Opinion – Page 13

UNRWA faces deadline

Last week, the Israeli government announced that it would ban the operation of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency from operating in Israel, including in East Jerusalem.

For Arab citizens in East Jerusalem, this would mean an end to civic services like garbage pickup, three UNRWA-operated schools, and some health care and social services.

The laws passed by the Knesset would not preclude UNRWA from operating in Palestinian territories, but they would impede their work substantially. And they would eliminate any privileges or assistance UNRWA staff receive from the Israeli government, including easy passage across borders and through checkpoints.

UNRWA is a problematic organization. Begun in 1949, it has been criticized for perpetuating the Palestinian refugee crisis it was ostensibly created to resolve. By preventing Palestinian refugees from being resettled in host countries, UNRWA ensures that the refugees stand as living testament to the presumed injustice of Israel’s founding – the original sin in the anti-Israel narrative.

Through permissions granted by a bloc of Arab, Muslim and nonaligned states at the United Nations, UNRWA has expanded seemingly beyond the control of its larger parent body.

In the most illuminating example of UNRWA exceptionalism, the organization changed the definition of “refugee,” so it applies to Palestinians in ways it applies to no other people on earth. Palestinian refugee status is a heritable right, meaning descendants of the original refugees – now down to the third and fourth generations – are designated refugees when they may never have set foot in their ancestral homeland and may be second- or third-generation, for example, Jordanian- or Lebanese-born non-citizen residents. The objective of this strategy is clear: make the problem grow. The approximately 700,000 refugees of the 1948 war have grown exponentially, to 5.9 million people.

Operating in Gaza, the West Bank, Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria, UNRWA operates more than 700 schools, teaching about 500,000 Palestinian students. UNRWA clinics provide primary health care, mental health support and referrals to specialized medical services. The agency provides food assistance, welfare and other forms of support. During times of war and other crises, UNRWA provides emergency food, shelter and medical services to affected populations. They respond to needs created by violence, displacement and natural disasters. UNRWA is responsible for the most fundamental services in the refugee camps where generations of Palestinians live, including sanitation, water supply and housing.

So why is Israel banning this agency that is so clearly a lifeline to the Palestinian people – especially in a time of catastrophic war?

Israel has provided to the United Nations evidence that some of UNRWA’s 30,000 employees were involved in the Oct. 7 terror attacks and have collaborated with the terrorists before and after that dark day.

There are also older, systemic complaints. For decades, Israelis and others, including the European Union, have complained that the UNRWA-operated Palestinian education system is as much about inculcating antisemitism and a radical political agenda as it is inculcating the three Rs.

As a politicized arm of the United Nations, UNRWA is both a weapon in the decades-long global campaign against Israel and an agency that provides desperately needed services to Palestinian civilians, never more than in a war that is wreaking destruction and death on the people of Gaza.

Israel’s move looks punitive and vindictive in a moment when the world sees the humanitarian tragedy in Gaza. This is a bad PR move on the part of a country with a bad PR history. But PR should be among the last concerns in situations where thousands are dying. Banning UNRWA could have disastrous consequences on some of the most vulnerable people.

The Knesset’s vote to ban the organization is set to take place in 90 days. That is not a long time, certainly, but it is a window during which UNRWA and the larger UN apparatus has an opportunity

to demonstrate goodwill. To date, they have effectively ignored Israel’s decades-long protestations that UNRWA is, for whatever necessary social services it provides, also a provocative source of incitement that promotes dependency rather than initiative and fosters antisemitic and anti-Israel activism and even terrorism.

After years of Israeli complaints and warnings, the Knesset finally put a time-limited threat to their concerns. The UN, NGOs, commentators and much of the world are up in arms over the announcement. Instead, they could be diverting those substantial energies into cleaning up the mess at UNRWA.

Perhaps the Knesset vote is an empty threat. Or rather, it could be an empty threat, if it’s primarily intended to make the larger UN body and the world take seriously the systemic problems UNRWA has exhibited through its long and troubled history.

If UNRWA demonstrates it is willing to take seriously the rot at the heart of its operation, we hope that Israel will not enact the ban. No one can clean up the panoramic mess in three months, but we hope that evidence of goodwill would be met with flexibility on Israel’s side.

If, in the worst case scenario, the UN does not do what it should have done long ago, Israel has an obligation – humanitarian, moral and legal – to ensure that the necessities of life are provided to the people in territories it occupies. In the absence of the UN behaving responsibly, Israel must. And Israel should absolutely be able to call upon a community of humanitarian nations to assist in that process. The world’s leaders have had a great deal to say about the well-being of Palestinian civilians in the past year. This would be a moment for them to put their money where their mouths are.

When new is also ancient

It turns out that a war and a worldwide increase in antisemitism may cause more Jewish people to return to Jewish spaces. Some Jewish atheists try out fasting for Yom Kippur. New faces appear at synagogue. Lectures and events that were sparsely attended in the past seem to have more takers. If you’re a regular in a Jewish community, you may have seen this already. There are many reasons, including a need to find community and avoid antisemitism, or to return to religious practice after dealing with so much death. For those who were already attending or even occasionally attending Jewish services or events, things have also changed.

My twins had their b’nai mitzvah in June. I’d long thought of how cool it would be if they could help fill out a minyan more often (a group of 10 needed for communal prayer). However, there have been obstacles. Our congregation’s building was under renovation. The temporary spot, while lovely and hospitable, required a car ride.

This fall, the congregation moved back to its building and we live in easy walking distance. My kids attend public school and didn’t have Sukkot off. Yet, when one kid asked to attend minyan on Hoshanah Rabbah, the last day of Sukkot, I immediately said yes. He would have “an appointment” that morning, according to the attendance sheet, and arrive a little late. We figured, no need to claim a religious holiday (antisemitism concerns, again), but that’s what it was, of course.

Hoshanah Rabbah was a new experience for us, though it’s an ancient ritual. It involves circling the pulpit (a stand-in for the Temple altar) seven times, with lulav and etrog in hand. Marking the end of the fall holidays, it’s a last chance to ask for forgiveness and a better year.

Traditions differ about what is said during this ritual, but our congregation read piyyut, which are traditional poems, a part of Jewish liturgy that often includes acrostics (poems that use the alphabet). Some of the piyyut are very old. I found myself praying that my fruit trees don’t get fungus or that my fields wouldn’t be cursed. It might seem funny to ask for some of these things, but my city backyard has young apple, apricot, plum and cherry trees. I don’t want fungus!

It was especially poignant to pray – in the “Foundation Stone (“Even Shetiyah”) poem – about “the goodness of Lebanon, beautiful place, joy of the world.” This came straight out of the Siddur Ashkenaz (the Ashkenazi prayerbook), with specific quotes from Isaiah, Psalms and Lamentations. Our historic relationship with Lebanon is a rich one. Many of us, Israelis and diaspora Jews, would love to visit Beirut, the “Paris of the Middle East.” Some of us have ancestors who lived there, and we would like to see where they grew up or spent time. This urge isn’t new; our desire to have a good connection to Lebanon as a neighbour is ancient.

Then, we all were handed bundles of willows. We beat these on the lectern with force while saying, “Save your people and bless your heritage, care for them and carry them forever.” It was primal, cathartic, and very messy. There were willow leaves everywhere.

My kid was only a little late to first period art class. I went home in wonder. Later, I joked with one of my professors from graduate school, Jack Sasson, who I respect deeply, about how, for me, this previously unknown Jewish ritual felt stirring and exotic. He suggested that paganism still has something to teach us. The beating of the willows is ancient indeed. It’s a namburbi ritual from Mesopotamia, he said. When I remarked that I could get into this paganism thing, his reply left me laughing. “Ishtar will welcome you.”

I was still reflecting on all this when watching some new friends with young kids dancing on the evening of Simchat Torah. To help everyone through the first yahrzeit of Oct. 7/Simchat Torah, our rabbi dedicated each hakkafah (circuit around the room with the Torahs) to a different group: first responders, those who had died in the past year, the unity of the People of Israel, etc. The next afternoon, the kids came over for snacks and to play. One of the parents asked me why there was so much reference to Israel stuff. I realized that here, too, was a confluence of old customs and new experience.

I explained that some of these prayers, for instance, the prayer for the hostages, weren’t new. The Talmud, codified in 500 CE, discusses the topic of hostages at length. The first instance of the prayer for the redemption of hostages that we use today was documented in the Mahzor Vitry, named for Simhah b. Samuel of Vitry, a French talmudist who died in 1105 CE.

I reminded them that many present at the synagogue were in mourning for people who had died. While celebrating old holidays, we need to acknowledge the current situation. These days, services usually include prayers for the state of Israel and the Israeli army, too. None of these are newly written prayers.

Of course, Sukkot itself, a harvest festival that required Israelites to go to the Temple in Jerusalem – last destroyed in 70 CE – is also all about Israel.

I drew a few conclusions from these social encounters. First, for those who may feel jaded and aware of Jewish yearly events, there’s always something new to learn. For me, it was the primal connection to Mesopotamia, namburbi ritual and, yes, Ishtar, the goddess herself. For those who hadn’t been at synagogue for some time, there were many questions, new encounters and experiences, too. What unites it all is a realization that, while our individual learning curve might be new to us, the rituals, the prayers, and the historic connections to Israel are ancient.

For all of us, in a time when political rhetoric seeks to disconnect diaspora Jews from the land of Israel, Sukkot and Simchat Torah were a powerful – and timely – reminder of our past and our future, together.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Running in the human race

I am still running in this race. For those of us who are older, it seems to take much of our strength to show up every morning and run the course. It seemed easier when we were younger, full of the energy of youth. We have forgotten what it was like when we were discovering who we were, who we were going to be. Surely, that was a struggle, even if it was a different one than we face today as older people.

There are mysterious things about this race. Who are the winners? What does winning mean? The rewards don’t necessarily go to those who arrive soonest at the finish line. Maybe it is more like a relay race, in a family sense. Lots to think about.

I have a grandson, more than one, in fact. All of them are fully engaged in finding their way in the foot race in which all of us living on this planet are engaged. As are my granddaughters. Seeing the challenges they face, the stories they tell me about what they are doing and what they are planning, bring memories of my own beginnings. I see how competitive the world they are inhabiting is. I see how some of them are so conscious that their every move, every decision they make, everything they do, right or wrong, is recorded, and will affect their future possibilities. These children, in their mid-teens and early 20s, are struggling with perspectives we did not awake to until we were 10 or 15 years older. How about that kind of pressure!

I think of the path I have followed, growing up in Winnipeg, moving away to make my fortune, seeking to put my own personal mark on the journey I was taking. I was so determined that I had to be the only architect of the life I was building. Was I foolish not to be a seeker of advice? I threw myself recklessly into that life, confident that, come what may, I could overcome any obstacle to my desires that might appear in my path.

I never worried about missteps. I never worried about making wrong decisions. My life was a tabula rasa, a blank slate to be shaped as I wished. Of course, my grandchildren probably think that whatever they are doing is right, too. Many of the decisions we make in the days of our beginnings have a dramatic impact on our future.

I am not complaining. I have had a glorious life. I may not have realized all the potentialities – I have not conquered like an Alexander, created language like a Shakespeare, envisaged shapes like a Moore, painted visions like a Picasso. But, like most of us, I have delivered some blessings for my fellow human beings, and I am content.

I have seen the mountains of America, Europe and Africa, and their valleys. The waters of Canada and Brazil have roared before my eyes, and in my ears. I have had a good share of the delightful places and times the world has to offer. And I had the chance to spend some of my life with the woman of my dreams.

On my travels, during the race I have run, I have learned how fortunate we are, and what real misery is. I know what the view from Dublin is like, and have witnessed the views from New York, Washington, London, Paris, Rome, Johannesburg, Cape Town, Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, Khartoum, Cairo, Vientiane, Bangkok, Dakar, Ougadougou, Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. These were some of the places I lived in and visited.

Like many of us, I did not make the most of my potentialities as a consequence of my decisions. One day, I heard Neil Young say, in a television interview with Charlie Rose, that our pasts are like an overcoat. When we put the coat on, it tells the world who we are. Or the world chooses to see us as we appear wearing the overcoat of our past.

Sometimes, we wish we could shed our past and take a new direction. I’ll tell you a secret. We don’t need to do that. We can be new people any day we choose. The past we wear like an overcoat, that we have the choice of shedding, can inform the choices we want to make, but it doesn’t have to limit who we are today, and will be tomorrow.

I am not the economist that I was, the manager of people that I was, the public relations speaker and writer that I was, the researcher and marketing consultant that I was, the real estate broker, the financial advisor, the whatever I had to be. Now, in beautiful Vancouver, I write stories and poetry. I have played with clay until the faces jumped out at me. I meddle in the stock market. I try to talk to my kids often. I try to be present for my Bride. We try to make our home a friendly place.

Today, I try to be a better husband, a better friend, a better parent; some things, perhaps, that were lacking quality in my past. I am still running the race. It is sometimes a little tiring, and I have to exercise to build my stamina – but I hope to run it well, right to the end.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

The search for a new home

A crane lifts a tunnel boring machine part out of the excavated Arbutus Station. With all the changes the Broadway Subway Project is bringing, the Accidental Balabusta and her husband are looking for a new condo – going from renters to owners. (photo from broadwaysubway.ca)

Growing up in the 1960s and ’70s in the then-Jewish neighbourhood of Oakridge, I was certain my future would include a beautiful house and a large yard. And, of course, a husband. Only part of that dream came to fruition, in 2009, when I got married at age 53. Before Harvey came along, I was a single woman making a decent but not extravagant living, and a house was way out of reach for me. So, I rented apartments. For decades. Welcome to my bad-news, good-news story.

As I got older, the importance of attaching myself to the Jewish community became stronger and, as luck would have it, I ended up renting a place a mere seven-minute walk from a shul. And I stayed put for 37 years. Now, faced with expulsion from our apartment because of the Broadway Subway Project, I am struck not by anger or nostalgia, but by gratitude. And maybe a touch of anxiety about having to move at this stage of my life. At 68 years old, I have never owned anything in my life, except a car.

Having a deep-seated faith, I try, I really try to remember that everything that comes from G-d is good. I try, also, to take the mindset of “I don’t understand why this is happening to me, but I know in my bones that it’s good for me in some way.” This imposes a much-needed positive outlook. One that will propel me forward, rather than keep me stuck in a negative “Why me?” loop.

As renters in this situation, we are entitled to compensation by law. However, it’s cold comfort when confronted with the stark reality of having to find a new home. Politicians talk blithely about “affordable, below-market rental housing,” but, in reality, no such thing exists for those who are retired and on a fixed income. In short, living in Vancouver has become an absurd luxury.

As luck would have it, I am a thrifty kind of gal and, over the decades, I have saved a respectable amount of money. So, along with my husband, we have finally decided to buy a condo – in Vancouver. One of the most expensive cities to live in.

Having spent the past while looking for a condo to purchase, I am bombarded by conflicting emotions:

excitement, fear and trepidation. But mostly gratitude. Waking up at 3 a.m. for a full week while battling insomnia, I got to the point where, instead of trying to think of five foods starting with each letter of the alphabet (a trick to induce boredom and sleep), I started to think of everything I am thankful for. I’m happy to report that the list is very long. This is just a sampling.

I am grateful that I can choose between carpeting and hardwood.

I am grateful that I will finally have in-suite laundry.

I am grateful that I will have a bigger kitchen, where I can bake challah regularly and cook luscious Shabbat meals in a space that is larger than a Smart Car.

I am grateful that I can, within reason, afford a condo in Vancouver.

I am grateful that I have friends who are guiding me through this process.

I am grateful that I have the energy to run around looking at prospective homes.

In short, I am grateful that I have choices. Plenty of choices.

It’s common knowledge that Jewish family values begin at home, and that’s what I’d like to continue nourishing and cultivating. From a real home. My home. For now, I am focusing on having faith and trust that Harvey and I will find a comfortable forever home. I have accepted that we may or may not still be a seven-minute walk from a shul. Thankfully, faith isn’t tied to geography. We can practise our Judaism anywhere.

As for the nuts and bolts, the experience of condo-hunting is an eye-opener for me. Little by little, condo by condo, I’m readjusting my priorities, figuring out what I can and can’t live without. Our realtor, thank goodness, has the patience of a saint and the temperament of a golden retriever.

Pragmatists that we are, we’ve started the search for a new home early, long before we are forced to move out of our rental apartment. But, as I’m learning, our property owner seems loathe to put money into a building that will be torn down within two years. So, we are living with stained hallway carpets, communal washers and dryers that rarely work, and balconies that haven’t been power-washed since before COVID. Am I enjoying this? Not even a scintilla. But still, I practise gratitude.

My constant refrain these days is: “It’s not the Vancouver I grew up in!” There are cranes everywhere on the horizon and there’s no telling what will be torn down next. It’s very unsettling. But at least we are fortunate enough to have options.

My periodic anger (which I am trying valiantly to contain) stems from the fact that I’ve lived and worked in Vancouver nearly my entire life and, while I was single until 15 years ago, I could never afford to buy a home. Thank G-d, my situation has changed, circumstances have opened up choices that never existed before, and the planets have aligned, allowing us to finally buy a home.

Now, we just have to find one that meets my simple needs: in-suite laundry, hardwood floors, a good-sized kitchen and not south-facing. I say “my needs” because we can all agree on the universal truth: “happy wife, happy life.” It’s a buyer’s market at the moment, so yippee for us. This whole roller-coaster journey offers a new chapter in our lives; one filled with hopefulness, possibilities and joy. I look forward with gratitude to a beautiful mezuzah on a new door to bless our new home. All I can say is l’chaim!

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

And the winner is …

The recent British Columbia provincial election was one of the closest in history – so close that the result is not yet certain. By press time, the incumbent New Democratic party was leading or elected in 46 seats, the Conservative party in 45 seats and the Green party held two. While 47 seats are needed for a majority government, that number would represent a very precarious situation from which to govern.

Recounts are taking place, as is the counting of 49,000 absentee ballots that have not yet been tabulated. With several ridings featuring races divided by just dozens of votes, it remains possible that either the NDP or the Conservatives could form government when the dust settles.

The likeliest scenario echoes the tight 2017 election, which resulted in a minority government. A supply and confidence agreement between the Green party and John Horgan’s New Democrats made Horgan premier and allowed him to govern for more than three years as if he had a majority.

Many Jewish voters took special interest in this election. Provincial and municipal elections have not generally carried the same level of interest around specifically “Jewish issues” as a federal election, but that is less true now. While Jews obviously share the same policy interests as other British Columbians, and have the full diversity of opinions as other voters, current events added gravity to this campaign.

There has been an alarming increase in antisemitic rhetoric and incidents. This has magnified attention on issues that fall at least partially under provincial jurisdiction, like public security, police enforcement and prosecution of hate laws, education and public sensitization around multiculturalism and intercultural harmony, and a host of other topics.

Regardless of who forms government, both parties have expressed commitment to the implementation of mandatory Holocaust education, something that was announced by the last NDP government.

Some Jewish British Columbians felt a sense of betrayal by the treatment of former NDP cabinet minister Selina Robinson, who was fired from cabinet after referring to pre-state Israel as a “crappy piece of land.”

The election of Nina Krieger, the NDP candidate in the riding of Victoria-Swan Lake, will certainly reassure Jewish voters that they have a voice if the New Democrats form government. Krieger is a member of the community and was a longtime executive director of the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre. Her expertise will be invaluable as the province operationalizes the Holocaust education curriculum and as a liaison with the Jewish community.

The new Conservative caucus also has many vocal allies, including Claire Rattée, in the far northwestern BC riding of Skeena, who is Jewish, and many others who have made efforts to connect with the Jewish community over the past year especially.

Both Krieger and Rattée were profiled in the last issue of the Independent.

All parties made the right noises toward the Jewish community during the election campaign. Politicians, of course, are generally good at making the right noises. Follow-through is what matters.

We are encouraged that, during the campaign, the Jewish community and the Middle East conflict were not exploited as wedge issues by any party, a tendency we have occasionally seen at the federal level.

The apparent lack of polarization around issues important to Jewish people is a bright light in a deeply polarized province. With the collapse of BC United, the erstwhile BC Liberal party, the centre of the political spectrum became something of a vacuum. Not only did the Oct. 19 election indicate a stark binary between left and right in the province – not a particularly new phenomenon here – but urban/rural divisions have rarely been more pronounced. To look at a map of the province after the election is to see an ocean of blue, with the Conservatives having won almost every rural seat. New Democrats won all but a single seat in the city of Vancouver and the rest of their caucus is almost entirely from urban centres and the close-in suburbs.

There is an adage that has rarely been more apt: “In the Maritimes, politics is a pastime, in Quebec a religion, in Ontario a business, on the Prairies a cause and, in British Columbia, entertainment.”

By the time you read this, perhaps we will know who the premier will be. Perhaps not. In times of uncertainty, we can guarantee this: expect no dull moments.

Love is… being together

There is something somewhat intimate about being woken up in the middle of the night by rocket sirens. Feet and arms lightly intertwined with my wife’s, feeling a slight tug of the cover to her side in the never-ending battle-of-the-blankets, I am startled by the sound. I am slow to make sense of the sirens, which are coming both from outside and my cellphone, the latter also providing a strobe-light effect. I look to my wife, nudge her and say in a most loving but rushed tone, “Let’s go! Missiles!”

Remember those Love is… comic strips of the 1970s by New Zealand cartoonist and love culturalist Kim Casall? Well, how about Love Is… waking up snuggled together to a missile alert? Not the free love and innocence of the hippie generation, but for sure love!

And what about Love is… ensuring your wife enters the safe room first. How’s that for being a gentleman? As the sirens go off and we rush to our safe room, my wife goes in first, then I rush in after her, slamming shut the heavy iron door behind us. Actually, if our kids are home or we have guests, I will make sure everyone is inside – including our dog – before entering. Just seems like the right thing to do, danger be damned. How’s that for bravado?

***

Speaking of love. Returned from Tel Aviv with my wife the other day. Incoming missiles and a known routine. Pull over. Exit car. Move away from the vehicle. Crouch down on roadside. Cover your head with your hands (though I don’t know how that helps if a missile strikes you). So, there was my wife, huddled next to me, while the Iron Dome chased and intercepted its overhead target. In a chivalrous act of protection, I hovered over my wife, giving her a second layer of armour. I hugged her. Amazing how adrenalin works. Love is… shielding your wife from incoming missiles.

In a similar spirit. Love is… being alone with your wife in the safe room during missile alerts. It’s not for no reason that births spike during wartime.

***

Then there’s our morning routine. Prewar, it was pillow talk about the chores ahead. Now, the first thing we cross-check is Code Red missile alerts received on our cellphones overnight. Where were the sirens? Where did the missiles land? Or almost land? Other carnage or near-carnage? Other military developments? Not the most romantic of topics but that’s where our minds are these days – from the moment we wake up until we fall asleep. Love is… lying in bed together comparing missile alerts and military actions.

***

The other week, during Iran’s second cruise missile attack on Israel, where more than 180 missiles were fired at our little shtetl with the intent to exact maximum, indiscriminate death and destruction, there was significant news chatter about the attack. Under the fog of war, not fully clear what to expect.

My wife, who works in Tel Aviv, just completed her shift and was taking a bus home. She called to advise me that her bus was late and that her cellphone battery was running low, so I shouldn’t worry if she’s delayed and doesn’t answer. Shortly after our conversation came the news flash about a mega-casualty terrorist attack in nearby Jaffa and another attempted attack in Tel Aviv. I tried calling my wife back. No answer. Wishfully and optimistically, I attributed it to no battery.

Then the news flash that Iran had fired several hundred cruise missiles at Israel. Expected to arrive in our airspace within the next … 12 minutes. Not 10 minutes, not 15, but 12. This was for real! Where was my wife?! There was no way to call her, to learn of her whereabouts.

If she were on the bus during a missile barrage, what would happen? Would the driver follow Homefront commands? Would the bus pull over? Would the passengers get off the bus? Would they crouch down away from the bus with their hands covering their heads? Would someone hover over my wife … protect her?

Time is ticking – three minutes from the expected cruise missile impact. Anxiously pacing the living room, I keep looking to the news for some insight about something. Then, I hear the elevator. I run into the hallway, watching the red digits slowing climbing to my floor. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The door opens. There she is. In all her beauty. Somewhat frazzled-looking. I give her a giant, protective bear hug. Immediately, sirens go off throughout the city and our cellphones buzz and flash with missile alerts. My wife arrived literally in the nick of time.

We quickly make our way to the safe room. My wife enters first. I slam the door shut behind us. With her tension unravelling, my wife begins to cry – from exhaustion, from stress, from survival. Again, we embrace.

Love is… holding your wife near in the safety of your safe room during a missile attack.

***

Please continue donating to the Israeli war and revival efforts, or buy Israel Bonds. Twelve months after the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas terror attacks, the war is still raging, and on several active fronts. Sderot and Metula – and even Tel Aviv and Haifa – are Israel’s front lines. And Israel is the diaspora’s front line.

Bring them home now.

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah more than 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

Our family sukkah traditions

I look at all the fancy sukkah kits people use when I cruise Instagram. I wonder how fast the structures go up, and whether they stand up to strong winds, but we’ve never spent the money on one to find out. Our sukkah is different. It takes a lot of work to put up and take down, but it’s sturdy and has a history.

Our sukkah was created by my dad in the 1960s for my parents’ congregation at the time, in Ann Arbor, Mich. My dad, an engineer, drew up his blueprint, signing it the “Dexter Sukkah Company” because they lived in Dexter, Mich., at the time. While my parents helped build sukkot at our congregation in Virginia where I grew up, and I helped decorate them, we never had one at home. I only learned about the “Dexter Portable Sukkah” as an adult.

As newlyweds, we told my parents that we might build our own sukkah. We lived several hours away from them, in North Carolina. My dad brought us copies of his plan. I think he may even have brought down some scrap lumber for us to assemble our own. That first year, we did it. My brand-new spouse and I harvested bamboo from an overgrown lot across the street for the schach (greenery put on top) and got started building. My beloved then dropped a piece of lumber on my head. The next day, my grad school advisor suggested I visit the student healthcare centre. A doctor concluded that I probably got a concussion. Although I am handy with a drill, that was the first and last year I built the sukkah with my husband!

Over time, we’ve moved for our academic lives and careers. The lumber got left behind in North Carolina. The year we lived in Buffalo, NY, while my husband did a postdoc, I taught at a community college, and we didn’t build a sukkah.

At the next stop, in Kentucky, we put the sukkah up in a grassy side yard our first year. My husband was a new assistant professor. We invited all his work colleagues to a big party. It took time for us to “get wise” to the antisemitism issues of our college town. We kept putting up our sukkah each year, but moved it to the fenced and gated backyard, where it was private. The schach in Kentucky mostly smelled stinky, as we cut back endless tree-of-heaven saplings from our overgrown backyard.

Fall evenings in Kentucky were warm, so we would have dinner parties in the sukkah, complete with bug spray. Friends and colleagues would comment about the runner beans and flowers we’d planted in the yard, while our bird dogs wrestled and chased crickets. Sukkot became a favourite holiday to be outside, sharing harvest food and hanging out with friends. We stayed in Kentucky six years. By the end, my husband’s enthusiastic use of deck screws meant that our sukkah lumber was splintered. We abandoned it when we moved to Winnipeg.

Building a sukkah in Winnipeg, 15 years ago, we started from scratch, using the Dexter Sukkah Company’s blueprint, and bought new lumber, too. That piece of paper with the sukkah plans took up residence in our cordless drill case. No matter what we fix, we see my dad’s plans. A friend from synagogue biked over to help that first year, with his drill gun tucked into the small of his back the way some people carry firearms. This time, my husband used an IKEA-type interlocking fastener approach to frame the walls, where it takes longer to assemble and disassemble the pieces, but the wood remains in better shape. He used mostly oak, elm and crabapple branches as schach at our first Winnipeg house. That year, we continued with the dinner parties, including wine and cheese, with new professor friends. The small crabapple fruits added some additional colour overhead, and some additional excitement when one landed in a wineglass.

As time passed, our sukkah became decorated with preschool fruit stuffies and paper chains, filled with twins who squeaked with enthusiasm from high chairs. Eventually, they were grade-school kids who set the table and cleared afterwards, in hopes of getting dessert faster.

In our new home (still in Winnipeg), this is the second year we’ve managed to build a sukkah. The schach comes from Virginia creeper vines and Manitoba maple shoots. The kids are big enough to hold up the sides while my husband screws it together. I worry about whether somebody will get hit on the head again. For the holiday, I bake lots of food in advance to feed hungry teens – fresh air seems to make them eat even more! We sometimes invite over other families. Sometimes, we just celebrate on our own. We hope it won’t rain too hard or snow – because we’re not diehards. If it’s a cold rain, we’re celebrating indoors at the dining room table instead!

We reuse our decorations, including the stuffies and the plastic wine goblets, every year. This is a holiday that is not expensive for us. We’ve never upgraded to a fancier kit sukkah, fairy lights or pricey ushipizin (guest) artwork, and that’s OK. This year, in a holiday season when, to be honest, everything has felt pretty hard to get through, I was heartened to see the sukkah rise again in our backyard, from 2×4 lumber, cut long ago.

Some years, my holidays are enriched by study. Yes, I loved studying the talmudic tractate describing the rules around building a sukkah, which can seem ridiculous. You can use the side of an elephant as part of your sukkah! That’s legal, according to the rabbis, but also entirely unnecessary. It’s also fine to build your sukkah out of scrap lumber and paper chains.

This year, my husband spent a full day of a long weekend erecting our old-fashioned sukkah. Looking exhausted, his face red from wind, he smiled when he remarked that we’d been doing this now for 26 years. He continued with “every year’s sukkah is a little different, but every year’s design is the same, too.” There’s nothing wrong with that! In a time with so much upheaval, family traditions like these – even if they are clunky, heavy and time-consuming – are well-worth keeping.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

A lesson learned anew

In the late 1990s, the collective Jewish community organizations in North America acknowledged a crisis. What had been increasingly evident anecdotally was being confirmed by statistics, research, published works and commentary. Affiliation with Jewish communities and agencies was declining precipitously – to the extent that the very future of the Jewish community, by some estimates, was in doubt.

Assimilation, intermarriage and declining religious observance were seen as factors in this decline. Counterintuitively, the almost complete disappearance of systemic antisemitism and the sidelining of social antisemitism meant that this opposition force no longer had the pull it once did to enforce cohesion among North American Jews.

This realization, and the debate it launched, were among the reasons that Jewish federations, synagogues, Hillels and other agencies engaged in a redoubling of efforts to reach Jews where they are. For example, to destigmatize intermarriage and welcome mixed families, and to entice largely assimilated Jews into Jewish community centres and synagogues and Jewish spaces on campuses, through the development of innovative programs.

But the core “problem” facing Jews in this narrative – a decline in the defensive, if unifying, force of antisemitism in Western societies – took care of itself just three years later.

Conflict in the Middle East always results in a conflict over the conflict around the world. The launch of the Second Intifada, in September 2000, saw an upsurge in anti-Israel and antisemitic (not exactly the same; not unrelated) activities on campuses and elsewhere around the world.

By various measures, the first two decades of the 21st century saw some successes in terms of sustained engagement and growth in aspects of the community. This was a result of a confluence of events – the debate that began in earnest in the 1990s; the investment in outreach undertaken across the Jewish community; and, not at all incidentally, the rise in global antisemitism that coincided with the growing conflict in the Middle East.

Then came Oct. 7, 2023.

In response, early indications suggest, some Jews have prudently covered up Magen David necklaces, put caps over their kippot and otherwise reduced their visibility in public. This is a superficial response, but it is based on reasonable principles of safety.

Here is what Jews overwhelmingly have not done: abandoned Judaism and the broader Jewish identity that draws the hostility of haters.

On the contrary. Synagogues, Jewish advocacy organizations, Hillels and other Jewish groups are seeing spikes in engagement unknown in recent memory.

Many Jews whose lives have been comfortably lived with only tangential connections to the broader Jewish peoplehood found themselves suddenly and profoundly isolated in their various communities after Oct. 7. Some Jews who had concluded that they did not need the benefits of collective engagement found, perhaps to their dismay, that they do.

This fact (or its observation) should not be seen as an “I told you so.” It is merely a recognition that antisemitism exists and, throughout history, it has been a cyclical phenomenon that rises and falls in waves.

Let us not pretend that there are silver linings in the horrors we have experienced collectively in the past year. No one would choose this trade-off. What we are suggesting is that, in the face of this new reality, Jews are doing what Jews have always done: returned to the teachings, core values and simple togetherness that have sustained our people and traditions for millennia, realizing, as generations before have done, that these ancient assets are no less valuable today than in eras past.

We cannot foresee the future. Things may get worse before they get better. But when this cycle finally recedes, we hope we will be a stronger people. Those who had dismissed their own parents’ warnings around cyclical bigotry are conveying to their own kids the lessons they had disdained. There are reports of record synagogue attendance at High Holiday services this year, established and new ad hoc advocacy programs and organizations have been enriched by an influx of people and talent. Innovative organizations have popped up to support many non-affiliated or disaffected Jews in spiritual exploration, with racialized identities, or those who want to advocate for peace and dialogue outside of established communal structures. On campuses, Jewish students are learning advocacy and skills that will empower our community for decades to come.

This is not, to be clear, an instance of Jewishness being defined by negatives, driven by its opposites. It is a constructive, positive, heartening phenomenon in which people who did not even know that they needed community reach out, find one and, in the process, empower both themselves and the larger people.

Again, this is not a silver lining in a terrible time. This is simply an ancient lesson learned anew.

The fight for democracy

The following remarks were delivered at the Israel hostages rally at Vancouver Art Gallery on Sept. 15, which is also the International Day of Democracy.

In recognition of the International Day of Democracy, I will talk about how antisemitism is harming and potentially destroying democracy. This talk will be based mainly on a report by Amy Spitalnick, just published in the United States. Fair warning, this talk will be heavy, but, in my view, important to understand.

Antisemitism is a form of religious, racial and ethnic prejudice against Jews. But, unlike other such prejudices, antisemitism also operates as a conspiracy theory that lies about Jewish power and influence. And, because it functions as a conspiracy theory, antisemitism poses a threat far beyond the Jewish community. It fuels other forms of hate and extremism, including against other communities and against democratic institutions that are depicted as pawns of Jewish control.

Antisemitism – like other conspiracy theories – increases at times of social or political anxiety, as people look for a source to blame for what’s wrong with society and with their lives.

Enemies of democracy, such as Iran and Russia, use antisemitism to undermine trust in democracies and make them seem like failed states. The “conspiracy myth” that Jews control certain sectors of society, such as banks, media or elections, is the cornerstone of antisemitism, and anyone who accepts this myth loses faith in democracy. If Jews control elections, judges and finance, people say to themselves, how can I, as a non-Jew, live up to my potential? My failings are caused by evil forces beyond my control.

Casting Jews as all-powerful naturally fuels hatred of Jews. But it also explains what extremists believe – that other communities, like People of Colour, non-Christians, LGBTQ+, are incapable of success except through unfair or illegal ways. And so, belief in this powerful Jewish control group causes distrust in democratic institutions and values.

When neo-Nazis came to Charlottesville, Va., in 2017, they chanted “Jews will not replace us,” showing that they believed in the “Great Replacement” conspiracy theory. Once hidden in the dark corners of the internet, this conspiracy theory says that there is a deliberate Jewish effort to replace the white population with immigrants and People of Colour. This conspiracy theory has directly inspired many mass killings targeting not only Jewish people (Pittsburgh and Poway), but also Hispanic people (El Paso), Black people (Buffalo), Muslims (New Zealand and London, Ont.) and other communities.

Versions of this conspiracy theory have become increasingly mainstreamed, courtesy of influencers, elected officials, candidates and foreign powers in our social media. They use it to advance their own political goals – and, at the same time, they embolden violent extremists. In the Jan. 6, 2021, attack on the US Congress, when many insurrectionists carried white supremacist symbols in their efforts to overturn the 2020 US election results, they included false claims of undocumented immigrants stealing the election. Only recently, we heard in the presidential debate about immigrants eating their neighbours’ pets from a man who wants to be president.

Recent polling shows that belief in conspiracy theories is among the best predictors of antisemitism. And a recent US survey found that highly antisemitic Americans are significantly more likely to support political violence and other forms of anti-democratic extremism. So, what to do?

First of all, we need to fight like hell! We need to call out conspiracy theories against Jews and any other identifiable group every time we encounter them. We need to educate ourselves about what antisemitism means by knowing the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition and its examples, and we must call out antisemitism and other forms or racism when we see it.

We should fight against antisemitism but also against all other forms of racism, including Islamophobia, misogyny, sexual-preference bigotry and other forms of hate and violence; and we should work to advance inclusive, multi-ethnic democracy. The safety and fates of all minority communities and, eventually, all supporters of democracy, are bound together. Jews historically thrive in free, democratic states, and don’t do so well in autocracies, even if autocratic rule might at first seem attractive.

I know this won’t be easy. Many Jews, including me, have felt abandoned and isolated by those who have remained conspicuously silent, or worse, fallen for anti-Israel and antisemitic lies. This crisis since Oct. 7 exposed the lack of understanding of antisemitism in so many parts of society, including how antisemitism is present in conversations related to Israel. Fundamentally, there is a lack of recognition that Jewish safety, including in Israel, is deeply linked to the safety of all communities in all democracies. We need to change that.

But, while we need to work tirelessly to save ourselves and combat antisemitism, we alone, without allies, cannot stop antisemitism. We need to recognize that antisemitism is one part, granted a big part, of the assault on democracy that affects everyone.

If we accept what we need to do as I’ve outlined today, it means having open and difficult conversations with others who think they can save democracy without fighting antisemitism. We need to show them that they are wrong. Let’s start today.

Bernard Pinsky, KC, is chair of the Ronald S. Roadburg Foundation.

There is value in diluted wine

Recently, a stranger responded to a forum post I wrote on Ravelry, a knitting website. I’ve worked off and on for many years designing knitting patterns. In the last four years, I’ve been distracted by the pandemic, by moving house and renovation, and the war. I haven’t put out any new patterns for awhile. Then, hit by a variety of antisemitic interactions, I decided I didn’t want to market my past work either. Most of my patterns are like anyone else’s, but a few show my Jewish identity. This includes two kippah knitting patterns and a hamantashen grogger design.

So, I mentioned my hesitancy about marketing during wartime to a Jewish knitters’ group. Out of the blue, I got a screed from an outsider that shows just why I’m wary. According to this response, I’m one of those “people without a soul.” Among many other comments, it was insinuated that

Israelis appropriated everything – we even stole hummus. Of course, the “we” showed exactly how jumbled up this person was. She assumed all Jews were Israelis or that all Israelis were Jews. The person didn’t understand the word “antisemitism” at all. It was quite a daunting paragraph. I knew many things about this hateful post were off base, as did others who were on this forum. Despite multiple reports about this screed, however, the website’s owners didn’t respond to us or promptly remove the hateful post.

Meanwhile, my household encountered hateful graffiti about the war in our neighbourhood again, which we reported to the police. This is at least our fifth report; there’s an investigation complete with incident numbers, as most of the graffiti isn’t about the war but simply Jew-hatred.

I then read a biased media report online. Recognizing the name of a journalist associated with it, I contacted her – and here’s where the narrative changes.

The journalist was open to my concerns, thoughtful, and the article was immediately edited. The police contacts I have dealt with have been unfailingly responsive and empathetic. I was comforted by professionals who saw our concerns, indicated they too saw the hate or bias, and acted on it. These were smart people who used their roles to stand up for what is right. Were they allies in every way? I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but, in these instances, I felt less alone.

As part of my Daf Yomi (page of Talmud a day), I’ve been learning the Babylonian tractate of Bava Batra. In Bava Batra, on page 96, a question arises. At what point is a food so significantly transformed that we need to change the blessing we say when eating it? Rabbi Elliot Goldberg introduces this in an essay on My Jewish Learning, and it gets at the weird gradations we encounter and how to categorize them. On this page, there’s a question that relates to beverages. At what point is a drink derived from grapes so watered down that it’s no longer wine, and now just some sort of flavoured water? I immediately understood this because, centuries later, I’ve also had those bubbly waters flavoured with “real fruit.” Is there any actual nutrition from the fruit in what we are drinking? No, there isn’t. It’s usually just a little grape taste in the carbonated water. It tastes good, but it’s not juice.

My household traveled in September to a family bat mitzvah in New York City. There were many great moments during the weekend, including the bat mitzvah, which was held at the famous congregation, the Society for the Advancement of Judaism. This is where Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan served on the pulpit and the cantor was famous for composing “Hava Nagila.” Reconstructionist Judaism started in this building. There was good food, some great sightseeing. I especially enjoyed the perfect fall weather in Central Park during Shabbat, watching cousins play and chat in the playground.

Even so, I don’t love travel. A 12-hour journey, two airplanes, an international border and huge crowds can be a drag. Like the diluted wine conversation, it reminds me that not everything is obvious. Some dilution (or travel) is fine. Too much can result in a less pleasurable experience that we must bless and define differently.

On the airplanes, I read a novel, Suzanne Joinson’s A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar. At first, it appeared to be a story about women missionaries and their proselytizing efforts in Western China. By the end of the novel, it was about sexual assault, lack of medical care, gender identity, riots and war, colonization, British identity, exoticism, refugees and more. Just like diluted wine, sometimes things are not what they initially appear to be about. A book I sought out as entertainment was something more.

So, too, what we see as entertaining or as a diverting hobby – a knitting project, for instance – can be more. The design is a piece of technical writing, the finished garment keeps us warm and, somehow, discussion about it can turn into an opportunity for those who hate. Even the chore of reporting something can turn positive, via an opportunity for dialogue with a journalist or police officer, or negative, when a site’s moderators and owners fail to respond appropriately or quickly.

During the High Holy Days, we reflect on our behaviour, with clear markers of right and wrong, good and evil. Usually, that is more than enough to think about, but, this year, everything I ponder is tinged with this last year of tragedy, war and its aftermath. As I escape into the outdoors, a good conversation or a novel, I go back to the talmudic conversation about diluting wine. The past year has felt “diluted” to me by the sadness and the war and antisemitism. Yet, I hope, as always, that Sukkot will bring good weather for sitting outdoors, and interesting conversations. Simchat Torah might give me a chance to dance with the Torah with joy and without reservation.

As I sat in Central Park, a cousin asked me, with only a little smirk, if I was still into “the knitting thing.” I paused. It’s OK to acknowledge that our intellectual energies and what we find entertaining have changed or diluted during this time. Many have changed irrevocably since Oct. 7, 2023. The High Holy Days offer us an opportunity to get back in touch with ourselves and consider who we are. The changes may be hard ones. We may be “diluted” differently, but the change itself isn’t bad. Rather, it’s part of life’s journey. Here’s hoping for sunny moments in the sukkah this fall, but, if it snows instead here in Winnipeg or it rains in Vancouver, we can’t control that. We can just control how we understand and bless it. Gam zu le’tovah, this too is for the best.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.