temple Sholom. The full sermon can be viewed at youtu.be/2cHd_FV2MWs.

Changing Israel education

In the longstanding debate over whether collective narratives should be transmitted as capital-T truth, or whether they should be challenged and problematized, there is a flurry of activity around rethinking Israel education for the next generation. As if they were speaking to each other (they weren’t – neither creative team knew of the other), a short documentary film and a new curriculum have emerged to address an apparent gap in critical thinking around Israel.

The director of the short film Between the Lines, Ali Kriegsman, was frustrated with the kind of Israel-right-or-wrong messaging she received growing up in Jewish day school. In the film, she interviews students, rabbis, Jewish educators and professors who each suggest that it’s time to allow the light of critical thought into our community’s classrooms when it comes to Israel.

As a professor who teaches Israeli-Palestinian relations, I am well aware that the kind of one-dimensional Israel education that some students receive does not make them well placed to take in the more intellectual, critical-thinking approach that is the hallmark of higher education. But where the film makes its most counter-intuitive suggestion is in the area of Israel advocacy on campus.

The film suggests that even for those who want to create effective Israel advocates, the current tone of Israel education falls short. Kriegsman, who says she “wants to see improvement and justice in Israel,” believes that “antisemitism still exists in the world” and is troubled by the fact that the Palestinians “are marginalized and mistreated and settlements continue to expand,” puts it this way. She believes that a student who has been force-fed a simplistic view of Israel and arrives on campus where the discourse is almost inevitably contentious and polarized will do one of three things.

In one scenario, the student will become embarrassed by the actions of the country they were taught to idealize and thus choose to detach entirely. In another scenario, the student will draw on the “AIPAC”-style advocacy “bubble” they lived inside during Jewish day school and will become completely closed to any alternative narratives. In this scenario, the hypothetical student might become an “exaggerated version of a day school student” – discriminatory and racist. In a third scenario, the hypothetical student may feel “duped or betrayed” by her Jewish day school education and burn her emotional connection to Israel entirely.

Having premièred at a SoHo loft in New York City, the documentary – which received seed money from the Bronfman fellows alumni fund – is slated for a West Coast première in October sponsored by a Los Angeles synagogue.

Unbeknown to Kriegsman, as the film was being made, a rabbi in Madison, Wis., was creating a new curriculum that appears to address the conceptual gaps that Between the Lines identifies. Called Reframing Israel, the curriculum is meant to address what Rabbi Laurie Zimmerman saw as a major deficiency in Israel education at the elementary and high school level: “There was virtually no published material that asks students to think critically about the conflict.”

The rabbi wants kids to think in more complex terms, to be inspired to look at Jewish texts.

How do you cultivate compassion for both Israelis and Palestinians? How do you understand Palestinian stories?

Rather than emphasize a “love” for Israel, Zimmerman uses the term “connection.” As she puts it, “We pick one of the following: Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel), Medinat Israel (the State of Israel) and Am Yisrael (the Nation of Israel). We ask, What does it mean to be connected to each of these?”

She has been piloting parts of the program over the last couple of years. Last year, two 13-year-olds created a debate with each other on the question of the one-state versus two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “It didn’t matter what they believed,” she said. Rather, the act of articulating the critiques was really valuable.

Some critics of this open-minded approach will claim that, to be agnostic about whether Israel remains a Jewish state (given that a one-state solution, in its democratic form, would basically spell the end of Israel as we know it) is itself a betrayal. Zimmerman, however, “trust[s] kids enough to draw conclusions that are sound and solid.”

As for what kind of Jewish student she hopes to send to campus once they have graduated from religious school, Zimmerman wants to send kids who are “inquisitive; have open minds, can evaluate an argument, apply their knowledge; research a position and make an informed choice. I guess that makes me radical since I’m not trying to send kids to campus to defend Israel. I care mostly that they go to campus and think deeply about being Jewish, about their connection to Israel, about Palestinian perspectives. The role of education is to create people who are actively engaged in their communities.”

Mira Sucharov is an associate professor of political science at Carleton University. She blogs at Haaretz and the Jewish Daily Forward. A version of this article was originally published on haartez.com.

Breathe in and breathe out

Life in its individual expression is finite. Nearly all of us accept that. Living things reproduce themselves, so life goes on in that way. But, for the individual, life begins and, after a time, it comes to an end. An important thing is that, for most of us, we do not know when this ending will come. It is indeterminate.

Because the end time is unknown, we have the illusion, in the immediate, that life will just go on, is just going on. We are alive, we are full of plans, we are the centrepiece of the circle we have built around ourselves; it seems like it will go on forever. Certainly, in our younger years, the question of an ending hardly ever arises in our minds. Our lifetime stretches out before us into the dimly perceived future.

Am I discussing a question of universal import, or am I obsessed with my personal condition? Yoohoo! Do I still have you with me?

Even for those of us who are older, particularly those of us who are active, seemingly in good health, our lifetime also appears to be elastic. The events inhabiting our lifetime fill our consciousness. But we are aware of statistics. We see that our ranks are thinning. Some, even many, of those contemporary companions with whom we began our journey are missing at roll call. These realities do give us pause. How many more beautiful sunrises, how many more flaming sunsets will we witness? The languorous minutes of an afternoon with friends in inviting surroundings, imbibing all the consumables that yield to us their potential for pleasure, absent the pain to which all flesh is heir, how many more times will those unique experiences be ours?

I am exhilarated by being a part of the essential life event, the experience of being a living, breathing, feeling being. I know not if we are the sole sentient creatures in this universe, but I am grateful that it has fallen into my fortunate lifetime to experience this place and this time. How many of you out there must feel the same? None of us is guaranteed a life solely made up of music and roses. The inverse is true for great masses of humanity. But each of us, in some small measure, finds those moments of existence, those instants when we bless the stars that we are present, that we are here. It is inherent in being alive, in the human life experience. We really know only the present. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is speculation. I tell myself to ignore the extraneous. Breathe in and out; find those elements in our current experience that give us enjoyment in this instant of being alive.

Today, here in Vancouver, harvest time continues for tender fruits of all kinds. Sumptuous fruit, which for most of the year command a king’s ransom for purchase, is still being offered in the grocery outlets for a mere bagatelle. Earlier in the summer, mounds of red, ripe strawberries were being displayed in our markets in the form of architectural wonders, tempting us to reach out and bring those fruity edifices crashing down as we indulge the urge to taste. They were there, stressing the most disciplined. Blueberries, which, for most of the year, are retailed by the ounce, have been urged on us by the pound. Peaches, nectarines and melons of all kind compete for our attention on the groaning boards. We are overwhelmed with nature’s bounty, what is here and what is yet to be on offer, as the season progresses. These are just the ordinary things of the seasonal round, but they are a soft whisper of the simpler pleasures lavished on those of us who are alive.

Consumables are just an asterisk, a footnote, compared with the joys of human companionship. Were we blessed with tasks in life that stretched our potential, labor that was worthwhile? Did we find a person in our lives with whom we dared to show our essential vulnerability? A parent, a sibling, a friend, a teacher, a lover, a creature, with whom we found a basis for growth that might lead to healthy adulthood, with whom we distilled a shared experience we will remember unto death? Did we find a place and people where we felt that sense of peace, identification and commitment that determined the paths we would follow during the rest of our lives? Do the beauties of the natural world we inhabit bring home to us how tiny an element we are in the cycle of life of which we are a part? Have you looked up at the stars lately, preferably in a place where they are not blotted out by our man-made illumination, and understood just where man stands in the greater scheme of things?

We may be infinitesimal in our universe, less than the insects beneath our feet in the world man is astride like a colossus, but our tiny lives are full of meaning for us in the sheltered universe we seek to construct around ourselves. How central to us are our individual lifetimes. For most of us, our consciousness is concerned primarily with little else. How could it be otherwise? We mirror the behaviors of all the living species on our planet, seeking to ensure our survival and enhance our lifestyles. It is written in our DNA.

For some, the vision is a little broader, but even for them, the object is the enhancement of our lives in the broadest sense.

Let us toast the now of our lifetimes! To life!

Max Roytenberg is a poet, writer and blogger. An octegenarian, originally from Winnipeg, he is newly returned to Canada from Ireland and enjoying Vancouver with his bride.

Aliya changes a personality

Salomon Centre for American Jewish Thought fellow Eliana Rudee, left, and senior editor Joanie Berger enjoy lunch in Chicago. (photo by Paul Miller)

As I sit on a bench at the First Station in Jerusalem, just about to leave Israel for a weeklong conference in the United States, I watch the people around me on the most perfect Thursday. A bodybuilder-looking man feeds his young daughter and smiles at her as he leads the spoon of food into her mouth. Friends laugh and chat over ice cream, and couples walk hand in hand alongside the train tracks.

Suddenly, a sadness cascades over me as I get a too-familiar feeling of intense sadness that I experience every time I leave this amazing country. Some people call it the “Israel bug” and others call it “post-Israel depression.” Whatever it is, it feels like you’re about to leave something fulfilling and head towards a more robotic, mundane life. It means leaving behind the “Shabbat shaloms” heard from storekeepers on Thursdays and Fridays, and heading towards the “Merry Christmases” from storekeepers throughout December. It’s leaving behind the transcendent resonance of the shofar and heading towards elevator music while you’re on hold with the credit card company for the umpteenth time. It’s leaving the buzz of the people crowded into the shuk and heading towards the metronomic beeping as items are scanned at the grocery store. It feels like I am headed in the wrong direction.

But then I remember – I live here. I live in Israel. I am coming back in less than a week, and even though I am still sitting at the First Station in Jerusalem, I already cannot wait to come back. This is the epitome of my feelings for Israel, the land with which I am completely obsessed and the land that I am so very thankful to call home.

It was at this moment that I realized yet again that I have made the right decision by making aliya. This place truly fulfils me and fills my life with a sense of meaning that I have found only in my happiest moments elsewhere – an intimate gathering with my extended family, the moment I realized I had fallen in love, a birthday party that brought together all of my friends from the many parts of my life, and the feeling of learning something in college that changed my perspective on life.

As I write, I realize that these feelings are quite mushy-gushy, which (honestly!) is not usually how I am. So, in true rational form, I have concluded many times that I may be idealizing Israel, as my previous trips to Israel had been spent vacationing with family or new friends. But then, I think, how could I not idealize as I sit in the Jerusalem sun as the weekend hits, feeling so happy and sad at the same time? I honestly feel like a changed person in Israel.

My mom tells me that even before I was born, my personality was the same as it is today: I know what I want, I work hard to get it, I am rooted in facts and reality and I am a perpetual list-maker. I do things a little differently than most, and I like to lead others and pass along my passions. I am impatient and, because I feel so strongly about what I believe, my passion and confidence can often come off as inflexibility and stubbornness.

In Israel, much of my personality is unchanged. But I have found new parts of my personality finding expression and I think it is more a reflection of Israel than of myself. In Israel, I am quite able to express my emotions about this place, something that I would have found difficult and somewhat silly before. A new friend actually called me “artistic” the other day, something that I have not been called since I was very little.

After talking about Myers-Briggs with friends over the weekend, we decided to retake the test. After years and years of getting the same results, my personality profile shifted from “sensing” to “intuition.” This means that before I came to Israel, I paid more attention to the information absorbed through my five senses, but now I pay more attention to the information I receive through intuition. It also means that perhaps I am now a little more interested in the bigger picture than the details, the meaning behind the events, and new possibilities.

But I digress. Why I think this is worth mentioning is because I believe that something about being in Israel has changed this in me and has the power to change everyone who visits. When people have asked me why I chose to make aliya, I resort to talking about my feelings rather than rationality. (After all, I am not sure that someone who is purely rational would make this decision to move here!) I usually find myself saying something like this: “Well, there are a number of reasons why I moved here. One is because when I first came I fell in love with this place. I came back a number of times in the next several years, but it was never enough! I feel a fulfilment here that I missed when I lived in the U.S.” And then, when people look as if they want a more practical reason, I explain that my boyfriend and I were both thinking about living here before, so we chose to come together. It’s also a great place professionally, as a writer, because I write about Israel all the time. Rationally, it makes sense to be living in Israel if I am writing about Israel.

Previously, in explaining my decision to others, I would begin with the rational and move on to the emotional only if pressed to do so. But something about this place makes me tap into my emotions and intuitions. My theory about why this occurs is this: being in Israel inspires self-reflection in a way no other place does for me.

Israel’s history, culture, language and religion all relate to my past, present and future because of my identity as a Jew and my values of self-determination and freedom. My ancestors longed for the actualization of these values, died for the actualization of these values and survived for the actualization of these values. And now, I am helping to actualize these values by being in the Jewish state. This automatically triggers a cheshbon hanefesh – introspective monitoring about how well I am continuing to actualize the values that I find to be more important than my own being. I am, therefore, prompted every day here to integrate the values into my life, my actions, my choices.

As I am headed to the United States for the first time since making aliya, I reflect on the fact that even my choice to come for this week was based on these values. I believe to my core that creating the conditions for every person to find meaning in their lives should be a goal of humanity. For many Jews, finding their identity within the context of their culture, family and traditions means finding their identity within the context of Judaism. Israel is the place to find that identity, as nowhere else in the world do Jews come together like this to honor our past, present and future, actualize our values and traditions, and return to the only land that is inextricably tied to our identity as a people.

I came to the United States this week in order to be trained as a Birthright leader, someone who leads a group trip of young Jews to Israel, often for their first time, and guides them in learning about their own identity as a Jew. Birthright Israel and I share the same mission of creating the conditions for Jews to find their identity and meaning. I hope that, in this next week, I will learn to most effectively carry out this mission. And I think there is no better reason than this to leave my precious Israel, even for a week.

Eliana Rudee is a fellow with the Salomon Centre for American Jewish Thought and the author of the new “Aliya Annotated” column for jns.org. She is a graduate of Scripps College, where she studied international relations and Jewish studies. She was published in USA Today and Forbes after writing about her experiences in Israel last summer. Follow her aliya column on jns.org, facebook.com/aliyaannotated and instagram.com/israelgirl48.

Enriching or superficial?

With the High Holidays around the corner, I have noticed my usual light bout of pre-holiday anxiety. So much always seems to ride on this part of the Jewish calendar. For strong believers, there’s the spiritual reckoning. For the less religious who still care about affiliation, there’s the loaded nature of synagogue attendance, compounded by the challenge of pricey tickets. And, for the simply social, there’s the pressure of ensuring some communal marking of the calendar.

Amid all of this, Reboot – an organization that bills itself as “affirm[ing] the value of Jewish traditions and creat[ing] new ways for people to make them their own” – is taking a lighter touch: its annual 10 questions project. Sign up at doyou10q.com and, starting on Sept. 13 and lasting 10 days, the website will email you one question per day encouraging you to engage in the kind of personal reflection that is customary during the intervening days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Once completed, the answers are sent to Reboot’s “vault” for safekeeping, and users can decide whether to share them or not. Either way, one year later, Reboot will send the answers back to the participant, and the questions will be posed again, so one can see what changes in life perspectives occur over time.

It’s a truism that Jewish life is fundamentally communal. A quorum of 10 is required for prayer; weekly Shabbat dinners are often an extended-family-and-friends affair; Jews are encouraged to educate their children Jewishly in a group setting; Jewish summer camp focuses on intense communal experiences; and bar and bat mitzvahs are marked by a public aliya la-Torah.

So, are individual, web-based initiatives like Reboot’s enough to scratch the itch of Jewish communal practice? Or are they, in their push-a-button way, a frivolous addition to what should be undivided attention to the technicalities of Jewish literacy and to the bricks and mortar of conventional Jewish life, where Judaism is experienced publicly and communally?

This question isn’t a surprising one, but it may be misplaced.

In the age of “destination” bar and bat mitzvah ceremonies, where almost no one from one’s community may be in attendance, and in the age of concierge Judaism – a term the Jewish Outreach Institute now uses to suggest that Jews may be looking for an array of products and services tailored to their own individual needs – and in the generation of the Millennial who seeks to refashion Judaism to suit her own sensibilities, Reboot knows that one has to reach Jews where they are.

But there’s more to it than simply realizing that initiatives like Reboot may be what’s needed to save do-it-yourself-style Jews from disconnection. Despite the absence of Hebrew or Jewish texts or a group of Jews sitting in a study session with a rabbi, initiatives like the 10 questions project is not a challenge to Jewish literacy at all. In discussing the initiative with colleagues, I realized that, without Reboot’s initiative, I might never have given those intervening days another thought.

In my typical hectic pace, I would likely be rearranging my work schedule, securing a break-fast invitation for my family or deciding whether to host one, and practising the Haftorah my shul has asked me to prepare for Yom Kippur morning. No doubt the personal reflection bit would fall by the wayside and, even if I did try to engage in it, it likely would not be as fulsome as that encouraged by the kinds of daily questions Reboot sends. That kind of thinking and writing – including being faced with one’s past challenges – takes immersive effort, both intellectual and emotional.

So, tailored-and-trendy versus tried-and-true may be a false dichotomy, after all. We would be better placed to think of Jewish life as being enriched by as many touch points as our current crop of Jewish innovators can create.

Mira Sucharov is an associate professor of political science at Carleton University. She blogs at Haaretz and the Jewish Daily Forward. This article was originally published in the Canadian Jewish News.

“Threat” term problematic

When it comes to Israel, many Diaspora Jews harbor a double standard. They want their own countries to embrace pluralism and multiculturalism, owing to the kind of fluid immigration that allowed their own grandparents and great-grandparents to build a better life in America and Canada and many other places across the West. But, when it comes to Israel, they are comfortable articulating their desire to maintain a Jewish majority. Israelis – even those on the left – have a term for this need: they openly refer to Palestinians (whether in the West Bank, whether refugees living abroad or whether Palestinian citizens of Israel itself) as a “demographic threat.”

Palestinian citizens of Israel are pouncing on this usage more than ever. Ayman Oudeh, head of the Joint List, has called it offensive. He wants Israeli citizens to view their Palestinian citizen brethren as partners in nation-building. Still, he is not looking for a melting-pot version of Israeli identity: he demands that Israel grant the Palestinian citizens “collective rights.” Since they already have their own school system, presumably, by collective rights he means at the very least equal funding for schools and towns, including removing the unequal bureaucratic barriers to gaining building permits, something I’ve written about at the Globe and Mail.

Yousef Munayyer is also distressed by the term “demographic threat,” and concludes that it is intrinsic to Zionism. Instead of having a demographic problem, Israel has a Zionism problem, he argued last March in The Nation. This, as Bibi was whipping up fear against the Arab minority on election day, claiming they were coming to the polls “in droves.”

The scope of the issue is more complex than these critiques – as important as they are – allow. There are at least three aspects at play.

First, strategy. There are reasons why a peace activist may choose to use the term “demographic threat” to sell the idea of withdrawal from the West Bank, for example. This kind of reasoning may appeal to those on the centre or even the right who, unfortunately, aren’t moved by human rights imperatives. When it comes to language and lobbying, we must not forget the game of persuasion.

This connects to the second aspect: emotions. Here, the question is this: without undermining democracy, can a majority population privately desire to maintain its majority status? And, in the event that these private desires are shared publicly – through art or literature, say – should the users be chastised as being anti-democratic?

Here, we need to recall what may be motivating these feelings. It may not be anti-democratic tendencies or racism or even a sense of national superiority. As a national liberation movement, Zionism was acutely concerned with Jewish self-determination, more than it was with undermining any other national group in its midst. And, along with the material gains of statehood has come the desire to sustain a modern Jewish national culture, most markedly in the form of Hebrew. To contemplate becoming a minority in one’s country is to consider the attrition of one’s national language, at the very least, if not the possibility of collective safety and self-determination. Even if the fears are unfounded, even, if, somehow, a post-Zionist Israel can engage in a project of radical multiculturalism such that Hebrew culture maintains its treasured place alongside Palestinian culture and Arabic language, the impulse is still understandable.

Finally, there are the public policies themselves. On this, there is clearly much room for improvement. Oudeh’s call for a high-profile “civics conference” in the tradition of other annual conferences in Israel on issues – including security, social issues and economics – is a good one. As is the urgent need to close the funding gap to Arab schools and towns, and to educate against casual racism, including some landlords not renting to Arabs and “social suitability” committees determining who can live where, the kind of practices outlined by Amjad Iraqi in +972 Magazine. These attitudes and the practices that stem from them are corrosive to democracy.

All this is to say that the creation and maintenance of national identity, particularly in a state as young as Israel, is an enormous project. Using the term “demographic threat” as a way of describing the actual collective emotions and preferences of some citizens is as useful as any analytic phrase. To censor it completely, therefore, would be anti-intellectual and anti-democratic. But, when it comes to policy advocacy, thoughtful Israelis should consider thinking twice about using these words. As citizens of democracies, we should at least strive to hear things as our fellow citizens hear them.