Chanukah

Gift of doing nothing at all

Recently, one of my twins convinced me we needed to look at an online mindfulness app. It featured ocean beaches, a sunset, a waterfall, a forest, a rainstorm …. you get the picture. The notion was that one could stare at each image, take deep cleansing breaths and feel restored. Except, with the twins crowding my iPad screen, within moments we had hopped from one view to the next. The app kicked us out, as we had “seen” all its tranquil views. What was supposed to be meditative became a crazed, erratic two-minute virtual tour of all the outdoors, at once. Oops. That didn’t work out right.

There’s a lot of discussion online and in the media about how the pandemic has caused mental health issues because people are lonely, restless and bored, and many have a hard time with restrictions and lockdown. This may well be true for many people.

For those of us with kids, it feels more like a Ferris wheel/merry-go-round mash-up, where both rides have the music playing, it’s all set on a fast speed and there’s NO. WAY. TO. GET. OFF. We’re crazy busy staying home. We chose remote schooling for safety. This gives no breaks from parenting, and no way to get all the work done. My house is a mess. The housework and cooking? – seriously out of control.

My parents, living alone in Virginia, have an opposite experience. Due to their age and health, they, too, are staying home to stay safe, with lots of time, not enough socializing in person, feeling adrift without their usual travel plans and volunteer activities.

Our extended family is far away and cannot help us in Winnipeg. We can’t support them in person either, so we’ve had a long stretch of time, including holidays, on our own. Chanukah won’t be different. My parents are sending fun toys in the mail, ordered online, to keep the kids busy during the hours and hours ahead indoors this winter, which we will appreciate, whenever they arrive.

We’ve also been planning way in advance. When you celebrate Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, etc., on your own as a nuclear family, it takes more thought to make it special. Giving ourselves time to prepare has meant we have had some amazing meals and meaningful home-based observances, without going farther than our back deck sukkah.

My husband and I prepared for Chanukah by worrying if we had enough candles or if we had to shop for them – were Chanukah candles considered essential by the Manitoba government? To our relief, unless the kids insist on lighting all the chanukiyot at once, we’re fine. We’ve got plenty left over from last year, no need to go out and buy more. This, and internet ordering for kids, has been the extent of our preparations.

My twins, however, started the Chanukah countdown much earlier than usual. On a quiet Sunday afternoon, I discovered they were making paper chains and complicated construction paper cut-outs of dreidels, jugs of oil, a menorah, and more. The cut-outs were carefully hung up on our living room’s French doors – approximately 17 days before the first candles would be lit. Anticipation makes a holiday special.

However, the gift I love the absolute best these days won’t come on Chanukah. It’s Shabbat, which happens every week. It’s an opportunity to just sit on the couch. We stream services and I cook ahead so there’s nothing to do on Saturday. We sometimes magically find take-out appearing on the table Saturday night, when the leftovers don’t seem appealing. We’re not shomer Shabbat, and I’ve been known to disappear for a cozy chair and some knitting or to spend time with my sewing machine to deepen my relaxation, but Jewish traditional practice was really onto something with Shabbat.

Since having twins – they are now 9 years old – I’ve had people ask what would help, if I could have absolutely anything. I’d say: going to a quiet place in the country, alone, with a big bed with clean white sheets, lots of good food prepared, and time to just sleep, eat, read and hang out by myself. In reality, I felt that leaving my household for any length of time might result in worse chaos when I returned. My husband is well-intended, but an absentminded professor. He often forgets to feed the kids snack or the dog dinner if I don’t remind him over and over.

However, Shabbat at our house has become that oasis, where I get the chance to just be. It’s not the sunset, waterfall, rainfall, forest walk, ocean waves vision that the mindfulness app thinks we need. Not at all. It’s nothing idyllic – or tidy – but it’s a time to step away from social media, the chores, the craziness, and just be. Nowadays, I don’t have to get everyone dressed up for Shabbat services. I can’t invite guests or stress about getting a fancy meal made. I have many fewer work deadlines. And while, yes, there are some negatives in that, there’s a whole lot of positives, too.

We’re facing so many things that aren’t like anything we’ve experienced before. The unexpected can be scary. It can also be an amazing opportunity to let go, embrace and learn something different. Shabbat has long been my favourite holiday, but it took a pandemic for me to settle even more fully into one day a week of rest.

Turns out I don’t need to gaze at a mindfulness app to unwind. I’ll stick with making a huge Shabbat dinner, sleeping (late!) until 8 a.m., and participating in services from the couch, surrounded by the kids’ Lego and Playmobil congregation.

This year might be a chance to discover new gifts within this very challenging experience. Mine might be the best thing I could imagine – doing nothing at all.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba 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.

The man behind the curtain

It was a beautiful Wednesday morning. I awoke in a tangle of bed sheets and to an IV stuck in my left arm. I had been in a road biking accident in the city the night before, breaking my now throbbing right leg in three places. The night had been a blur of ambulances, narcotics and doctors bustling around the noisy emergency room. It was quiet now. I had been moved to a shared room on the seventh floor. Long beige curtains had been pulled around my hospital bed, shielding me from the other patients. I could see the sunlight splashing through the window on my left, as I looked out to the surrounding city buildings. It was still summer, but mine was over.

A tired nurse interrupted my thoughts, rushing in with an awkward blood pressure machine and a temperature wand. I wondered if the frequent checks were to ensure I was clear of infection and, perhaps, COVID-19. The ward was eerily empty of visitors. Strict regulations were now in place because of the pandemic, and the impact was evident. Suddenly, with fewer family members visiting, there was more for the staff to do. The nursing station seemed to be a never-ending symphony of ringing, as patients buzzed for attention.

On the other side of my bed curtain, I heard a patient cheerfully chatting to a nurse who had arrived to assist with his medication. The nurse’s smile was audible as she told him about her coming birthday plans at the beach, physically distanced, of course. I eavesdropped that day and I realized that my roommate knew the name of every care aide and nurse who came to his side. He greeted them with enthusiasm as they entered the room, as if welcoming each into his home. He called them by name and asked with sincerity about their families and futures. I never once heard this man whisper a word about his own pain.

That night I wept, overwhelmed by self-pity and my coming trip to the operating theatre, where they would screw my splintered bones back together. I lay still and stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the machines around me. I thought about how I was going to get the kids to school, how my work would be affected and all the things I could, temporarily, no longer do. This year was not getting any easier. And then, as I attempted to use my bedpan, it spilled.

I awoke the next day to the sunshine dappling on my starchy bed sheets and the scattered magazines on my bedside table. It was agonizingly early, and the birds were chirping loudly as if to flaunt the beauty of the day. I was disheartened by my bedridden state, my swollen leg wrapped in plaster and the unsightly road rash that covered my body. I sat up in bed and dreaded the lonely hours that lay ahead.

The silence of the room was soon broken by a quiet voice from behind the curtain.

“Good morning,” the voice said calmly, clearly directed at me. “Are you doing OK?”

The patient next to me must have heard my sobs the night before. Hesitantly, I responded. From there, he drew me into a conversation and brought me into his world, spinning my despair on its head.

For days, we talked endlessly through the hanging fabric to pass the time, without seeing each other. Each morning he would greet me with unwavering cheer, found somewhere in the depths of his own being, despite his medical challenges.

“Good morning, Caroline,” he would beam. “You are going to get through this.”

He was almost 80 years old, he proudly told me. He had a wonderful life filled with a loving family, amazing friends and memories. His heart was full. And come hell or high water, he was going to get better and get out of this joint.

This stranger became my unrelenting cheerleader, as if it was his personal mission to lift me up from my melancholy. As I told him about my family, he reminded me to enjoy these precious years with my young children and how fortunate I was to have a partner who was by my side, when the hospital allowed. As we talked through the curtain, he encouraged me to find the best in all difficult circumstances, including this one, and to remember that the glass is always half full. Life is not always easy, he would say, but you have to carry on and look for the positive. His optimism radiated throughout our hospital room.

After our hours of conversation, we asked the nurse if we could see each other. Bedridden, connected to IV poles and draped in matching hospital gowns, we waited in anticipation as the curtain was drawn. As his eyes sparkled, he smiled knowingly and told me that I had so much to look forward to. I felt a sense of exhilaration, seeing him for the first time, after all that had been shared in our intimate room.

Despite his own ill health, he continued to coach me from his hospital bed in the days that followed, gracefully placing my injury in perspective. It was left unsaid that I was one of the lucky ones. I only needed to look over to the third patient in our room, who had been in a motorcycle accident, to count my blessings.

My roommate was wise and unrelenting with his words of encouragement. He was infectiously optimistic and didn’t complain, except about the food, assigning a score out of 10 to each meal. We joked about this often, that and the dismal TV options. My discharge papers were finally signed on the fifth day and I waited eagerly to get home to my family. As I was wheeled out of the room, our eyes met and we said our final goodbyes. I felt emotional, as I knew that I would likely never see him again.

I think of my exceptional roommate often and of what a gift he was to me. The impact he made during those difficult days on the hospital ward still resonates. Everything will be okay and there are brighter days ahead, for all of us. Thank you, Sanford, for being my silver lining, my ray of sunshine. I am grateful.

Caroline Dickson lives in Vancouver. This story was originally published in the Globe & Mail and a Jewish community member shared it with the JI. In recognition of Sanford Cohen’s kindness towards everyone he meets, Dickson is collecting Chanukah gifts from the community for him this year. If you would like to contribute a gift or send a card, please email [email protected]. Drop-off locations are available in Richmond and Vancouver.

Video on healing, light

Loolwa Khazzoom in Iraqis in Pajamas’ video for their song “Cancer Is My Engine,” to be released on Chanukah. (photo by Ailisa Newhall)

With shared themes of finding light in the darkness, Seattle-area band Iraqis in Pajamas is releasing the video for their song “Cancer Is My Engine” on Chanukah.

Amid the global pandemic, volunteer cast and crew drove in from across Washington state, donning masks and practising social distancing, to film the music video against the backdrop of the Olympic Peninsula forest.

The video tells the story of front woman Loolwa Khazzoom’s choice to reject the conventional thyroidectomy treatment for thyroid cancer, despite medical and financial pressure. Khazzoom instead chose to approach the diagnosis as an opportunity for radically transforming her life, such as by going vegan and practising numerous forms of mind-body medicine. (See jewishindependent.ca/healing-powers-of-song.)

After cold-stopping the growth of the nodules for years, through these measures, Khazzoom moved to Washington state from California, returned to her lost love of music, and launched her band, which combines ancient Iraqi Jewish prayers with original alternative rock. Immediately following, the thyroid nodules began shrinking. Through magical realism and metaphor, the music video reveals how, by listening to her inner voice, Khazzoom self-healed through her actual voice, by singing – the ability to do which may have been destroyed by a thyroidectomy, given the proximity of the thyroid gland and vocal chords.

The video begins with Khazzoom standing at the edge of a cliff, singing the opening line of the song, “Cancer is my engine.” As she sings, a candle is lit by her voice. She is transported to a forest, where she is searching in the dark with the light of that candle. She comes across a stuffed bear – representing Khazzoom’s mother – and picks it up, then continues on her quest.

An insurance agent and doctor appear and begin chasing Khazzoom. As she runs from them, she comes to a fork in the road – with the doctor on one side and the insurance agent on the other. She pauses, then runs forward, where there is no path, heading toward the light. She keeps running until she comes to a cliff and jumps off it.

photo - Loolwa Khazzoom in the “Cancer Is My Engine” video — Loolwa Khazzoom in the “Cancer Is My Engine” video. *(photo by Ailisa Newhall)*

She lands in the middle of a drumming circle and starts dancing wildly. A few scenes later, she is drumming in the middle of the circle, and everyone else is dancing around her. Both circles represent the pivotal importance of music and dance in Khazzoom’s healing. The video then shifts from magical realism and metaphor to real-life shots, with the band playing music in a vegetable patch in Khazzoom’s garden, representing Khazzoom’s regimen of juicing daily and eating a whole-foods, plant-based diet. The video ends with Khazzoom standing on the edge of the cliff and singing the last words of the song, in the original a cappella Iraqi Jewish prayer that exalts the power of the Divine.

The video was sponsored by nonprofit Healing Journeys and funded by the Lloyd Symington Foundation, both of which offer programs for people living with and healing from cancer.

Studies on the healing possibilities of music are documented in books like The Power of Music by Elena Mannes and The Healing Power of Sound by oncologist Dr. Mitchell Gaynor, and the National Institutes of Health has launched a series of studies on the healing powers of music. Whether singing lullabies or sacred chants, mothers and religious leaders have known for millennia what scientists are only beginning to understand. Singing bypasses our mental process, both awakening and soothing us at the core. Among other benefits, we are able to access, release and heal from the experience of trauma, without having to recount and risk getting triggered by painful memories.

Khazzoom has had a career as an educator, activist, journalist, health coach, and more, all with the central organizing principle of individual and collective healing. Her work has been featured in media including the New York Times and Rolling Stone; she has presented at venues including Harvard University and the Simon Wiesenthal Centre; and she has published two books, which are taught at universities nationwide.

Iraqis in Pajamas comprises Khazzoom on both vocals and bass, Sean Sebastian on guitar and Robbie Morsehead on drums. The trio opens up audiences to contemplation about trauma, healing and transformation, whether addressing domestic violence, cancer, racism, mental illness, street harassment, family caregiving or national exile.

Variations on latke tradition

With all the oil used for frying Chanukah potato pancakes – otherwise known as latkes, in what we think is Yiddish, or as levivot in Hebrew – they may be considered an unhealthy food. Yet, each Chanukah, many of us, who are staunch-hearted and old-fashioned, spend time grating potatoes by hand, always accidentally suffering at least one scraped finger. The more modern among us risk coming out with liquid mush by using a food processor or blender.

Why do we keep making these little pancakes year after year? Why do we eat them for Chanukah in the first place? An old folk proverb says: “Chanukah latkes teach us that one cannot live by miracles alone.”

Jewish food writer and cookbook author Joan Nathan contends that the word latke is not in fact Yiddish but rather stems from “a Russian word, latka, and a pastry, from obsolete Russian, oladka, or flat cake of leavened wheat dough.” This, in turn, probably came from a Middle Greek word, eladion, or oil cake, stemming from elaion, meaning olive oil.

Potato pancakes seem to have originated among poor Eastern European Jews, but potatoes did not become a staple until the mid-19th century. John Cooper, in Eat and Be Satisfied: A Social History of Jewish Food, comments that Jews from Lithuania ate pancakes made from potato flour for Chanukah and had borrowed the idea from Ukrainians, who made a potato pancake dish with goose fat called kartoflani platske, which they ate for Christmas. Since Chanukah fell about the same time, and there were plenty of geese to provide goose fat or schmaltz, we could conclude that schmaltz became a substitute for oil. Jews living in the Pale of Settlement in the 17th century probably adapted it for Chanukah as a way to dress potatoes differently for the holiday. Cooper also states that many Eastern European Jews ate buckwheat latkes for Chanukah, while Polish Jews made placki, pancakes, from potato flour and fried them in oil.

Here are a few types of latkes that would be nice to serve during Chanukah.

ROMANIAN ZUCCHINI POTATO LATKES
(six to eight servings)

2 pounds zucchini, peeled and grated down to the seeds
2 large potatoes, grated
1 medium onion, grated
3 eggs
1 tsp vegetable oil (I use canola)
3/4 cup matzah meal (I use flour)
salt and pepper to taste
vegetable oil for frying

Grate zucchini down to the seeds, discard the seeds and squeeze out the liquid.
Peel potatoes and grate. Remove liquid.
Grate onion and add to zucchini-potato mixture.
Add eggs, oil and half a cup of matzah meal or flour. Add more if necessary.
Season with salt and pepper.
Heat oil in a frying pan. Spoon mixture into pan and brown on both sides.
Serve hot with sour cream or applesauce. You can add carrots, parsley and dill.

TUNA LATKES
This recipe came from Starkist Tuna, with adaptations. It makes 16 latkes.

2 cans drained tuna
2 grated potatoes
1 chopped onion
2 eggs
2 tbsp breadcrumbs
3 tsp dry parsley flakes
3 tsp dry chives
salt and pepper to taste
2/3 cup flour
oil

dressing
1 cup sour cream
3 crushed garlic cloves
4 tbsp olive oil
6 tsp dry herbs such as chives, thyme or dill or mixed
1 tbsp sugar
salt to taste

In a bowl or jar with a lid, mix sour cream, garlic, oil, herbs, sugar and salt. Refrigerate.
Heat oil in a frying pan and fry onions until golden.
Crumble tuna in a bowl. Add potatoes, onion, eggs, breadcrumbs, parsley, chives, salt and pepper.
Place flour in a shallow plate. Form round patties and dip in flour. Add oil to frying pan. Fry patties until golden. Drain on paper towels.
Serve on a platter with dressing on the side.

HERBED ZUCCHINI FETA LATKES
With a few changes, this recipe is from Food & Wine and is by Didem Senol, a chef from Istanbul, Turkey, who trained at the New York French Culinary Institute. It makes four to six servings.

4 medium grated zucchini
1 tbsp kosher salt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup chopped dill
1/4 cup chopped parsley
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese

sauce
1 seeded chopped, peeled cucumber
1 cup sour cream
salt and pepper to taste
vegetable oil

Place zucchini in a colander, sprinkle with salt, toss and let stand five minutes. Squeeze out liquid and transfer to a bowl.
Add eggs, flour, dill, parsley and feta. Refrigerate 10 minutes.
Puree cucumber in food processor and transfer to a bowl. Stir in sour cream, salt and pepper.
Preheat oven to 350°F. Heat oil in a frying pan and then, working in batches, drop tablespoons of batter into the hot oil and fry until brown and crisp. Transfer to a baking sheet and keep warm in oven.
Serve with sour cream-cucumber sauce.

Sybil Kaplan is a journalist, lecturer, book reviewer and food writer in Jerusalem. She created and leads the weekly English-language Shuk Walks in Machane Yehuda, she has compiled and edited nine kosher cookbooks, and is the author of Witness to History: Ten Years as a Woman Journalist in Israel.

Festival of light & song

Chanukah lights on Agron Road in Jerusalem, 2012. (photo from Djampa)

History tends to repeat itself or, as Sholem Aleichem put it, The Wheel Makes a Turn. In this story, he wrote about Chanukah, depicting a proud Jew lighting the nine-branched candelabrum, celebrating this festival of dedication and liberation with warmth and affection. Later in the story, this same Jew, now old and infirm, is barely allowed to light the chanukiyah by his assimilated son, while his grandson is not even allowed to watch. The story ends when the grandson is an adult, and celebrates Chanukah with his friends to the dismay of his “modern” parents who cannot understand why their son has rejected their assimilation and returned to his Jewish roots.

Chanukah is one of Israel’s favourite festivals, widely celebrated even by secular Jews. Unlike in the Diaspora, it doesn’t have to compete with the glamour of Christmas, with its shopping frenzy, Santa Claus, carols and other Christian symbols of the holiday, which can be very seductive, even to Jews.

In Jerusalem during the Festival of Lights, you can see chanukiyot and their tiny, multi-coloured candles on almost every windowsill and, at sunset, you’ll hear voices from quivering childish soprano to deep baritone, all singing “Maoz Tzur” (“Rock of Ages”). There is a candlelighting ceremony, as well as free sufganiyot (jelly doughnuts), in my local supermarket every evening for the whole eight nights, and a giant menorah burns atop the Knesset and many public buildings and water tower reservoirs throughout the country. Gifts are exchanged, children receive Chanukah gelt, often in the form of chocolate coins, and dreidels, spinning tops inscribed with the first letters of the Hebrew words for the phrase: “A great miracle happened here.”

The Zionist movement has used Chanukah as a symbol and historical precedent of national survival. The Maccabi sports organization was named after the Maccabees, who are the stars of the holiday, and it holds the Maccabiah Games every four years, just like the Olympics.

The singing of “Maoz Tzur” is a feature of the holiday with mysterious origins. The only clue to its composer is the acrostic of the first five stanzas, spelling out the name “Mordecai”; such naming was a common practice at the time and one used in a lot of zemirot (Sabbath songs). Many scholars believe the composer to be Mordecai ben Isaac, who lived in Germany in the 13th century.

There is a Chabad saying: “Song opens a window to the secret places of the soul.” It is hard to define what makes music specifically Jewish, and many categories exist, including Chassidic, Yiddish, Yemenite, Moroccan, Kurdish, Israeli, secular, religious … the list comprises a broad range.

There is nothing in Jewish law against creating new tunes for hymns. The Gerer Rebbe once stated: “Were I blessed with a sweet voice, I would sing you new hymns and songs every day, for, with the daily rejuvenation of the world, new songs are created.”

Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav wrote: “How do you pray to the Lord? Come, I will show you a new way … not with words or sayings, but with song. We will sing and the Lord on high will understand us.”

When we sing “Maoz Tzur” as a family, grouped around the candles, there is harmony of a special kind. The harmony is not just in the song, but in the sanctity and affection that binds the family and gives it a foundation as solid as a rock.

In painful times for Israel, which has seen so much suffering and loss throughout its history, it brings a measure of comfort to be able to recite the traditional blessing: “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, who has kept us in life and hast preserved us, and enabled us to reach this season.” This year, amid the pandemic, the blessing resonates even more deeply. Happy Chanukah!

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She has written 14 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant, which was made into a movie, and her latest novella, Searching for Sarah. She can be contacted at [email protected] or through her blog dvorawaysman.com.

Celebrate helping & helpers

The Ninth Night of Hanukkah begins, appropriately enough, on the first night of the holiday…. Dad has brought pizza for dinner and Max and Rachel and their parents eat it among unopened and partially opened boxes in their new apartment. (image from book)

Change is a constant in our lives and things don’t always go as planned. Learning how to deal with the unexpected and to be able to ask for help and to be appreciative of it are all valuable lessons. And when such concepts can be literally illustrated and told in story form, they tend to stick better.

The Ninth Night of Hanukkah, written by Erica S. Perl and illustrated by Shahar Kober, is about home and helping, and takes its inspiration from the ninth candle on the chanukiyah, the shamash (Hebrew) or shammes (Yiddish), the helper candle. At the darkest time of the year, family, friends and community are the main lights that get us through and, especially amid the pandemic, a reminder of the love and support we have around us is particularly important.

The Ninth Night of Hanukkah begins, appropriately enough, on the first night of the holiday. But something is different. Dad has brought pizza for dinner and Max and Rachel and their parents eat it among unopened and partially opened boxes in their new apartment. Their cat looks on. “No menorah? No latkes?” the kids wonder. Mom assures them that, tomorrow, they’ll find the Chanukah supplies amid all their things.

On the second night, Max and Rachel make a menorah with some wood, nuts and bolts, paint and glue. Not only is their real menorah still missing but the candles can’t be found either, so the kids – with Mom’s permission – go off to borrow some candles from a neighbour, and Mrs. Mendez in 2C happily obliges.

Each night, the family makes do with the help of a different neighbour. Each night is nice, “but it didn’t feel quite like Hanukkah.”

Spoiler alert … eventually, the box with the family’s holiday stuff arrives – but too late. The delivery comes on Day 9. But Max and Rachel are not so easily deterred. They concoct a plan to celebrate the holiday and their neighbours. “And, best of all, it felt exactly like Hanukkah.”

Perl’s text has a rhythm. The repetition each night of how “it didn’t feel quite like Hanukkah” accents how hard it is to accept new situations. Yet the fact that the family makes each night special, shows that, despite what we might be thinking or feeling, we can act in ways that still celebrate life and all for which we are grateful.

The illustrations by Kober are colourful, with a retro feel, and have a lot of energy. Creative use of white space helps direct the action. And the two-page spreads have an expansive feel to them, like the reader is right there in the apartment with Max, Rachel and their family and new friends.

The book ends with a nice note from Perl about Chanukah and her family’s tradition, followed by a list of nine ideas of how to make your own “Shamash Night.”

A PJ Library book, which is also available from most any bookseller, The Ninth Night of Hanukkah lights all the right candles and would make a great holiday gift.

The comfort in imperfection

We’re not perfect. Yes, and you’re saying, so, why is this in the newspaper? I’m writing this over winter break. Like many families, we chose a staycation. We’ve done some walks and games outside, and a lot of time just hibernating, resting and rejuvenating indoors. All the Chanukah treats were investments in this: new toys that our twins could play with for hours, books, warm socks – and a huge gift for all of us: my husband chose to repaint our main bathroom as part of his time off.

I know, you’re still thinking, why is this in the Jewish newspaper?

Well, first, if you’re a Jewish family who celebrates only Chanukah, winter break gets long. It’s a time when the radio and TV are full of someone else’s holiday celebrations. In a cone of silence, my family has always turned inwards, to hang out together. My parents used to joke it was the time of year for wallpapering. (My mom would choose the paper and my dad would hang it and curse about wallpaper!)

Aside from a much-improved colour and some very important anti-moisture paint, the bathroom fix-up also gives us a chance to seek comfort and self-improvement from within, by focusing solely on our household. I think my husband gets a great sense of satisfaction when he finishes a home repair project and feels it is a “job well done.” He dwells endlessly on the parts that aren’t perfect, and what might be better.

This is connected to the Torah portion Vayechi (Genesis 47:28-50:26) for a few reasons. This portion is very much about family, connections, our blessings and our imperfections. Joseph’s father, Jacob, is dying. Jacob’s dying blessings and wishes are both comforting to some and very uncomfortable for others. His need to include Ephraim and Menashe (his grandchildren) and to offer blessings out of birth order strike many as unfair. The rabbis discuss why Jacob crossed his arms and preferred the younger over the older grandchild. One wonders why he includes the children of his favourite child at all.

Yet, if you think back, Jacob has never been particularly even-handed with his kids. This is the dad that made Joseph the multicoloured coat. Joseph is the child of his old age. Jacob is unfair. He plays favourites, and this rubs us wrong as modern parents or family members. Dads shouldn’t play favourites, right?

When you read Jacob’s predictions (or blessings) for each of his children, some of them sound generous, and others are really harsh. It’s hard to imagine how this experience would feel from a modern perspective, it’s so out of whack with how we see modern family relationships. True, his sons have not been consistently upright people. However, at least Jacob mentions them. He doesn’t even acknowledge Dina – his daughter doesn’t exist here.

This story remains something I dwell upon because my twins’ Hebrew names, in part, are Ephraim and Menashe. Their dad’s Hebrew name is Yoseph (Joseph). Their grandfather’s name? Ya’akov (Jacob). You get the picture. Whenever we bless our kids on Friday nights, we say, in Hebrew, “May you be like Ephraim and Menashe.” Then we translate the prayer into English. We say, “May you be like …” and we use their English names. May they be like (true to) themselves.

When we reflect on it, we can see that, even among our patriarchs, like Jacob, we have imperfect role models. Jacob stole his twin brother’s birthright. He wrestled with the Divine. He played favourites with his children in harmful ways. He was by no means a perfect person. In a sense, this is comforting. No matter how crummy our mistakes or imperfect our efforts, we know that many biblical role models also weren’t perfect. Perfection may be overrated.

Our best hope is that we be true to ourselves – continually striving to seek peace and justice and pursue it, in a flawed world. We can commit to doing our best, within our own particular skill sets, to making things better.

As we start a new secular year, 2020, and decade, we have so many opportunities to reflect on what’s not right about the world. Yet, we can also gain comfort from the knowledge that imperfect people (and paint jobs!) can still make a positive difference for a long time to come.

Here’s to a better world in 2020 – imperfections, warts and all.

Choose to seek hope

Chanukah is about, among other things, sparking light amid the darkness. It is a message of hope that we should uplift all year round, not only in December. As discussed in this space last week, social media, and media generally, advances divisive and unsettling messages. So, while it takes perhaps more effort to light a candle than to curse the darkness, we should invest the little extra effort to find those stories that soothe our souls, calm our anxieties, and give us frameworks on which to build. Just as we have at our fingertips access to a million indignities and frustrations, so, too, can we choose to search for inspiring stories of kindness and coexistence.

As we share news in these pages throughout the year, we necessarily approach some unpleasant topics. But we also make a point to bring you uplifting news, including medical and other advances from Israel and our own community here in Canada. From Winnipeg, we recently reported on Operation Ezra, an ongoing program through which the Jewish community in that city assists newcomer Yazidis who are survivors of genocide, as well as the interfaith Meditation for Peace program at that city’s St. Boniface Cathedral. Closer to home, the Jewish and Muslim communities of Kelowna and area are celebrating their similarities with neighbourly get-togethers.

Just recently, community action led a Vancouver-area auction house to cancel the sale of Nazi paraphernalia. Taking a similar situation a step further, a Lebanese businessman, Abdallah Chatila, recently paid 50,000 euros for a hat owned by Hitler, and other Nazi memorabilia, in order to keep it out of the hands of neo-Nazis. He donated the items to Yad Vashem.

Israel’s President Reuven Rivlin met with Chatila and pinpointed the significance of the act. “What you did was seemingly so simple, but this act of grace shows the whole world how to fight the glorification of hatred and incitement against other people,” said Rivlin. “It was a truly human act. I know you have been thanked many times, but it was important for me to say it loud and clear here at the President’s Residence in Jerusalem – we appreciate it and thank you for it very much.”

About the same time, a group of civil society leaders and intellectuals from across the Arab world met in London for the inaugural meeting of what is being called the Arab Council for Regional Integration. These individuals, admittedly not-quite-mainstream in their respective bodies politic, reject the boycott and isolation of Israel, recognizing the harm it has caused to Palestinians and the greater Arab world to quarantine the most innovative economy in the region. This comes amid what appears to be a major reconfiguration of Middle East politics, which bodes well for Israel. The Gulf States are making overtures to Israel and other longtime belligerents are softening their tones. It is, of course, part of an internal Sunni-Shiite political struggle within the area, but that in no way takes away from the historic nature of the opening.

This year, we reported on the response to Tag Mechir (“price tag” attacks by radical West Bank settlers) with Tag Meir (“Light Tagging,” in which volunteers perform surprising acts of kindness across divides). We also ran a story on T’ruah: The Rabbinic Call for Human Rights, which works in Jewish social justice circles in Israel and North America. And we published an article on the efforts of the Jerusalem Foundation, a font of coexistence projects in the holy city, from Hebrew-Arabic bilingual education and colour-blind poverty alleviation efforts to a dance troupe for ultra-Orthodox women and kids music programs that transcend cultural differences.

Elsewhere in Israel, dance is the medium of another intercultural project, in a workshop created earlier this year called Steps from Sana’a to Hebron, in which Yemenite Jews pair their traditional dance with the Palestinian dabke danced by a group of Palestinians from outside Hebron.

Especially at this time of year, despite the inter- and intra-cultural divisions in Israel, there are countless small points of light. In Haifa, long considered a model of inter-religious coexistence, December is a time of celebrating Chanukah and Christmas in a diverse community including Muslims, Baha’is, Druze and others.

As simple as such small interactions might seem, they can have the most profound impact on participants. Once you begin searching for such stories, the results are bountiful.

Here in Canada, in Israel and around the world, similar stories of goodwill and overcoming differences abound. They are not likely to crawl across the bottom of your cable news screen. So, we must seek them out. We must.

Northern lights

(photo from facebook.com/liatg)

Benji Goldstein, who lives in Sioux Lookout with his family, is a full-time doctor working in indigenous communities in northern of Ontario. He has created for Chanukah an almost six-foot chanukiyah out of ice, improving his 1.0 version from two years ago to this 2.0 model, which stands on a big block of ice. The bricks were frozen in milk cartons, which he collected over time, and the structure weighs 400 kilograms. It will be lit every night of the holiday from his mobile phone.

The Jewish Independent found out about Goldstein’s creation from local community member Tamara Heitner, who shared with us the Facebook post of Goldstein’s sister-in-law, Liat Goldstein.

Renewal requires courage

Did you notice what a great day it was today? Rain or shine, there are lots of people out there who are so happy you are alive. Besides yourself, I mean. I bet you did some things today that added to that number.

I’m feeling pretty good myself, remembering stuff from my youth. In December, we light the candles marking Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, as it is called. I always liked this holiday as a kid, along with Rosh Hashanah, because there were good things to eat at the party we always had. And older people in the family gave you money, Chanukah gelt. I hope they still do that, although I haven’t heard much about it since the kids got big and left home to form their own households.

Many people – unless they have Jewish neighbours or notice the lights around Christmas time – don’t know about Chanukah because it is not in the Bible, and because the events surrounding it happened later. After the empire forged by Alexander the Great broke up, the piece in which Israel was included was under the rule of kings named Antiochus.

These kings liked to fancy themselves gods. One of them put a statue of himself in the Jewish Temple. This was just too much for the Israelites and they rose up under the leadership of the Maccabees – Mattathias and his five sons – and drove out their Greek rulers.

Chanukah is about renewal, because that’s what the holiday celebrates, the renewal of the Temple in Jerusalem after the land was freed. Current Israel is part of that same story, as the ingathered exiles renewed national life on their land. Our national renewal is an assertion that our past is merely prologue, with the full story yet to be written.

Jewish history of the recent two millennia may not illustrate it, but Jews can be fighters when roused. The self-rule reestablished back then was ultimately surrendered to Roman rule, when they lost their unity. But Jews kept on fighting to achieve independence until, finally, the Romans used their power to exile Jews from their land. We must remember that the Romans executed Jesus because they feared that he would lead such a revolt, but the Jews continued their opposition after his death.

It took 12 legions to pacify the Jews – Rome conquered the Britons with only two legions. The Romans exiled the survivors to secure their rule, but the power of the religious ideas spawned in Israel conquered Rome itself a hundred years later. Those ideas were borne into exile by Jews who proved to be among the first martyrs.

More recent Jewish military history, in Israel – leaving aside the resistance without weapons in the Warsaw Ghetto, holding off the Nazi soldiers for weeks – proves that Jews can be fierce fighters.

The whole idea of renewal excites the blood. Renewal can make you feel like you can cancel out all the ills of the past, as if they never really happened. One can turn a corner and start out fresh. It is an idea around which one can rally believers, as has been done in so many places at so many different times.

Many people have fought and died in defence of renewal. It is at the heart of every movement that seeks to channel people’s efforts for change. It can be local, regional, national or global. It can have a religious or patriotic motivation. Its beauty is that it can have its origin in the lives of each and every one of us.

Change is not easy. We may be very unhappy with important elements of our lives, but taking drastic action to materially transform our lives takes courage and, often, an acceptance of the risk of substantial loss. Some of us may have done this at some time in our lives and not even appreciated that we were risking all for renewal.

It may not have been on a battlefield, but I consciously sought to renew my life when I reached out at the age of 70. I reached out to seek a relationship with a person I had known only superficially more than 50 years earlier as a teenager. The object of my continued memory and attention, my future bride, mustered up the courage to take me on as an unknown quantity, and her courage has enriched both our lives.

Truth be told, the times that haunt us most in our lives are those when we did not “seize the bull by the horns” and do the thing we really wanted to do. But, in the end, failing to act for lack of courage, or for some other reason, we settled for less than we ached to reach for. We can count every one of those times in our mind’s eye. Don’t we agonize sometimes about those steps not taken? We can never know for sure what the ultimate outcome would have been.

Looking out through the windows of my eyes, seeing the young and not so young, I am filled with enthusiasm for the future. I see the possibilities we all face in our lives to reengineer what the future holds for us.

There is so much happening out there of which I may have no understanding. What I do know is, if we really put our minds to it and concentrate on this renewal business, we can be sure to make our tomorrows fantastic.

Happy renewal in whatever calendar you follow, wherever in the world you are!

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.