identity

VIFF films explore humanity

Filmmaker Sam Green will narrate live his documentary 32 Sounds, which is part of the Vancouver International Film Festival. (photo by Catalina Kulczar)

“There’s a thing in documentary filmmaking where, after you’ve done an interview with someone, you need to get what’s called room tone,” shares director, writer and editor Sam Green in his film 32 Sounds. “Room tone,” he explains, “is basically just sitting still for about 30 seconds or so and recording the sound of the room; this can help out a lot with editing later. I’ve been making films, which is kind of just marveling at people in the world, for 25 years now, and there’s always something odd and wonderful about this moment. An interview takes a person to other times and places and, now, they’re just here in the present, sitting with the sound of the room.”

Watching some of his interviewees, as they struggle or embrace sitting in silence for a few seconds, is one of the many highlights of Green’s latest documentary, 32 Sounds, which screens Oct. 5, 7 p.m., at the Vancouver Playhouse, as part of the Vancouver International Film Festival’s specialty program VIFF Live. New York-based Green will be in town to narrate the screening in-person, and audience members will be given headphones to wear, to help make the experience as immersive as possible.

The film premièred in January 2022 at the Sundance Film Festival. It exists in three forms: one as described above, but sometimes also with live music by composer JD Samson, who wrote original music for the film; another designed for an immersive at-home experience; and a theatre version without the in-person performance aspect. Watching the film at home without headphones was not ideal, but it was still enjoyable and mind-opening. There are parts where it would have added understanding and had greater impact to have heard something in only the left ear or only the right one.

32 Sounds is not just auditorily stunning but a visual pleasure, and intellectually stimulating, as well. Though there are explanations of how humans hear and how sound affects our bodies, the documentary is more philosophical than scientific. It presents concepts like the idea that all the sounds that have been made in the world should still be out there somewhere, “tiny ripples vibrating,” as contemplated by mathematician Charles Babbage, who is credited with having invented the computer, in the 1800s. If we had the right device, mused Babbage, we should be able to listen again to every joke, declaration of love or angry word ever uttered, narrates Green. “The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are forever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered,” wrote Babbage in 1837.

In 2022, Green wrote: “I’ve made many documentary films over the years, and each one has changed me in some way, but none as much as the film I just recently finished called 32 Sounds. The film weaves together 32 different recordings as well as images, music by JD Samson, and voice-over to create a meditation on sound. Or, put a different way, the film uses sound to consider some of the basic features of our experience of being alive: time and time passing, loss, memory, connection with others, and the ephemeral beauty of the present moment.”

From the sound of a womb, to a cat purring, to fog horns, to a man who captures the sound of bombs landing nearby as he’s recording his music, Green masterfully takes viewers (listeners) on an emotional journey. We get to see how movie sound magic is made by foley artists like Joanna Fang. We meet sound and visual artist Christine Sun Kim, who talks about the deaf community, as well as hearing people’s perceptions of her work. Edgar Choueriri, professor of physics at Princeton, plays part of a tape he made for his future self when he was 11 years old. And we get to know a bit about composer and academic Annea Lockwood, 81 at the time of filming, who had been recording things like the sound of rivers for more than 50 years. Lockwood fundamentally changed how Green thinks about sound, especially a point she makes in the film: “There’s something I started writing about a year ago: listening with, as opposed to listening to,” she shares. “And it’s my sense that, if I’m standing here, I’m just one of many organisms that are listening with one another within this environment … we’re within it and we’re all listening together, as it were.”

32 Sounds has much to recommend it, including the chance to get up and dance, if you choose, when Green pumps up the volume on Sampson’s music, so you can “feel the sounds in your whole body.”

Accepting oneself

image - William Bartolo as Daniel, left, and Daniel Gabriel as his secret lover, Isaac, in a still from Cut, which is part of VIFF’s International Shorts: Nothing Comes Easy program — William Bartolo as Daniel, left, and Daniel Gabriel as his secret lover, Isaac, in a still from Cut, which is part of VIFF’s International Shorts: Nothing Comes Easy program. *(image from VIFF)*

Sound that you can feel in your whole body plays an important part in the short film Cut by Samuel Lucas Allen. In what may – or may not – be semi-autobiographical, Cut tells the story of Daniel, a high school student who tries to hide his Jewishness and his queerness. At key moments, the original score created by Sam Weiss thrums with tension, underscoring Daniel’s inner conflict.

Despite being somewhat heavy-handed – there is nothing subtle in this film, perhaps because it is only 19 minutes long – Cut is interesting, well-acted and put together. It opens with a Chassidic man holding a rooster, then shows Daniel cutting his hair, which falls onto a copy of Merchant of Venice, from which the teen will eventually have to perform, by memory, Shylock’s “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” speech. Daniel’s room has drawn images of men on his walls, in various poses, apparently his own work.

The film defines its three main elements: kapparot, as a “Jewish ritual where a chicken is blessed and slaughtered in the place of a person, to atone for their sins”; tefillin as a “pair of leather boxes containing portions of the Torah, worn by Jewish men in their morning prayers”; and cut, “a slang term for circumcision, the surgical removal of the foreskin, usually performed for religious reasons.”

It is mainly the Jewish aspect that Allen deals with in this work. Daniel is able to walk away from a gay slur, but not an antisemitic one, and, in the end, he is reconciled to himself and his Orthodox father by the mystical Chassidic man’s performing kapparot over him. We witness Daniel’s acceptance of being Jewish, but are left to wonder if he comes to accept his queerness, an aspect of his being that conflicts with Orthodox Judaism, though his soul would still be considered divine in religious circles, even if he engages in homosexual acts, which are prohibited by the Torah.

Cut is featured in VIFF’s International Shorts: Nothing Comes Easy, a program for viewers aged 18+, in which the films’ “protagonists discover that sorting out their lives can be much more difficult to achieve than they realized.” It screens Oct. 5, 6:45 p.m., and Oct. 7, 12:15 p.m., at International Village 8.

The Vancouver International Film Festival runs Sept. 28-Oct. 8. For the full schedule and tickets, visit viff.org.

What survey box to check?

Passover is coming. Its themes of freedom from oppression, the Exodus and Jewish identity stories are ready for the telling.

More Jewish people participate in Passover than many other holidays. A 2013 Pew Research study indicated that 70% of Americans who identified as Jewish attended a seder in the year, far more than any other Jewish practice, such as fasting on Yom Kippur, lighting Shabbat candles or attending synagogue services.

This statistic rings true for me, even though it’s a decade after the survey. I’ve hosted or attended many seders over the years where Jewish relatives or acquaintances turn up even if they’ve long since abandoned any other Jewish ritual. Some of these people hesitated to call themselves Jewish, even though they were raised Jewish or weren’t actively something else. How we identify is a complicated topic. It’s one I explore when I write a bio at the end of an article or introduce myself to someone at an event. As you might expect, the description provided by a writer is a shape-shifting event. I don’t advertise my religious identity in some publications. In others, I might mention where I graduated from university or what I write about.

I’ve told stories for a long time. Identifying as a writer came not long after. When the opportunity arose for me to go to the Young Writers’ Workshop at the University of Virginia as a teenager, at 13 or 14 years old, I was thrilled. I grew up in Virginia and Charlottesville wasn’t far away. My parents dropped me off. I stayed at the dorms. Mostly, I had a great experience and enjoyed myself. However, it was also the stage for some antisemitic moments that I haven’t forgotten.

I’d volunteered to set up chairs for a poetry reading, since a charismatic blond, older teen was also on the committee. Soon after arriving, he proceeded to tell antisemitic jokes, one after another. I silently kept setting out chairs as others crowded around, snickering. They snuck looks at me as I worked, ignoring him. That was the last time I chose the same committee as he did.

When this kind of bullying hate happens, oftentimes, the advice includes “Ignore it! His hate says more about him than it does about you.” That was little consolation for me. Despite the friends I made and all the learning experiences I had at that camp, it was also the source of several hate-filled moments. Later, I visited a camp friend at her home. I sat with her in the back of the family car. Her dad (much older than her mother) made languid conversation as he applauded Henry Ford’s union-busting and antisemitism. Then, he stopped to speak to “the boy” (a middle-aged, distinguished Black man) who managed his farmland. It was another moment I couldn’t erase from my memory, as my family believes strongly in unions and civil rights.

On Passover, we celebrate our identity and our journey, as if we, too, had been slaves in the land of Egypt. We use a story that shapes Jewish identity to help us coalesce into a grateful, free people. We discuss standing up for what we believe when it matters, the way Moses did.

All this came to mind when I took a research survey online. I agreed long ago to participate in occasional research surveys so that Canadian academics or government offices can learn how “ordinary Canadians” feel about things. This particular survey seemed to be about workplace psychological health. At the beginning, the authors gave their names, contact information and other details. By the end, lulled into complacency by harmless questions, I got to this question, which was something like: “We know that race is a cultural construct and isn’t genetic, but some people suffer on account of their race nevertheless. Please let us know how you identify for the purposes of this survey.”

What followed was a long list of categories, including “White, European descent” or “Middle Eastern, Arab” and various other categories, which you can probably imagine from your own survey experiences. I was stymied. In the past, I’d likely have ticked off “White, European descent” because, although my family has lived in the United States for the last 110 to 200 years, the places they came from were European. Yet, as anyone who has studied Jewish history knows, Europeans didn’t consider Jews to be in the same category as they were. Many centuries before the Second World War, Jews were being expelled from parts of Europe, murdered, raped and charged large extra taxes just to remain in some areas. The same can be said about much of the Middle East, where Jewish people have lived for millennia. Jews were heavily taxed, forced to wear identifying garments and had to cope with all sorts of other restrictions if they wanted to live as dhimmis, “under the protection of” Islam. Even in Virginia in the 1970s, Jews weren’t always considered “white.” We weren’t eligible for memberships in some social settings.

With current rising antisemitism, many slurs against Jews are conflated with issues surrounding Israel, our historic homeland. The Jewish population in Israel is in fact mixed, with Jews of all colours or races. Some Israelis are from families who have always lived in Israel. Also, yes, immigrants from all over the world have sought refuge by returning to Israel. Yet the antisemitic, race-driven comments online suggest that only white settlers from Europe “colonized” Israel.

That leaves a person with few options when the survey is about to “time out” online. One could just pretend and say “White/European” or “Indigenous” or “Middle Eastern,” “Asian,” “African,” or whatever one’s skin tone is. There’s often a “prefer not to say” category, which is a safe spot some choose. It offers anonymity, but it muddies the waters a bit for some research studies. This time, there was an “Other” category. Since the survey was aimed at an academic audience and anonymous, I checked off “Other” and in the box, I wrote Jewish, with a brief note that said, “In a time of rising antisemitism, please don’t leave us out.”

Was this the right thing to do? I won’t ever know. The Canadian Jewish population is very small. We’re only a little more than 1% of the population, based on recent Census numbers. Even so, if we are to tell our own story – the Exodus from Egypt, or the story of Jewish identity, we should have the chance to do so. Many people don’t feel safe enough to self-identify as Jewish. I certainly know the relief of blending in as “other.” Sometimes in risky surroundings, I feel safer with my nondescript last name and features that could be Greek or French but aren’t identifiably Jewish. We all have to decide when to tell our stories. Some seek freedom through erasing their ethnoreligious identities. Others relish the freedom that comes from proclaiming their “otherness” as Jewish.

I don’t have the answers here. I’m still wondering which survey boxes to tick off myself. In any case, have a wonderful Passover, with a delicious, meaningful seder where you can explore your identities, stories and life journey to freedom.

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.

Reluctant kids loved camp

Generations of kids have “the best summer of their lives” at camp. (photo from Camp Miriam)

“There’s no way we are going to a Jewish camp,” my kids declared with absolute resolve. Wait. What? Why??? They explained that they knew “enough” Jewish people and plenty of culturally Jewish things, so camp was not necessary. OK, I thought, that’s completely, totally and utterly crazy.

While we’ve been involved at Temple Sholom for years, speak Hebrew at home and celebrate the holidays, my kids are the only Jewish kids in their classes at public school. They are often told they don’t look Jewish, let alone Sephardi. Whatever that means – there’s a huge span between Barbra Streisand and Ofra Haza. They weren’t excited about their identity, but begrudgingly went along with being Jewish. It was the equivalent of cultural, ethnic and faith feet dragging.

My disappointment couldn’t be missed because I literally said, “I’m so disappointed to hear you say that.” I thought guilt might move them – a powerful tool of every Jewish mother. They apologized. Yes. I was moving the needle. And then, they immediately asked me if they could go to a Christian horse camp. Nope. I failed, while concurrently being mortified. To be clear, I wasn’t horrified of considering a different faith camp, but because they are wildly allergic to horses. Who wants to be the parent that gets a phone call that their kids can’t handle equines? Not me. Too embarrassing.

Moreover, it was a complete reversal of my experience. I begged my parents to send me to a Jewish camp. I started going from the age of 10, eventually visiting Israel and managing to get a coveted staff position. My camp time was the most incredible and defining experience of my youth. I wished, hoped and prayed for my kids to have the same experience. They had shut down the idea, but before I wrote them off as blasphemers, I decided to let it sit and cook in their minds like a delicious shakshuka.

photo - kids in the pool at Camp Miriam — *(photo from Camp Miriam)*

For a couple of months, they pondered a tough year of COVID-19 shutting down so much of life – and the idea of being away for several weeks with a lot of independence became very appealing. They finally agreed to “let me send them” to Camp Miriam, which was very similar to the camp I went to back east. They diligently packed, were welcomed by friends at registration, got on the bus and did not look back. I got two postcards. The first informed me that they hadn’t been eaten by wild island dogs, and the second told me they were having the best summer of their lives.

The kids came back transformed both physically and figuratively. They both grew half a foot, and something in their psyche profoundly shifted. They loved, I do mean loved, all things Jewish because of Camp Miriam. They had a magical summer that every parent wishes their kid to have. A tight group of friends, a deep respect for their beloved staff and a passion for the programming. Frankly, they wouldn’t zip it about how much they adored Camp Miriam.

They bragged about doing avodah (work), one choosing garbage duty and the other cleaning the sherutim (bathrooms). Umm … what happened? I couldn’t get them to make their beds at home, and they were doing legitimate work at camp? It struck me. Camp Miriam had instilled a profound sense of pride. For weeks, and I do mean weeks, they would prompt a conversation with, “At Camp Miriam….” Some of their most profound moments were having Shabbat at the Point, feeling a deep connection of chevra (community) and telling me they felt understood for the first time. They didn’t have to explain themselves, and that was mind-blowing.

photo - two people playing guitars at Camp Miriam — *(photo from Camp Miriam)*

Going to Camp Miriam coalesced for my kids a sense of identity; they felt seen and heard, so could go deep into what this meant. We were able to have a shared generational experience, which was pretty awesome, considering my kids think electricity was barely invented when I was a kid. I corrected them and explained that the cutting-edge technology of faxing existed when I was a child.

Last week, I overheard them at Sunday Temple Sholom school bragging that Camp Miriam was the best camp ever. And there it is. My kids not only needed Jewish camp, but they also desperately wanted to be there. I feel utterly indebted to Camp Miriam for giving my kids such a brilliant and rich Jewish experience and, although I couldn’t say it to their faces, I was satisfied thinking, “Yes! In your faces. You suck. I was soooooo right about everything, and you were so unequivocally wrong.” Also, now I can breathe easy, knowing they can’t wait to go back to Camp Miriam and build a lifetime of memories and friendships.

– Courtesy Camp Miriam

Why we need summer camp

Summer camp helps foster grit, creating space for kids to develop independence and author their own stories. (photo from URJ Camp Kalsman)

As a parent of three, I know how hard it is to balance the overwhelming desire to make sure my kids “have it all” – diverse extracurricular activities, best schools, quality family time, etc. – and, at the same time, to know when to let go (and actually do it!) so they can experience the power of paving their own way. Skinned knees, bruised egos, broken hearts and all.

As a summer camp director, I also know that parents like me are not alone. In fact, there is a whole army of incredibly kind and passionate young adult role models, often dressed up in silly costumes, ready to be my partner in this “gritty journey” of adolescence and the teenage years.

Ask anyone who grew up at overnight summer camp – Jewish or otherwise – and most will tell you it felt like their second home. At Camp Kalsman, where my children and I have spent the past six years, we welcome campers and staff members “home” each summer. But what does this really mean and why is this important for fostering grit in our kids and teens?

I’d argue that home, a place of true belonging, is prime real estate for failure, learning and growth – home is where grit is born. Often, when we think of home we think of being safe and protected, perhaps shielded from the real world. I would argue that home is more of a safety net, giving a child the reassurance that not only is failure OK but that, when they do ultimately fail at something, we’ll be there to catch them and help them bounce back, stronger and more resilient.

What are the top three reasons why you, as a parent, guardian or loving adult, need summer camp, too?

1. Creating space to deepen connection. I’m going to say something that might make some people uncomfortable – your kids need a break from you just as much as you need one from them. Camp gives you the chance to create that space, knowing that you have a trusted partner to create that same safety net for your child. Absence makes the heart grow fonder is a cliché and it’s also a deeply true statement. By creating (physical) space for a finite period of time, your child has the chance to broaden their perspective, test everything you’ve taught them, try something on their own and learn from other trusted adults. When a camper has a temporary moment of sadness at camp (sometimes referred to as homesickness), that feeling is validated – “how wonderful is it that you have such great folks at home who love you, believe you can do this and know you will be safe and cared for at camp?” Camp simultaneously builds a sense of self separate from the family unit and strengthens the roots of that family tree from afar.

photo - kid kayaking at Camp Kalsman — *(photo from Camp Kalsman)*

2. Declaration of independence. How often do you wish your kid would make their own lunch for school, make their bed without you asking, pick up those socks that have been next to the couch for what seems like days? At camp, where “nagging” parents are replaced with super-cool counselors who are the perfect combination of Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins, kids learn a sense of communal responsibility, pride in keeping their space clean, and come to understand how their action (or inaction) can have ripple effects on those around them. At the beginning of the summer, they will have contributed to creating a cabin covenant (at Camp Kalsman, we use the Hebrew term brit kehillah), a shared understanding, co-created by their bunkmates and counselors, about how they will live and play together for the camp session. Campers have to navigate social situations without adult or teacher intervention (those cool counselors are also trained in conflict-resolution and will help out, of course). The ownership children and teens feel about their time at camp helps foster confidence and self-awareness and helps calibrate their inner moral compass for when they return home and to school.

3. Sharing the stories. It may happen in the car-ride home, over that first “real-world” meal after so many days of camp food, or a few days after they get home and have had time to process, but your child might just freely and willingly tell you stories about the summer. It won’t be like their one-word answer when you ask about school. With their new-found independence and confidence (see #2!), they might tell you about the friends they made, the new food they tried, the counselor they loved, maybe even the silly dance they made up. And, after you’ve listened intently, controlling your need to ask 1,000 follow-up questions, and instead basking in their joy and nostalgia, you’ll say, “Wow, that sounds like one incredible summer!” You will have given your child the gift of summer camp, and they will have given you the gift of sharing in their joy and confidence and gratitude.

While there are many, many more reasons that we all need summers at camp (a second home), the combination of creating space, developing independence and authoring their own stories is, at its core, the secret sauce of raising a gritty and resilient generation of children, teens and parents!

Rabbi Ilana Mills is camp director, URJ Camp Kalsman. If you are interested in learning more about the camp, visit campkalsman.org or contact Rabbi Ilana at [email protected].

Campers share their thoughts

Making friends and challenging oneself are just two of the things kids love about summer camp. (photo from Camp Solomon Schechter)

Jewish camping can be an integral part of children’s lives and their development. Involving them in Jewish summer camps leads to brighter Jewish futures and a stronger Jewish community as a whole. Camp helps Jewish youth feel proud of their heritage and can lead to stronger friendships and relationships, campers finding their true passions, and discovering the joy in Jewish life. We spoke to several Camp Solomon Schechter campers about what camp means to them and how it’s made an impact on their lives.

Ruby Lipsky (1st year): “[Camp friends are special] because you can just do whatever you want with them and they make you feel like [you’re] home and, if you’re sad, they help you and it’s just nice to have somebody here to be with you. You’re living with some new people in your cabin that you’ve never met before and I made very good friends with them because I treated them nicely. If you treat them how you want to be treated, then it just makes camp so much more fun.”

Izzy Drazin (2nd year): “You’re just welcome to anything you want to do. I feel like I’ve been more excited whenever I come to camp. Instantly something clicks in my head to be happy, have fun, try new things. I want to bring back some of the energy that I have here, some of the ruach, happiness, and this new sense of self.”

Orli Kalman (7th year): “Out of camp I have learned so many new values of kindness and working with others. It’s a really great opportunity because you’re constantly surrounded by people and sometimes that’s a lot, but you deal with it and learn how to prioritize yourself and take time for yourself when you need it. Then, you can go back and make friendships and value the time that you get to spend with others.”

* * *

“My friendships at camp are the most important thing to me and that is one of the main reasons that I come back to camp. I get to see the same people every year that I love and that I get to grow with and learn more about every summer. We have so many similarities but at the same time so many differences, I’m constantly learning new things about my friends. It’s great that we are able to start right back where we left off and just keep growing these friendships and making them stronger.”

photo - kids having fun at Camp Solomon Schechter — *(photo from Camp Solomon Schechter)*

Bella Robinson (8th year): “At home, I have a few Jewish friends but going to camp, where everyone is Jewish, is such a magical thing. All the aspects of my life tie into me being Jewish and, at home, I find that I may not relate to my other non-Jewish friends because they don’t share some of the same aspects of their culture or religion or keeping Shabbat and they may not know about some of the traditions I keep close to my heart. When I’m at camp, constantly practising Judaism and I’m with all my Jewish friends, those friendships are just so much stronger than any other ones at home.”

Josh Kittay (15th year, counselor): “The biggest thing about camp that makes it so special is those memories for me. I love to tell stories and, when I go home, I get to tell all my family and friends those stories that happened, whether it’s your new friend you made or something really funny you did on the aqua park or an amazing shot you made on the basketball court. You get to really find out who you are here and you get to be that person you want to be, whether you’re extra goofy here or you wanna change a little bit who you see yourself as. You get to do that here ’cause no one’s gonna judge you.”

* * *

“It’s so important to be somewhere that is so inclusive. We are judged as a Jewish community, we are judged for just being Jewish, and being able to not only be Jewish here with tons of other Jews … you also get to be how you want to be and you better come up with your own story about who you wanna become. You don’t have to go along with the rules, go along with the set laws of what we call the ‘real world.’ You get to be who you wanna be, you get to choose who that person is. What we like to say is you get to try on new clothes. If you wanna become someone else, go for it. This is the place where no one is gonna judge you, everyone wants to do the same thing, so find out who you are.”

– Courtesy Camp Solomon Schechter

Four more questions to ask

One of the four additional questions that the Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs suggests we ask ourselves this Passover is: As we solemnly intone “Next year in Jerusalem,” how can we express the significance of the land of Israel in our Jewish Canadian identity? (photo by IRR Photography)

Traditional celebrations of recent Passover seasons were certainly curtailed, and even canceled, by the pandemic. For those of us fortunate enough to have emerged from COVID-19 with our families intact, we now – finally – will have an opportunity to come together to celebrate the holiday as it should be – among extended family and old friends.

The limits placed on us by the pandemic, however, have not curtailed the Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs’ work. Ensuring increased COVID funding for frontline charitable organizations helping the elderly, ill and all others among our most vulnerable was paramount in our advocacy to governments at all levels. Supplemental funds are never quite sufficient, but these extra funds were realized in federation agencies across the country.

The disturbing surge in antisemitism that came with the pandemic became another focus of our work. Last summer, as a founding member of the Canadian Coalition to Combat Online Hate, we organized the federal government-|sponsored Emergency Summit on Antisemitism that brought together government, media, academic and other experts in combating online hate that so often leads to real-life violence.

Connected to pervasive hate online is spreading distortion and even outright denial of the Holocaust. A poll commissioned by the Canadian charity Liberation75 showed that, of 3,600 students in grades 6 to 12, a shocking 33% were either uncertain about the Holocaust, thought that the death toll was exaggerated or questioned whether the Holocaust even happened. In Ontario’s largest school board – and in others from the West to the Maritimes – incidents of antisemitism have begun to be reported almost weekly.

This kind of disturbing trend requires focused, strategic action. CIJA has received a grant to leverage the expertise of historians, teachers and Jewish scholars to create a curriculum for Ontario middle-school students that will teach them about the Holocaust – and about modern-day antisemitism. Most recently, CIJA has urged support for MP Kevin Waugh’s private member’s bill that proposes Canada follow the example of other countries – including France and Germany – to make Holocaust denial an offence under Canada’s Criminal Code.

To spur discussion about what such legislation could do, CIJA hosted a national webinar about reasons to criminalize Holocaust denial, the challenges posed, and what we can learn from jurisdictions where similar laws have been enacted. With experts from Canada, France and Israel espousing various perspectives, the discussion was informed, civil and productive.

Discussion. Now that’s an area where Jews tend to feel both comfortable and motivated. And that brings me to the Pesach celebration awaiting us this year. Of course, we will delight in visits with our loved ones. Some of us will see children or grandchildren, newly arrived or grown significantly since our last Passover seder together. Many will have questions – not only the traditional four we ask annually, harking back to our historic connections to Israel, but also questions about being Jewish today, in Canada.

We think Jews in communities large and small have lots to talk about, and we want to facilitate engaged, thoughtful discussions responding to four more questions we’ve proposed for this Passover. We propose, this Passover seder, that Jewish families and friends think about the issues CIJA, as the advocacy agent of Jewish federations across Canada, has been prioritizing.

More background is available, along with suggested responses, at cija.ca/4morequestions, but here are the questions:

Looking at increased denial and distortion of the Holocaust, our most recent enslavement, how can we stop Holocaust denial and distortion? In the realm of online hate and antisemitism, we remember numerous historic efforts to destroy the Jewish people. What can Canadians do to combat online hate and antisemitism today? Turning to community security, as a once-enslaved people, we ask, what does a safe space for Jewish Canadians look like? And, as we solemnly intone “Next year in Jerusalem,” how can we express the significance of the land of Israel in our Jewish Canadian identity?

That’s a lot. But that’s what we are up against, even living in Canada, one of the safest places for Jews anywhere.

As we gather this year, whether part of a small family, an extended clan of young and old, or among friends, let us celebrate the joy of our survival and how, together, we can work to shape our future.

May your Passover be a peaceful, thoughtful, and happy one. Chag Pesach sameach!

Judy Zelikovitz is vice-president, University and Local Partner Services, at CIJA, the Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs.

Trying to fix broken wings

Not fitting in. Being misunderstood and miscategorized. These are recurring themes in Flying Camel: Essays on Identity by Women of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Heritage, edited by Loolwa Khazzoom, a Seattle writer, musician, activist and occasional contributor to the Independent.

The book was first released in the 1990s and was recently re-released.

“I wish I could say that this book is no longer as revolutionary, cutting-edge, or as needed as it was when I began compiling it in 1992, but, unfortunately, that is not the case,” writes Khazzoom, the daughter of an Iraqi Jew, in the new introduction. “Even though there have been changes – shifts in consciousness, language, and even representation – Mizrahi and Sephardi women remain overall excluded, in theory and practice, from spaces for women, Jews, Middle Easterners, people of colour, LGBTQI folk, and even Mizrahim and Sephardim. In addition, so many of the presumably inclusive conversations about us seem basic and superficial, with an undertone of it being a really big deal that these conversations exist at all.”

Khazzoom’s struggle to fit in led her to Seattle, in large part because it is home to one of the largest Sephardi communities in the United States. But even in that milieu she found herself an outsider.

“In June 2014, however, on the first sh’bath [Sabbath] after driving my U-Haul up the coast from Northern California, I was appalled by a sermon so sexist – where women were equated with ‘meat’ – that I walked out of the Sephardi synagogue, just 15 minutes after arriving,” she writes.

“I have been a hybrid all my life, forever caught between two or more worlds,” writes Caroline Smadja in her contribution to the collection. It is a state of being that is shared by many of the writers.

Yael Arami, born in Petah Tikvah to parents from Yemen, speaks of others’ perceptions of her.

“In Germany, I have had to avoid certain areas, fearing local skinheads’ reaction to my skin colour. In France, I have been verbally ridiculed and insulted for being yet another ignorant North African who does not know French,” she writes. “In California, people’s best intentions have resulted in a number of social blunders: When I left a tip in a San Francisco café, I got a courteous ‘gracias’ from the politically correct Anglo waiter. After a predominantly African-American gospel group sang at a Marin County synagogue, several members of the congregation approached me, to express their admiration for our wonderful gospel performance! It seems that wherever I go in white-majority countries, I am, in accordance with local stereotypes, seen as the generic woman of colour – Algerian in France, African-American or Puerto Rican in California.”

Rachel Wahba, an Iraqi-Egyptian Jew, calls out politically correct hypocrisy.

“Sometimes, when I bring up the oppression of Jews in Arab countries, progressive Jews get strangely uncomfortable – as if recognizing the Jewish experience under Islam would make someone racist and anti-Arab,” she writes. “During my mother’s cancer support group intake, I listened as my mother told her story of living in Baghdad and surviving the Farhud. She ended with an ironic ‘I survived the Arabs to get cancer?’ The Jewish oncology nurse was shocked that my mother was so ‘blunt.’

“Should we revise our history? Leave out the details of our oppression under Islam? Pretend my mother never saw the Shiite merchants in Karballah wash their hands after doing business with her father, because he was a ‘dirty Jew?’”

The book’s title comes from an essay by Lital Levy, “How the Camel Found Its Wings” and an Israeli film of the same name.

The metaphor involves the repair of a broken statue of a flying camel, which actually stood at the entrance to the international fairgrounds in Tel Aviv in the 1930s. In the film, the two wings of the camel become stand-ins for a dichotomy that mostly excludes Mizrahi/Sephardi Jews and yet still casts them in a negative light.

“By the end of the screening, the camel had found two new wings, and I got to thinking,” writes Levy. “I started putting my own pieces together – making my own flying camel out of the remnants of the past, borrowing missing pieces from the present, and using my imagination and willpower to try to make it all stick together. The pieces of my own American childhood, the histories that preceded it in Israel and in Iraq, and the challenges I see before me in my work are the various fragments I have been remembering and re-membering into an integral whole. I do not yet know its shape – camel, dromedary, llama, yak – but I do not care, as long as it will fly.”

Dutch family’s secrets

“Twins run in the family, you know,” Stella ter Hart’s mother, Sophia, said to her nonchalantly when Stella was pregnant with her first child. That this was news to Stella is a first sign that there was a great deal about her family she did not know. In fact, she wasn’t aware she had much family at all.

Thus begins Stella ter Hart’s book Discovering Twins: A Journey into Lives.

As a high school graduation gift, Stella and her mother made the trip from Estevan, Sask., to Holland. There, she meets an endless web of confusingly related kin – almost all on her father’s side. A visit to the home of family on her mother’s side raises questions in the teenager’s mind.

“‘Oom Jacob and Tante Becca are Jewish,’ I stated rather than questioned, ‘no one other than Jewish people are named Jacob and Rebecca.’

“And, in a style completely out of character for her, almost resignedly, my mother replied, ‘Yes, they are.’

“There was no further clarification of her answer, no offering up of a tidbit of a childhood memory, as might be expected when revealing so vast a thing as religiously specific relatives for the first time.

“‘So, if Oom Jacob is your first cousin, and he has the same last name as your mother’s maiden name, then he is the son of your mother’s brother,’ my new skill of dissecting family relationships now sharply honed, I added, ‘so your mother must have been Jewish, too.’

“In a split second, she came back at me, her voice strident with an unexpected, insistent, and lashing response, ‘NO! My mother was NOT Jewish. According to the Germans, she was Italian because she married an Italian.’”

Whether that logic ever truly convinced her mother, Sophia, it did not sit well with ter Hart. After her mother’s death, ter Hart began a genealogical quest. Slowly and excruciatingly, she pieces together the tragic fates of almost the entire maternal line.

“Our extended circle of family, formerly numbering over 1,200, was reduced to the less than 20 who returned, or were known to have survived, creating a psychological tsunami shock-wave impacting existing and future generations,” writes ter Hart.

The book recreates ter Hart’s prewar extended family, flashing back from postwar comfort in Canada. She captures what must have been a dawning realization among Dutch Jews in the earliest months of what became the Holocaust, as relatives who were relocated to the east inexplicably never wrote back.

“How many ‘workers’ did this totalitarian German regime require for its slave labour force? Where was the food to feed them all going to come from and the rooms to house them all? Supplies were already hitting dangerous lows in the cities, and rationing was strictly enforced.

“The unsettling sentiment echoing throughout the community for months raised its voice again. What in heaven’s name would the Germans do with grandparents and babies? This didn’t seem like a necessary part of war. This was something else.”

As ter Hart’s research expands, numbers and dates leap off the page.

“The ages and dates are, each time, an emotional shock. The eye at first does not even see, let alone accept, the horrific truths the numbers expose. Mothers with all their young children around them all killed at the same time, or an elderly couple, obviously arrested and deported together, also murdered together. The gruesomeness and cruelty of it all is staggering and overwhelming,” she writes.

On Sept. 30, 1942, 103 family members were murdered at Auschwitz, the youngest 15 years old, the oldest 54. On June 11, 1943, 64 family members were gassed at Sobibor, aged 2 to 68.

The author seeks to build suspense, but her discoveries are, generally, no surprise to those with knowledge of the history. The emphasis on twins – across generations, the family seems to have an occurrence of twins about twice the average – gives the reader an anxious sense that, at some point, some family members are going to fall into the hands of the monstrous Dr. Josef Mengele.

“Not wanting to know, but needing to know, I researched the lists of Mengele Twins, now publicly available. None of our family were on that list, as most had been deported and killed before Mengele began his murderous experimentations. Small comfort,” she writes.

The narrative at the beginning of the book devolves near the end into something of a genealogist’s notebook, with records, short biographies and charts. Generally, the book hangs together, though an editor’s hand could have been firmer, to avoid easily avoidable clangers like misspelling Anne Frank’s name.

Experiences shape identity

I recently studied the Pardes story in Tractate Chagigah of the Babylonian Talmud. This story is a complicated, mystical journey. The Mishnah starts by asking what extremely sensitive topics are difficult and, therefore, should only be taught in small groups. The presence of G-d is one of those topics. In the Pardes (literally “Orchard”) narrative, four rabbis go in search of G-d’s presence. It’s a life-changing event. Only Rabbi Akiva comes out alive and intact. Ben Azzai dies. Ben Zoma “was harmed” – this is interpreted to mean that he lost his mind. Elisha Ben Abuya becomes acher, or other, a heretic who is forever changed by his experience.

This narrative stuck with me, particularly the stories about Elisha Ben Abuya, who, although still respectful and learned, remains forever “othered” by his experience. He’s unable to be included, or to properly reconnect or embrace communal Jewish life again.

When I was 14, I decided I wanted to become a rabbi. For years, this was my goal. I was actively involved in my congregation. My mom, a Jewish professional, started a Jewish nursery school, and then went on to become a director of education and, finally, a temple administrator/executive director. That building and community were like my house. I knew it inside and out. The rabbi’s family was extended family to me. We had picnics and cookouts, I played with their kids. I knew that Jewish professionals were people I loved. It made becoming a rabbi seem attainable.

I lived in Israel for a year in high school. I went to and worked at Jewish camps, studied Hebrew and Near Eastern studies in university, taught religious school and Jewish music and served on a religious school committee. I helped lead services. Then, in my last year of university, I interviewed at not one, but two rabbinical schools. I started with the Reform Movement’s Hebrew Union College (HUC). I later interviewed at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College (RRC).

I wasn’t accepted. Looking back, with a lot more interview experience, I can easily see that the interview process was flawed. The committee asked illegal, uncomfortable questions. The process didn’t judge me on my academic skills, Jewish involvement or merits. I was told, after the “try again next year” rejection, that I needed counseling. (Not career counseling, but just vague “counseling.”) Since my family was closely tied to the Reform movement, I heard later that, in that cohort, the competition for women to be accepted was much harder than it was for men. Many more women applied than men did, and there were reportedly quotas. At the time, women hadn’t reached parity in the field. The seminary didn’t want to accept more than 50% women.

Later, I watched several people, including a guy I had dated in university, get into rabbinical school and become a successful rabbi. He had lower academic grades and less Hebrew proficiency than I did.

RRC’s interview was much more respectful. I appreciated it, but they suggested that they weren’t sure I was Reconstructionist. They also rejected my application, again with an invitation to resubmit later, when I was “sure.”

Losing the life goal of becoming a rabbi was a difficult identity shift. I focused on what I had wanted out of the rabbinate: Jewish learning, chances to teach and lead services, build community and write about Jewish topics. I pursued a master’s in education and started teaching. I moved, got a dog, and got engaged … all serious commitments. It meant I wouldn’t suddenly be reapplying to rabbinical school and flying off to spend a year in Israel. I didn’t want to put off my life any longer to face rejection again.

On social media, I recently watched a long-time teacher transition out of the classroom to another kind of consultancy work. It was a flashback moment. More than 20 years ago, I was a high school teacher. I also taught religious school and tutored kids for b’nai mitzvah. Teaching was a huge part of who I was as a person. However, I wasn’t sure that my position was ideal. I still wanted to study more. I decided to go back to graduate school. This coincided with getting married. When I returned to get a religious studies degree, it felt like I’d lost any sense of authority, despite having a master’s degree and teaching experience.

In the graduate program, I earned a tiny stipend as a teaching assistant. Nobody cared that I already knew how to teach. While I did learn a lot, mostly on my own, I had the bad luck to enter a program that was splintering. A lot of faculty left, including my advisor. Without an advisor, I finished with only a second master’s degree, and went back into an educational administration job. I continued moving for my husband’s academic career, becoming a shape-changer in terms of my freelance work life.

I’m now in mid-career and, while I’m not a rabbi, I achieved some of my goals. I study more, have taught some, and I write about Judaism. That said, reading about Elisha Ben Abuya’s “othering” as a result of his experiences really struck home. Many of us have had these life-altering shifts of identity. Sometimes, it is individual, like a teacher’s career change or a divorce or the death of a loved one. Sometimes, like the millions fleeing war in Ukraine, Syria or Afghanistan, it’s a complete departure from life as they knew it. It can be soul-crushing. Some die, like Ben Azzai. Some are unable to maintain their sanity, like Ben Zoma.

One’s career or life can change gently, but often it’s sudden, like in war or with a swift rejection. Sometimes, it is a sapling or “shoot,” a hope for new direction, cut down, as Ben Abuya’s experience relates. Our lives shift. We change identities and directions. However, through all this, Jewish traditions can offer us a story or a metaphor from which we can learn or with which to identify.

Elisha Ben Abuya’s story is a tough and sad one. It also offers solace. I suspect more of us have had this gut-wrenching experience than we want to admit. Acher/Ben Abuya was public about his angst and struggle – and his community did try to help. Perhaps there’s a lot to be gained through processing and acknowledging our hardest experiences, even if, in Acher’s situation, his relief and resolution came only long after he died.

“Rainbow Maccabees” talk

Participants in the Jan. 19 event Rainbow Maccabees: The LGBTQ+ Jews Leading the Fight Against Jew-Hate, included, clockwise from top left, Blake Flayton, moderator David Sachs, Eve Barlow and Ben M. Freeman. (screenshot)

Blake Flayton arrived at George Washington University, in Washington, D.C., four years ago, from a progressive home where ideas were fodder for passionate debate and disagreement. He anticipated vibrant engagement and free- flowing discussion on campus. Instead, he came head-on with a progressive culture that viewed free thinking as apostasy.

It took Flayton some time to assimilate the cognitive dissonance he experienced when he realized his political cohort had an ideology that rejected dissent – and an almost universal antipathy to Israel.

“I believed them, because how could I not?” he recalled. “I figured to myself, if I agree with these people on A through Y, I must also agree with them on Z. They plant these pervasive lies into the heads of young Jews that your community lied to you, your community betrayed you, your community brainwashed you into believing something horrible and we are here to save you from it. Sounds awfully like Christianity, right? We are here to redeem you from that so that we can all walk into a more blessed future. It has such ancient themes.”

Flayton was one of three young Jews, all members of the LGBTQ+ community, who participated virtually in a Canada-wide panel discussion on Jan. 19 called Rainbow Maccabees: The LGBTQ+ Jews Leading the Fight Against Jew-Hate. They speculated on why an apparently disproportionate number of the rising young stars in the pro-Israel movement come from the queer community.

Flayton, co-founder of the New Zionist Congress and recently appointed director of new media for the Jewish Journal, was joined by Eve Barlow, a Scottish-born, Los Angeles-based music journalist, and Ben M. Freeman, an educator and the author of Jewish Pride, who is also Scottish and is now based in Hong Kong. They met in conversation with Ottawa-area writer David Sachs, in an event funded by Congregation Beth Shalom of Ottawa Legacy Fund and a Jewish Federation of Ottawa micro-grant. It was supported by 11 national, regional and local Jewish organizations across Canada.

Left-leaning social and political spaces are where gays and lesbians first found widespread social acceptance. For queer Jews, this longtime safe harbour has become less welcoming – and this might account for why a seemingly disproportionate number of the new, young activists standing up to anti-Jewish hatred come from the LGBTQ+ community, Flayton speculates.

“I think it might be because we are naturally more likely to be exposed to progressive spaces and, therefore, we are more likely to find fault and to see the flaws of said progressive spaces,” he explained.

Freeman said being an openly gay man may give him an advantage in standing up to Jew-hate. LGBTQ+ people have been forced to advocate for themselves, he said, while the prevailing tendency, in some Jewish circles, is to keep one’s head down and not make trouble.

The hypocrisy progressive activists often display in their treatment of Jewish people versus LGBTQ+ or other minority communities is something Freeman has faced.

“When I tell people that I’m gay, the first thing they say to me is, what are your pronouns? Are you gay, are you queer, are you LGBTQ+? They want me to define my own identity,” he said. “But when I tell people that, as a Jew, I don’t identify as white, although I understand that I benefit from the advantage of being perceived as white, I am immediately told, no that’s incorrect. That hypocrisy you just can’t ignore.”

Barlow became politically engaged based on her own experiences in progressive British spaces – particularly seeing non-Jewish friends enthusiastically embrace the antisemitic Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn.

“I saw the hypocrisy with people who claim to be about morally righteous causes and liberalism and who have this screaming a blind spot when it comes to anti-Jewish bias,” Barlow said.

As Jews and as queer individuals, Barlow and her co-panelists embody characteristics that are not always welcome in today’s progressive environment, she said.

“Intellectualism and individual thought is discouraged,” said Barlow. “We are doing what so many people in social justice spaces have been actively discouraged from doing, which is having our own ideas about what we think is right and wrong.”

Barlow stressed that she has had to pick her battles, in part because she realizes that tormenting Jews online, rather than good-faith debate or actual persuasion, is the goal for many.

“The more that you are on the other side of antisemitism, the more you understand the love that people who hate Jews have for picking on the Jew and tripping the Jew up and making the Jew feel small and bad,” she said. “It’s this pleasure that they get out of their antisemitic rhetoric.”

In the antisemitic mind, “the Jew” takes the shape of whatever the perpetrator fears most, said Freeman.

“It’s not about us as Jews, it’s about the ideas of Jews,” he said. “If you are a society which is positioning itself as capitalist, the Jew can represent communism. If you are a society that is communist, you can frame the Jew as the capitalist. If you’re a society which views white people as the apex predators, then Jews are white. If you’re a society that views non-white people as conspiring to bring down Western society, white society, then the Jew is not white.… All these different forms share a common core. They are saying basically the same things about us, expressed in a slightly different language.”

As a people who have maintained a particular identity across millennia and continents, Jews exemplify a stubbornness that resists assimilation, which can enflame some people. Similarly, because Jewish security and social flourishing has been most assured in liberal, democratic societies, Jews have a vested interest in perpetuating stable societies, so are often targeted by those who seek to subvert them.

“There is a very strong association between antisemitism and illiberal ideologies, ideologies that hold contempt and disdain for institutions of liberal democracy and that hold contempt for the ideas that come from liberal democracy, like meritocracy, like freedom of speech, like academic freedom, like gender equality, etc., etc.,” said Flayton. “Jews have often been portrayed, or at least been treated, as a proxy for these institutions.… Today, there is illiberalism bursting out of every corner, from the farthest you can go left on the spectrum to the farthest you can go right and everywhere in between. There is a rise in populism, there is a rise in anti-intellectualism, there is a rise in anti-establishmentism and it’s been replaced with conspiracy thinking and grievance politics.”

Throughout Jewish history, Flayton continued, there have been repeated attempts by various ideologies to convince Jews that they will be better off if they abandon their uniqueness and assimilate into the new orthodoxy – or, conversely, that the Jews’ refusal to do so is the primary inhibitor of progress or the impediment to utopia.

“Of course, that’s never the case,” he said, citing instances from the Hellenizing ancient Greeks in the Hanukkah story, to the Christians who are convinced that Jews are holding humanity back from salvation by refusing to accept Jesus, to the Soviets, who camouflaged antisemitism in the guise of anti-Zionism.

Today, said Flayton, this takes the form of Jews being told that, if they only reject Israel or check their Zionism at the door, they will “be granted a seat at this table of diversity, equity and inclusion and that everything will be grand and the Jews will be protected, if only they give up their birthright to the land of Israel.”

He concluded: “It never works and, in fact, the Jews who were so vehement are not spared from antisemitism at all, because once the ideology has succeeded there is no longer any use for them.”

The event opened with greetings from Idan Roll, Israel’s deputy foreign minister, who is himself a young, gay Jew.