I recently participated in a conference panel on hope in a time of divisive politics. A friend in the Jewish community couldn’t do it, so she asked me to help instead. I won’t lie, I felt nervous.
I worried that I wouldn’t measure up to some of the speakers, who had big job titles, awards and experience. This was compounded by a few missteps that left me feeling embarrassed and humbled. First, my friend’s name was left on the conference program and mine wasn’t listed, even though organizers had ample time to update the panelists’ names. Second, social media amplified the panel on Facebook and Instagram, but listed my name with incorrect, made-up undergraduate degrees. I’d provided my graduate degrees in religious studies and education because I felt they were relevant. Somehow, five years of education went away due to clerical errors.
The weird part was that my brief talk, and my presence at the panel, was to elevate Jewish experience and Jewish hope in an approachable way. Two academics spoke, using big concepts and bigger words, while minimizing their personal approach to the issues. Then, an amazing African Canadian legal professional spoke of her family’s journey and deep roots in Canada – it was personal, compelling and important. I was up next.
I’d prepared my notes in advance. I spoke from them, but, first, I changed gears. The night before the panel, held at Winnipeg’s Canadian Museum for Human Rights, I encountered members of the Persian community, holding up their lion flags to represent the Iranian people and their opposition to the Islamic Republic. I stopped to tell a young woman holding the flag that our hearts were with her, and we were thinking of her, and hoping the people of Iran were safe. She seemed shocked. Surprised that I saw her, knew what she represented, and embraced this message against extremism and violence of the Islamic Republic of Iran. She asked where I was from, I smiled and only said, “Winnipeg.”
The day of the panel, I struggled with a parking meter. Then I crossed a street, sharing a warm smile with an Indigenous man on a bicycle who passed by. My heart thumped hard. Though I’ve done plenty of public events and teaching, I felt on edge. Maybe it was because I was one of the only representatives of the Jewish community in that multi-faith gathering. Maybe it was because I’d been checking on where the Iranian missiles were landing in Israel right before I came. I worried about repercussions following me into the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.
Pretending to check if the microphone was on, I said, “Welcome. Thank you for coming …” and, looking at the crowd, I greeted everyone with a “Hello y’all!” After that informal start, I made sure to mention the Jewish concept of the world as a broken pot, in which the vessel’s shards, our souls, are in each of us. I talked about tikkun olam, repairing the world, and putting those shards back together, as an act of hope that we work towards, as an act of ongoing creation – a human and divine partnership. Throughout the morning, I took time to look at people, greet them and try to see G-d in each of them. I decided that the way to confront my feelings of embarrassment, and the erasure of my name and credentials, was to fully see others the way I would want to be treated.
At this conference, there were many references to reconciliation. An Anglican bishop who is also a residential school survivor spoke during our panel question period. When I recounted all this later to my family, we recognized an important theme.
As a professor, my husband often attends events with a land acknowledgement. Working with a group of Indigenous students last year, he asked them how they feel about the “workshopped” statement the university uses. They said it was often done by rote and perhaps lost its meaning as a result. They didn’t feel seen by it.
Almost immediately, I recalled that our congregation had changed its Prayer for Canada. The new one feels genuine to me. It includes aspects of a land acknowledgement by mentioning by name the first inhabitants of the land. It also includes the current Canadian political infrastructure. It’s a prayer to maintain our diversity, so that never again will Canada say, “None is too many,” in reference to the antisemitic exclusion of Jewish refugees fleeing Europe during the Second World War.
My husband will meet again this summer with a new group of Indigenous students. He’s considering a different discussion. What does it mean when society suggests that some people’s innate connection to the land must be acknowledged, but others don’t deserve a similar acknowledgement of their homeland? This issue isn’t “just” about Israel, either. What about the Kurds? What about the Druze? The dispossessed list is a long one.
When we moved to Winnipeg 16 years ago, celebrations for Canada Day included enormous festivals and bombastic firework displays. Over time, due to the pandemic and to a change in how we perceive the day, this has changed. Many Indigenous Canadians don’t celebrate Canada Day.
Having my name left out and hard-earned credentials jumbled was difficult, but it reminded me of how acknowledgement works. We can choose, as Canadians, to look up from our phones and really see one another. We all deserve to take up space and be here, recognized for our special contributions, in this land of plenty. We may not be able to control the huge geopolitical events around us, but we can see one another and pray for our loved ones and our neighbours, too, both here and elsewhere. Recognizing the divine, individual spark in each person is crucial.
I’m hoping for a family cookout at home this Canada Day. We might talk about how we connect to Canada, and how we fit in the Jewish diaspora and homeland. It’s a complicated equation, worth talking about during a war. We should also choose to see, greet and value all those we walk with on this land and in the world. Let’s recognize everyone’s names, identities – and souls – as meaningful, too.
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.
