Judaism

Tarot as spiritual ritual

Alycia Fridkin holds the Wheel of Fortune tarot card, which features the Tetragrammaton of G-d’s name interspersed between the letters T, A, R, O. (photo from Alycia Fridkin)

I love tarot. I love how you can receive insight anywhere, anytime using only what G-d gave you and a deck of cards. It’s a perfect spiritual practice for Jews who have been wandering spiritually. Not everyone knows enough Hebrew to read our sacred texts, and not everyone feels connected through our traditional prayers or going to the synagogue. But many are yearning for deep connection. New ways of practising spirituality are needed.

Tarot has drawn me closer to Judaism, Jewish people, G-d and myself. I have come back to the cards repeatedly for guidance, with my Jewish self leading the way. I am on a journey towards loving the Torah again, and tarot is helping me get there.

For those who don’t know, tarot is a form of divination originating in Italy in the mid-15th century. It relies on using one’s intuition to channel wisdom from the divine, using a deck of cards with meaningful images, numerology and symbols. Although tarot is not traditionally used in Jewish contexts, using intuition as a spiritual practice is not new to Judaism. It goes back to our roots, which were pagan in nature. Our women ancestors played important roles in the times of the Temple, using their intuitive wisdom as priestesses and healers. Tarot invites us to return to our spiritual roots that were lost, and to search for meaning within our own bodies and spirits.

I use tarot every day to connect with G-d and to feel a sacred connection to my Jewish spiritual self. In my view, tarot is a spiritual tool, just like Torah, to help us connect with the divine. Reading tarot guides me in life. It feels sacred, and there is ritual around the reading. In both tarot and Torah reading, we create a sacred space, look at the same text over and over again in different ways, and draw on our own experience to arrive at new interpretations, applying the meaning to our lives in the here and now.

Without knowing anything about tarot, you can look at the original images created by Pamela Coleman-Smith on the traditional Rider-Waite Tarot deck and see the Jewish significance of the cards. When I saw the holy Tetragrammaton of G-d’s name inscribed on the chest of the angel in Temperance, one of the 22 Major Arcana cards, I felt the Jewish connection immediately. It is also a significant synergy that the scroll in the lap of the High Priestess reads “TORA,” letters which are also found on the Wheel of Fortune but rearranged to read TARO, interwoven with the four Hebrew letters of G-d’s name. In the Minor Arcana, the Ten of Pentacles contains 10 circles with five-pointed stars in the centre, depicted in shape of the 10 sefirot, the sacred geometry also known as the Tree of Life in kabbalah.

My curiosity with tarot began as a teenager. I somehow acquired a small deck but didn’t know how to read it. As an adult, the cards found their way to me again, and perhaps it was not a coincidence that I was gifted with a tarot deck just after I turned 40, the age that Judaism traditionally says we are spiritually mature enough for the mystical teachings of kabbalah.

I learned to read tarot through my own study, using books, podcasts and courses. Even though some talked about the kabbalist correspondences on the cards, I never learned how tarot could be used as a way of connecting with my Jewish spirituality.

Since then, I have been exploring tarot as a tool for Jewish spiritual practice in several ways. I read for myself, I read for others, and I use the cards for Jewish rituals, such as setting intentions when lighting candles for Shabbat.

I read tarot professionally under the name Azra Silverstein, a decision I made out of fear of the stigma associated with tarot. I chose the name because of its connection to my own Hebrew name, but also because of its Jewish feel. It makes a difference knowing when a reader is Jewish, and clients have often sought me out because of this.

I was reading at a spiritual fair once and a young man saw me listed as a Jewish tarot reader. He sat down at my table and asked me, “What makes a tarot reading Jewish?” I gave him the short answer, “You and me!” It’s because of the people who are involved. When you read tarot, you use your intuition, which means using the whole of yourself to glean insight from within and the world around you. So, if you are Jewish, you will read with a Jewish lens. It’s inherent.

The longer answer is, there are many ways to make a reading Jewish. One way is to open with a blessing. When I am reading for a Jewish client who has never had a reading before, I will often recite Shehechiyanu, the traditional blessing for doing something for the first time. In my opening meditation before a tarot reading I sometimes use the word Shechinah, instead of a more secular reference to the universe. I’ve witnessed Jewish clients drop into a sacred vibration when such references are made. I can feel the powerful impact of our ancestry in the reading ritual.

I also have done readings for Jewish people where I weave in Jewish concepts, make connections to Jewish holidays or take into account the broader context surrounding Jews today. Tarot readings can support people navigating antisemitism or conflicts related to being Jewish, and they can also provide guidance for one’s Jewish spiritual development.

If you are curious about how tarot can deepen your own spiritual practice, I invite you to pick up a deck and start reading for yourself. For those who want more formal training, you may be interested in my Jewish tarot course, which teaches how to read the cards using Jewish and secular methods, as well as how to use tarot for Jewish ritual. For Passover, I created a Haggadah (which is available online) that uses tarot to engage with various parts of the seder. For more information, please visit my website, azrasilverstein.com.

Dr. Alycia Fridkin, PhD, is also known as Azra Silverstein, the Jewitch Tarot Reader. Get in touch at azrasilverstein.com or email her at [email protected].

Encouraging young voices

Larry Barzelai addresses those gathered for the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver’s Public Speaking Contest on March 5. (photo from JFGV)

On March 5, the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver’s annual Public Speaking Contest took place at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver. Students in Grade 4 through Grade 7, from a range of schools, participated.

The contest, which was created more than 35 years ago by Larry Barzelai, with his wife, Rhona Gordon, is jointly presented by Federation, the JCC and Israel Bonds.

“It provides young people with a meaningful platform to express their ideas,” wrote Jewish Federation chief executive officer Ezra Shanken in his weekly email message.

“Their confidence and creativity reflect the strength and promise of the next generation,” noted Shanken, who also spoke at the event.

Federation’s Lissa Weinberger is a key organizer, wrangling both student participants and their parents, as well as volunteer judges and moderators from the community.

Suggested topics ranged from “What is your favourite Jewish holiday and why?” to “From a Jewish perspective, should leaders be held accountable for mistakes they made in the past?” The 10 suggestions included talking about the Jewish values gained from a favourite picture book, the importance of food in Jewish culture, and the ethics of using ChatGPT; the 11th suggestion was a topic of the student’s choosing.

In each category, there were three winners.

In Grade 7, they were Shiran Cohen (1st), Shael Singerman (2nd) and Meah Corea Reyes (3rd).

In Grade 6, Group 1, it was David Herlin (1st), Olivia White (2nd) and Nogah Goldenberg (3rd).

Grade 6, Group 2, saw Liz Sinderman (1st), Gilad Shortt (2nd) and Miriam Gordon (3rd) take home the top prizes.

In Grade 5, it was Ella Zack (1st), Ben Kupfer (2nd) and Josie Prokosh (3rd).

In Grade 4, it was Levi Wenner (1st), Olivia Bregman (2nd) and Amelia Silverman (3rd).

– Courtesy Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver

Drawing on his roots

Multi-instrumentalist and songwriter Ezra Ben-Shalom’s debut solo album, Known and Unknown, was released in 2025. (photo by Michelle Behr)

With his debut solo album, released last year, Kelowna musician Ezra Ben-Shalom shows off his personal side, with a uniquely Jewish touch.

For Ben-Shalom, who reconnected to Jewish ritual practice around five years ago, Known and Unknown – his first solo project – is a deeply personal one. The focus of his music and daily life has become all about asking questions, he said. It’s about finding ways to be of service in the world and creating a connection with something larger than himself.

“I’m doing my best to be of value to the world and to the culture. And, you know, you step in front of a room of people and take a deep breath and open your mouth and sing – I want to offer something that’s real, that’s authentic and that’s meaningful,” the 43-year-old said in a phone interview.

The album is highly Jewish-inspired, owing to his own reconnections – and, he said, he hopes it will encourage empathy among listeners.

“I think the album title was maybe a hint to myself to come from that place of humility, that we don’t have the answers, as much as we think we know or that we learn,” said Ben-Shalom.

The songs on Known and Unknown include some Hebrew words, and the sounds of a shofar on two tracks, though the lyrics are largely in English.

Jewish themes shape much of Ben-Shalom’s interpretation and highly personal expressions; however, he emphasizes that, while his path is Jewish, he sees the disc’s new compositions as something more broadly accessible. The songs, he said, are “about inner experiences and feelings and reflections, and they’re about living in the world as a human being, not as a Jewish human being.”

Themes of transformation, vulnerability and boldness underline the album’s adult alternative and folk-adjacent sounds, and Jewish references abound, with songs titled “Shechina,” “Shake the Dust,” and “El and Gil.”

New name, old passion

Ben-Shalom is the new-ish musical handle of producer and multi-instrumentalist Ezra Cipes, who grew up in Kelowna and has played in bands since he was 14 years old, he told the CJN.

By the time he was 19, Cipes and one of his three brothers co-wrote a song with Indian-born Canadian punk/alternative music icon Bif Naked, who grew up in Winnipeg. He’s also performed regularly and recorded with the Calgary-born indie-pop-folk artists Tegan and Sara. (Bif Naked’s bassist, Chris Carlson, produced, co-wrote and played most of the other instruments on Ben-Shalom’s 2025 album.)

Prior to the new project, another band featuring the musical Cipes family had been nominated in 2022 for a Juno Award in the children’s music category for the second disc by the troupe, called the Oot n’ Oots. The five-piece band comprised Ezra; his three brothers, Matthew, Gabe and Ari; and his daughter, Ruthie, who was the singer.

When that project wound down following the end of 2023 summer festivals, the guitarist and keyboard player turned to exploring a different expressive musical language. He had set out on that musical exploration when the Oct. 7, 2023, attacks by Hamas in Israel, which triggered the Gaza war, refocused his artistic lens.

“Oct. 7 put a lot of things into focus and showed the ways that, really, we’re all lost in one way or another,” he said.

The way the world responded after Oct. 7 was a “frustrating and painful” experience, he said.

“You think, ‘What can any of us do?’ And none of us can fix it – you can’t completely change all these cultural narratives and people’s ideas and correct the record or bring a higher perspective on our own, but we can do our part. We can stand strong in our own truth and share it, proudly and with strength and humility.”

Explaining that he’s always needed “a little spiritual medicine in my life,” Ben-Shalom described reading at night, from literature and philosophy to spiritual and self-help books, and had long realized he needed to do that, even before he connected with Judaism.

Pivotal turn to Judaism

Growing up, while his family – who own a successful organic vineyard – belonged to a local synagogue, they weren’t traditionally observant, though he became bar mitzvah and attended Jewish summer camp.

But, as an adult, he reflected, he was “totally disconnected” when it came to traditional Jewish practice and observance.

It was a moment in 2020, early during the pandemic, following a sweat lodge ceremony led by Ron Hall, a longtime family friend who’s an Indigenous artist and biologist, that brought Ben-Shalom an epiphany.

“It [the sweat lodge] was one of those moments that really flipped a switch in my whole life, and it was just a hinge moment. I thanked him [Hall] for the ceremony, and I shared with him how powerful it was and how meaningful it was, how deep it was,” said Ben-Shalom.

“And I said to him that he’s lucky to have the traditions to draw on to connect with his own soul and with the creator and I said to him: ‘All I have is this shallow materialistic Western culture.’

“And he said, ‘What are you talking about, Ezra? You’re Jewish. You come from an Indigenous people.’”

Nobody had ever said that to him before, Ben-Shalom recalled, and it became a turning point.

“I had grown up thinking it was cool to be Jewish and, like, neat, but also vaguely embarrassing to be Jewish, and it was something I didn’t really like to talk about or get into very much because … I always felt othered,” he said.

The COVID-era wave of social justice movements brought a resurgence of ideas “about decolonization and equality,” he said. “It’s good to support the Indigenous people keeping their culture, keeping their language, keeping their tradition, keeping the oral culture alive.”

He felt a tinge of hypocrisy. “And then I realized I was not honouring my own ancestors and I didn’t know my own language. I didn’t know my own story,” he said.

Ben-Shalom now attends the local Chabad, lays tefillin and wears tzitzit and a kippah.

He described one of the first times he performed the new music at a live show at the Kelowna venue Revelry in 2024.

“I got off stage and my whole body was sore, from holding myself and breathing and keeping myself grounded and keeping myself in a state of service,” he said. (Since then, he’s felt “a little bit more relaxed” performing the new material.)

“The songs are almost like prayers, and you have to kind of get into that place to sing them, where there’s a genuine connection and not just notes and not just words.”

Ben-Shalom hopes to bring the album in a live performance to audiences across Canada, and to ensure that includes Jewish audiences, he told the CJN.

“I’d like to play for all audiences that will have me, but, in particular, I want to go and play for Jewish people,” he said. “I want to share these songs with Jewish people. I want to bring inspiration, pride and honour to our tradition, to Jewish people.”

Jonathan Rothman is a reporter for the CJN based in Toronto. This article was originally published on thecjn.ca and is reprinted with permission.

Panama City welcoming

The ceiling of the Sephardic synagogue Shevet Ahim, which is located in the Bella Vista neighbourhood of Panama City. (photo by Janice Masur)

My solo trip to Panama City this past February had seemed so far away when I organized it, knowing I would require some respite from caregiving. I had a yen to experience the Miraflores and San Pedro shipping locks, but not on a cruise. I had listened to a talk from Qesher, a website about Jewish communities worldwide, highlighting Jewish life in Panama, so I gathered my courage to travel alone and booked my hotel and flights. And then my beloved husband died.

This changed my reason for going and started me thinking, What would I do there by myself? How would I manage to converse in Spanish and make myself understood? Could I give a talk about my Ugandan vanished Jewish community? (See jewishindependent.ca/honouring-community.) Despite my concerns, I made the journey.

photo - Panama City was a great place to travel solo – and as a Jew — Panama City was a great place to travel solo – and as a Jew. *(photo by Janice Masur)*

I had a half-day tour with an excellent Jewish guide, Patricia, to see all four of the Orthodox synagogues, each one more beautiful, all situated within a small area of Panama City.

There were all types of Jews staying in my hotel: a Dutch woman who only recently discovered her Jewish heritage, a fur-hatted Jewish man, and two Jewish Tunisian-born sisters, whose family history included having been ousted from their home in Tunis during the Second World War, their home commandeered to be a Nazi headquarters.

At Kol Shearith Reform synagogue, I struggled with the Spanish and Hebrew prayer book, spellbound by my surroundings. The Sephardic tunes of the prayers made only a handful of them familiar to my ear. The Oneg Shabbat was delicious: fish ceviche and crème caramel, a childhood favourite, as well as several dishes new to me. We stood around the loaded tables and talked.

Jews started arriving in Panama in the 15th century and there are about 17,000 Jews in Panama, with most living in Panama City. Apparently, Panama is a “Jewish bubble,” with basically no antisemitism. I was told that there are many families from Vancouver soon moving there. “Why?” you may ask. Imagine 40 kosher restaurants, two very large kosher stores, apartment buildings housing only Jewish families, a Jewish support system from birth to death, Sephardic Shevet Ahim in the Bella Vista neighbourhood with offshoots in Punta Paitilla, Ashkenazi Beth El Synagogue, two Chabad synagogues, and the oldest synagogue, Kol Shearith.

photo - “The Eternal Flame,” an Oct. 7 memorial at Beth El Synagogue in Panama City. The artists were Ilanit Schwartz and Michael Ostroviack — “The Eternal Flame,” an Oct. 7 memorial at Beth El Synagogue in Panama City. The artists were Ilanit Schwartz and Michael Ostroviack. The sculpture is composed of seven levels, each bearing a word: faith, resilience, hope, unity, perseverance, identity and strength. The flame is a reminder that there will always be light, even in the most difficult times. And, within the flame is the Shema Yisrael prayer. There is also the symbol of the “necklace of liberation,” associated not only with the promise to bring home the hostages, but the struggle for life and freedom for all human beings. *(photo by Janice Masur)*

Geographically, Panama City is situated on a narrow isthmus, making it an elongated city running east-west, mainly facing the Pacific Ocean. It is full of incredibly high and distinctive skyscrapers lining the long promenade.

The Old Town is being gentrified. Hotel La Compañía Casco Antiguo has a Spanish, French and American wing, each built in a different century. A large cathedral faces onto Plaza Herrera, and I saw my first modern-day monk. He was wearing a brown habit and many nuns were spilling out into the sunlit plaza. Brightly painted buildings and small shops catered to the tourists. The imposing Opera House faces the ocean.

I felt quite safe on my own and was touched by how a local family pointed out animals and kept an eye on me as we wandered around Metropolitan Natural Park, where I saw turtles, agoutis and my first ever armadillo.

I took myself to the botanical garden situated about 40 minutes outside the city. Along the route were American army barracks now being repurposed. At the garden, I enjoyed seeing flowers I had never seen before. A large red flower that only grows from a tree trunk; an orange flower whose seed pod is hard and round and slightly bigger than a tennis ball. The garden also showcased two- and three-toed sloths, plus several monkey species. In its far reaches, I saw a lone jaguar, who let out such sad, lonely notes with his rib cage working like an accordion that I could not bear to stay near his cage. I wondered about the information exhorting visitors to take care of the planet and not to shoot wild animals. Jaguars are on the at-risk list because of habitation loss and human interference.

On the spur of the moment, I took a Black African walking tour of the old city. The young guide was very good. Highlights included some colourful historic wall paintings and an old church, which is now a Black African museum. We finished the tour at the San Felipe public market, where I had a large, freshly squeezed and most-welcome passion fruit drink in 32˚ C heat and then crashed on my bed for a nap.

photo - A painted wall in Old Town, depicting Panamanian Black African history — A painted wall in Old Town, depicting Panamanian Black African history. *(photo by Janice Masur)*

The Biomuseo (biodiversity museum), designed by Frank Gehry, is well worth a visit, with a lovely seawall walk and an eco-friendly garden, where I rested and listened to the birds. I also took a private birding tour, which yielded some wonderful sightings. The couple of hours on my own watching close to 100 pelicans circling and diving for fish was spectacular.

And, of course, I took a tour on a small boat that passed through the Miraflores and San Pedro locks. It was fascinating to observe the speed with which large shipping vessels are lowered and raised through the original canal lock gates, which opened in 1914. Tugs and railway engines synchronize the adjustment of a ship in the lock with steel ropes to prevent it from damaging the canal walls – it’s a specialized job, and I was happy to learn there are some women pilots.

I was warmly welcomed in Panama City, and the Jewish hospitality was inclusive and friendly. It was a fun and easy holiday – it has given me the appetite for more solo adventures.

Janice Masur is a Vancouver author and speaker. Her book, Shalom Uganda: A Jewish Community on the Equator, tells her story of growing up in the bygone Ashkenazi Jewish community of Kampala from 1949 to 1961.

On the wings of griffon vultures

Liberation. Freedom. Renewal. Recalling our history, our stories. Passover’s themes are many, and the challenge every year is for us to interpret them in a meaningful way for our time.

image - JI Passover cover March 26 2026 — This year’s cover of the JI’s Passover issue.

In making this special issue’s cover, I started with the idea that I would use artificial intelligence – one of the most contemporary tools – to create it. Would AI free me from the hours that art creation takes? Short answer: no.

I started with the directive to design a collage centred on the Jewish fight for freedom throughout history, and got lots of great feedback on how to arrange images to tell a powerful story. I could place “key representative figures or symbols at the forefront,” “use overlapping images to create dimension and a sense of ‘flow’” and incorporate “symbolism of ‘tikkun olam.’”

AI had recommendations for typography, what media I could use, what colour palette. It suggested historical struggles I might want to include in a spiral-shaped design: the Exodus and the Maccabees in the outer ring; Conversos and Partisans in the next ring; early kibbutzim and the Iron Dome in yet another ring; and the yellow ribbon for the Oct. 7 hostages or “street-art style seen in Tel Aviv or New York” in the centre.

I eventually figured out how to create an image in AI, but everything I tried looked horrible, so I decided to make my collage the old-fashioned way – with my own hands, using only paper, inspired by artist Deborah Shapiro (deborahshapiroart.com), whose art I’d used on the JI’s 2021 Rosh Hashanah cover.

After what felt like forever, I figured out what my focus would be. I came across the verse in Exodus (19:4): “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me.”

An article on aish.com by Rabbi Warren Goldstein, chief rabbi of South Africa, helped me think through the symbolism, from both a spiritual and secular perspective.

“Each year, we are told to relive the experience of leaving Egypt – and I imagine being lifted from slavery and oppression ‘on the wings of eagles,’” he writes. “What better way could there be to express our transition from the earthly bonds that constrain us to the spiritual transcendence that God gave us than through the exhilarating, soaring rush of the eagle’s flight.”

image - I tried two different backgrounds for the griffon vulture collage on this issue’s cover, before I decided to make my own. This one is an AI-generated image based on colour suggestions, going from darkness to light — I tried two different backgrounds for the griffon vulture collage on this issue’s cover, before I decided to make my own. This one is an AI-generated image based on colour suggestions, going from darkness to light.

Goldstein goes on to talk about Rashi’s interpretation that “the eagle’s wings represent the nature of God’s protection over us.” The rabbi notes the miracle that Jews are still here, despite a long history of various peoples trying to kill us. And he compares the “rush of the eagle’s flight” to “the speed with which God liberated us from Egypt” – so fast, of course, that our bread didn’t have time to rise, hence, the matzah we eat on seder night as a symbol of our “supernatural” redemption.

“This divine dynamism – depicted by the image of a soaring eagle – becomes a call to action: ‘Be light as an eagle,’ says the mishna in Pirkei Avot. Too often we get bogged down by life,” writes Goldstein. “We become consumed with angst, submerged in introspection and inertia. The mishna urges us to live life energetically and enthusiastically – like an eagle – with a sense of urgency for the task at hand, which is uplifting ourselves and our world through our mitzvot.”

I like this idea of living with a sense of energetic purpose, whether the motivation to improve ourselves and the world is inspired by Torah or other moral codes and teachings. Freedom and responsibility are inextricably intertwined in my view, but it is easy to get overwhelmed, and the thought of being carried sometimes, of soaring above the earth and gaining new perspective, appeals to me.

I decided I would “paint” an eagle.

image - I also asked AI to design a collage of the Jewish fight for freedom, from the Exodus to modern days — I also asked AI to design a collage of the Jewish fight for freedom, from the Exodus to modern days.

As I searched online for what types of eagles would be at home in Egypt or Israel, I came across a few articles about the mistranslation of “nesherim” in Exodus 19:4. Apparently, we were most likely carried out of slavery on the wings of vultures, not eagles, and probably on the wings of griffon vultures specifically.

“Both the biblical nesher and ornithological griffon are known for their ‘bald’ head, enormous wingspan, effortless flight, cliff nesting, devoted nurturing, rapid descent and group feasting on carrion,” writes Dr. Fred Cannon, a professor emeritus at Pennsylvania State University, in Journal for the Study of the Old Testament. “From biblical times until the industrial age, griffons have been ubiquitous in the Middle East but absent in northern Europe or the Americas. However, eagles commonly resided in northern Europe but are uncommon residents or pass-through migrants in the Middle East. Through millennia, when northern Europeans sought translations for biblical plant and animal names, they sometimes replaced Middle Eastern meanings with recognizable northern European ones. So, the nesher became known as the eagle to many northern Europeans and North Americans. However, recent Hebrew-speaking ornithologists concur that the nesher is the griffon. This distinction becomes important when gleaning nuances from biblical metaphors, clarifying kosher dietary regulations and discerning genealogical connections among raptors.”

Natan Slifkin, director of the Biblical Museum of Natural History, in Israel, notes that another part of the verse – “va’esa etchem,” “I bore you,” or “I carried you” – can be translated as “I elevated you.”

“The explanation,” he writes about the symbolism, “is that the nesher is the highest-flying bird, and God raised the Jewish people to spiritual heights above anything in the natural world with His miraculous redemption. The highest-flying birds are griffon vultures.”

As well, he explains, “While people today view the vulture in a negative light, the Torah presents it as an example of a loving and caring parent. This also relates to the vulture’s entire parenting process. Female griffon vultures usually lay one egg, which both parents incubate for an unusually long period of around seven weeks until it hatches. The young are slow to develop and do not leave the nest until three or four months of age. The long devotion of the vulture to its young symbolizes God’s deep dedication to the Jewish people.”

Sadly, it’s more than time for us to dedicate ourselves to the griffon vulture. Only around 230 of them remain today, according to a brochure of the Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel (SPNI), which suggests helping save the griffon vulture as a b’nai mitzvah project.

The word “nether” comes “from a Hebrew root that means ‘to shed’ or ‘to fall off,’” explains the brochure. “That’s because, as baby vultures grow up, they shed the feathers on their heads – an adaption that actually helps them stay clean! A bald head makes it easier for vultures to stick their heads into carcasses when they eat, without getting messy.”

The brochure notes that griffon vultures live in the Golan Heights, Negev Desert and Carmel Mountains. They have a wingspan of up to 2.65 metres and spend two to three hours a day combing their feathers. They can spot food from seven kilometres away, eating dead animals before the bodies rot, which helps prevent the spread of diseases.

Poisoning, electrolution, land loss, illegal hunting, and that griffon vultures only lay one egg a year, are all threats to their future. To help counter these pressures, SPNI has a breeding program, it is working with electric companies to insulate power poles, lobbying for stronger laws against poisons, and teaching farmers and others about more eco-friendly pest control.

That the griffon vulture is endangered made it, to me, an even more appropriate image for the JI’s Passover cover, underscoring the connection between freedom and responsibility. The words I chose for the cover’s background – cut and ripped from the last few issues of the JI – are my attempt to depict Goldstein’s commentary. While the eagle/vulture is protecting us as much as possible from that which bogs humanity down, giving us some respite and renewed strength, we must continue to try and uplift ourselves and the world around us, grateful for the blessings we have, and working to bring more of them into being.

Chag Pesach sameach. Happy Passover.

Ritual is what makes life holy

Years ago, I regularly walked with my two bird dogs on streets near my home, in Winnipeg. I had a setter-mix and a pointer, rescued from a Kentucky animal shelter as young dogs, before moving to Canada. I walked them once or twice a day. Our routines were solid. The dogs sat on street corners. They heeled while crossing streets. Strangers admired their obedience skills and called out praise. Others stopped to say hello. I said thank you, but the next question almost always was, “How did you do that? My dog doesn’t….”

The answer, every time, was the same. I walked these dogs for years. Every day, we waited at street corners for cars to pass, and I had my dogs sit. Every time we crossed in traffic, I aimed for two lively dogs who heeled at my side to make the street crossing safer. Now, I own a different dog (another setter mix from the pound) and have twins as well. My family gets complimented about those lovely teens with their good manners, and we all say thank you. How did we do it? The same way – with consistency and positive reinforcement.

Our Jewish lives are also full of ritual and routine. No matter your level of observance, some of those repetitions stick. Perhaps you say a blessing when you wash your hands or do blessings before eating. Others may light Shabbat candles, attend a family seder or use Yiddish phrases of endearment. Some hum Jewish music or embrace Jewish values. These visible and invisible parts of our identity are so ordinary that we may not think about them much.

I’ve heard rabbis express their congregants’ disinterest in the specifics of how to build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, in the wilderness in Exodus when reading the Torah portion each year. Yet these details mattered enormously to the many people who used the information as “how-to” guides. These were people with great skills, those who spun the finest linen yarn or wove the curtains, dyed the textiles the right shades using natural materials, or who worked gold and silver to create ornamentation. Later in our history, the priests who made the sacrifices in the Temple in Jerusalem needed to know how to do those sacrifices properly. The rabbis debated and recorded these routine details, even though the Temple no longer existed. The information was precious. It was a guide for the Jewish people.

The details illustrate how meaningful it was to create this beautiful “home” for the Divine. Today, we may not understand the details of how spinners, goldsmiths or hand-dyers worked. However, our texts record their efforts, these gorgeous descriptions, for a reason.

Just as our body is the “container” for our soul, our homes and synagogues are now our mishkan, our sanctuary. How we create beauty and routine matters. A house that’s functional and attractive is one where we find rest and peace to escape the outside world.

Like the daily dog walk, other routines or “sacrifices” make our houses and gardens functional and humming. It’s a pain to clean up thoroughly, whether dusting, scrubbing or sweeping. Still, these small moments add up to a clean, healthy and safe place to live. Clinging to these rituals also orders our lives when we’re mourning or stressed.

Many have seen social media images of Israelis, family or friends, rushing to their shelters to stay safe during the war. Recently, I saw a clip of a mom who taught her small children that, when they heard a big boom in the shelter, they should say, “Olé!” She created a quirky, positive celebration of life to respond to missiles and the Iron Dome response. That routine helps create resilience during anxious moments. We can panic when we don’t know what to do. Solid routines (rituals) create order during difficult times.

About eight years ago, I crossed a busy street in front of my home with my (new to me) adolescent, large dog. We tripped over each other. I literally fell and rolled at an intersection full of fast-moving cars. Kind people asked if I was OK as I got up from the pavement, but some stopped their cars to yell at us instead. This further panicked an already bruised and disoriented young dog and owner. My long routines of dog walks helped me get up, calm the new dog and get across the street safely. The drivers, jostled by this upsetting event, lost their calm commute. While I was bruised, I had the tools to get up again. I could proceed without yelling rude things back.

Every dog walk is an opportunity for training and reassurance. Every meal is a chance to rejoice in good, tasty food with people we love. We make the ordinary something special. When we’re faced with upheavals, a bad tumble or even a war, we can find resilience in the rituals and beauty of each day as it comes. Jewish life offers repeat performances, if we choose to embrace them.

While I sometimes dread chores like weeding, our small choices each day, what we plant or weed, can become glorious garden landscapes later. Similarly, big Shabbat meal prep for family and friends can feel overwhelming. However, when I break it down into first steps and familiar routines, baking challah or turning out salads, I regain calm. And, with each gathering, the bonds with family and friends are deepened.

We can choose resilience and ritual, meaning and beauty as daily practice even during hard moments. We can find the joy in the everyday, if we look around and see what we’ve created through those routines. The minutiae in our lives, the how-to manuals of our days, can feel like too much. Even so, a calm child or dog, a well-planned meal or a garden filled with colour are all signs of someone’s daily efforts. These household routines aren’t ordinary, but magnificent, like the ways we built the Mishkan, our wilderness sanctuary. Perhaps what’s limiting is the unimaginative person who yells negatively, for that’s the person who cannot see the countless steps that go into making the mundane into something holy.

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.

Recipes not always required

Were you part of the pandemic sourdough bread baking craze? I’ve been baking bread for around 40 years, but I’m not a sourdough baker. Maintaining the starter was something I couldn’t manage. Although I’ve made many kinds of bread, including weekly challah (twin teens eat a lot!), I found using store-bought yeast was fine. Besides, my biology professor husband disliked the colourful, dangerous things he saw growing when I tried to maintain a starter long ago. He supports our bread habit as we buy one pound of dried yeast at a time.

My approach isn’t exact. However, I produce bread that rises and tastes good even without a recipe. I don’t use all the technical terms that I saw on the internet during the pandemic bread-baking phase. I stick to basic ingredients and easy methods. Bakers have used these successfully for thousands of years.

All this seemed familiar when I started studying the Babylonian tractate of Menachot. Menachot delves into the exact ways the rabbis thought meal (grain) offerings should be measured, cooked, burnt and sacrificed in the Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbis who discussed this mostly lived long after the Temple was destroyed. They’d never seen Temple offerings but they still discussed detailed recipes and techniques for proper sacrifice.

I remember the many online discussions about sourdough science. These were often people who, while baking beautiful pandemic sourdough, had never made bread previously, as I had. Of course, all of us would be shamed before our ancestors who, using a wooden bowl ripe with wild yeast, turned out bread consistently, day in and day out, to feed their families.

You might think, well, this isn’t for me if I don’t bake bread. Perhaps you never have worried about the ancient grain offerings in Jerusalem, or the “shrewbread” that became our modern equivalent, challah. All these discussions came to a head in Menachot, page 18a.

A question arises about whether a specific offering is fit (acceptable) and why. First, we learn about a meaningful teacher-student relationship between Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua and Yosef the Babylonian.

Yosef the Babylonian learns something from Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua that doesn’t seem entirely right to him. He questions his teacher several times. After multiple repetitions of a simple answer, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua finally gives Yosef the Babylonian more information. He recalls another contradictory teaching from Rabbi Eliezer that agrees with what Yosef the Babylonian remembers.

Yosef the Babylonian erupts in joy. Both men are emotional, moved by the experience they’ve had, where careful analysis brings them important understanding and resolution. Yosef the Babylonian is relieved – he had worried that what he’d remembered was a mistake because he couldn’t find anyone else who recalled what Rabbi Eliezer had taught. Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua cries, filled with wonder. They celebrate Torah study, which maintains an intellectual genealogy of teachers and students by the historic transmission of knowledge. It’s a careful recounting of discussion and disputes, rather than just a simple, reflexive answer.

Menachot 18a, like bread-baking, shows that, if we get bogged down in the technical details, we can also be swept up in the transformation that occurs when we get everything – that we study or bake – right. This story is about mistakes, forgetting, misinformation and complex opinions. This tractate might describe how to do defunct sacrifice recipes correctly. It’s also about how we transmit important knowledge. We need to keep the facts straight, without forgetting anything, and synthesize complex opinions.

This is relevant today. We’re struggling daily to keep track of what’s happening in the world. Is it legal? Is it ethical? How does it affect us? In an age of “instant” information, diminished international reporting, social media disinformation campaigns and simplistic interpretations, it’s no wonder that we need to work hard to figure out what’s happening. It’s just as important now to do one’s own footwork. We must ask questions and analyze information carefully, just as when Yosef the Babylonian sat with his teacher, Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, sometime between 135 and 170 CE.

We can get swept up in the technical aspects of our lives, whether it’s sourdough baking or legal proceedings. Yet, we also have that practical compass that guides us. I know intuitively, after decades of practice, how to throw together flour, salt, water and yeast, when to add sweetness, oil or eggs, and why. It’s a gut feeling, as deep as my internal moral compass that reacts when I see something wrong happening. Perhaps it’s how Judaism, my family or my community has shaped me, just as environment shapes all of us. Perhaps it’s an innate sense of the worth of each human being, as we are made in the image of the Divine. We know when things are going off the rails, and when we need to keep asking the hard questions to make change.

You could infer that all this refers to the current US upheaval, but it also relates to many other issues. For instance, at home, recent research found that Canadian Jews weren’t wrong about the CBC’s bias in reporting on the Israel-Hamas war. Statistical analysis indicates that yes, headlines, interviewer choices and perspectives lacked objectivity. If you, like me, questioned the CBC’s reporting over the last two years, just like Yosef questioned Rabbi Elazar ben Shammua, this information is reassuring.

Farther away, Israelis care passionately about democracy. Israelis ask their government tough questions, including protesting its poor record in protecting Arab citizens and its failure to provide a sufficient inquiry concerning Oct. 7. Regarding Iran’s upheaval, the Islamic regime’s repression means protesters risk murder, injury, torture and rape. Brave questioning of authority and pursuit of truthful information aren’t specific to one culture or country.

Yosef the Babylonian doubted himself. He repeatedly nudged his teacher. He worried that he’d made a mistake, but then bravely sought clarity to understand the bigger picture. We, too, can be so persistent that authority figures, like our teachers and government officials, must answer with thorough responses. Let’s not get bogged down in the technical details. It’s not whether you say that your bread dough rests, or uses an autolyze. Rather, listen to your gut. Go for the big questions. Think hard. Act to take the moral high ground. We all deserve something better. Let’s hope soon to break bread together, in peace and safety, with emotional, deep discussions.

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.

Mortality learning series

Or Shalom Synagogue is launching Awakening to Mortality, a new learning and community series that invites open, thoughtful Jewish conversations about death, aging and what it means to live fully.

The series is offered in celebration of OSACK – the Or Shalom Auxiliary Chevra Kadisha – which was established in 2025 to serve community members who are not eligible for burial preparation through the community Chevra Kadisha administered by the Schara Tzedeck Cemetery Board, including Jews of patrilineal descent, transgender members, and others. OSACK volunteers are trained to work in partnership with a funeral services provider to offer tahara (ritual preparation of the body) and other sacred end-of-life practices grounded in Jewish tradition.

Drawing on Jewish text, ritual, reflection and creativity, Awakening to Mortality approaches death not with fear, but with curiosity, compassion and spiritual awakening. The series includes two four-week Virtual Zusia programs and a monthly in-person gathering called MortaliTea, all open to the wider community.

Highlights include an exploration of teshuvah (return and repentance) with Rabbi Daniel Siegel; teachings on aging, elderhood and wisdom with Ralph Benmergui; learning about Chevra Kadisha practices and the sacred care of the body after death; Jewish ways of supporting mourners, including shiva (seven-day period of mourning), shloshim (30-day mourning period) and the mitzvah of nichum aveilim (comforting mourners); and writing as spiritual preparation, including crafting a Heart Will® with Willow End of Year Education.

A Heart Will® is a guided reflective process and written document that allows a person to articulate what matters most to them – their values, love, wisdom, memories and hopes for those they leave behind. Unlike a legal will, which focuses on assets and logistics, a Heart Will® centres meaning, relationships and spiritual legacy.

Siegel reflected on why this learning matters: “We find God not in the trauma, but in the ways we care for each other.”

Through these educational offerings, Or Shalom hopes to help participants live more intentionally, love more generously and meet each day as a gift.

Programs run from January through April, with more offerings to follow. Registration details are available through Or Shalom’s website, orshalom.ca, or by emailing [email protected].

– Courtesy Or Shalom

Camper to counselor

The writer as a kid at Camp Shalom with the camp’s director, Ben Horev. (photo from Uriel Presman Chikiar)

I was 9 years old when I first arrived at Camp Shalom. My family had recently immigrated from Argentina, and we were settling into Vancouver. I barely spoke English. When my parents told me they were sending me to summer camp, I panicked. I imagined feeling out of place and not understanding anyone around me. That fear did not last long.

From the minute I stepped onto the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver grounds, I was met with warmth. Counselors welcomed me by name and made it feel as though I already been to camp. Ben Horev, the camp director, greeted every camper as they arrived. The way he spoke to each person made it clear that everyone mattered.

What stayed with me most from that first day was not an activity or a game. It was the first friend I made. I remember standing off to the side, unsure of what to do, when another camper walked over and introduced himself. We decided to stick together for the rest of the day. We tossed a ball back and forth, spoke in short, hesitant sentences, and laughed when my vocabulary failed me. That small moment of inclusion changed everything. Camp suddenly felt manageable. I learned that camp was not defined by its schedule or programming, but by the people who made sure no one felt like a stranger.

Over the next few summers, Camp Shalom became an important part of my life. I formed friendships that lasted well beyond childhood and learned skills that still shape who I am today. I learned how to play Magic: The Gathering with friends I’ve kept in touch with. I discovered a love for camping through pitching tents, building fires and spending time outdoors. To this day, camping remains one of my favourite ways to spend time outside.

By the time I became old enough to be a counselor-in-training, returning to camp felt natural. The counselors I had looked up to as a camper led with care, energy and intention, and their impact stayed with me. I wanted to be that person for someone else. I wanted to help create the same sense of belonging that had meant so much to me.

My first summer as a counselor was unforgettable. Being part of a community that had played such a formative role in my childhood felt meaningful in new ways. I enjoyed leading programs, sharing activities I had grown up with, and helping campers feel comfortable in a new environment. One of the most meaningful experiences was working alongside my former counselors: being treated as a colleague marked a full-circle moment.

As a camper, my role was simple. As a counselor, I was responsible for the safety, well-being and emotional experience of those in my care. I had to learn how to manage different personalities, resolve conflicts and stay calm in unpredictable situations. It was a challenge, but it pushed me to grow.

One night, during an overnight camping trip, we heard a loud noise outside and feared it was a bear. The campers were scared and, honestly, so was I. We gathered together and began singing our Shira circle songs, the same ones we sing every morning. We sang our hearts out to make noise, to scare the bear, and to remind everyone that we were safe. That moment has stayed with me. I learned that leadership is not about pretending fear does not exist; it is about helping others feel steady in uncertain moments.

Over time, I noticed changes at Camp Shalom. New staff brought fresh ideas, and campers arrived with different needs, especially in the years following COVID-19. Still, the core of the camp never changed. Respect, responsibility and community showed up in small, everyday ways, like leaving a campsite cleaner than we found it or making sure no one was left sitting alone.

Those habits have shaped how I understand tikkun olam and chesed. Repairing the world doesn’t mean grand gestures; it means taking responsibility for the space and the people around you. Kindness is not abstract either; it is patience, inclusion and showing up for someone who needed it. These lessons were reinforced every Friday, when everyone came together for Shabbat. They continue to guide how I try to show up for others.

Looking back, Camp Shalom is not just a place I attended as a child. It is part of who I am. It was where I found belonging in a new country, built lasting friendships and learned the values that continue to guide me. Although I am no longer a counselor, I hope that, even in some small way, today’s campers feel what I felt when I first arrived: safe, supported and welcome.

Uriel Presman Chikiar is a student at Queen’s University and serves as executive vice-president of external relations at Hillel Queen’s.

The complexities of identity

More than 16 years ago, I was accepted into a master class for writing fiction with a well-known regional author at a university near me in Kentucky. I’d written lots of non-fiction and dabbled in fiction. I thought this would be a good opportunity. Shortly after arrival, I realized that this was a fiction class that specialized in Appalachian themes. Although I was from Virginia, my background wasn’t Appalachian. I felt like an outsider. I was also the only Jewish person there. As things progressed, the author suggested we should always “write what we know!” He talked a lot. The class was a lot drier than I’d hoped.

When it was time for short writing exercises based on prompts, I let loose. I purposely wrote to fit in, creating a vignette around church. When it came time to read these pieces, everyone nodded along with my church scenario – I was fitting in, but only because I was purposely faking it. First, I’d proved to myself that “write what you know” wasn’t always necessary, because, of course, famous fantasy or science fiction authors don’t truly know the alternate worlds they dream up. Even fiction authors don’t always know how to do everything they describe in their imaginary worlds. Second, I’d faked being part of the majority religious culture and those classmates bought it.

In the afternoon, it was time to workshop pieces we’d submitted earlier. I’d submitted writing that had been favourably reviewed elsewhere. I felt somewhat confident. However, the workshop’s approach was to criticize without complimenting – and many comments didn’t even seem relevant to what I’d written. When I tried to respond, I was shushed and told I must not know how these kinds of workshops worked. Responding was bad form. I was meant to be “shamed” without recourse. I felt vulnerable and took their unhelpful comments to heart, forgetting that I’d been part of different yet successful writing workshops long before, as a teen at the University of Virginia. The day dragged on. I noted the famed author’s agitation and cigarette smoking at the breaks. I wasn’t having a great learning experience.

I returned home to spend the evening with my husband and my father-in-law, who was visiting from New York. They’d just heard of the sudden death of a close family friend in a skiing accident. I devoted my evening to them and realized that skipping day two of this workshop to be with family was more important. I sent regrets to the famous author’s class, but I mostly felt relief.

Later, I learned that the famous author, whose work was described as traditional, heterosexual rural Kentucky, and who had a wife and small kids, was going through a divorce at the time of the workshop. Later, he became happily married to a man. I wondered again about the “write what you know” and “represent your identity” advice.

This all came to mind when I recently read obituaries of Tom Stoppard and Frank Gehry. Stoppard, a great Czech/British playwright, only addressed his Jewish heritage later in life, when he learned more about what had happened to his family during the Holocaust. Gehry, born to a Polish-Jewish immigrant family in Toronto, heard Talmud from his grandfather as a child. Although Gehry claimed he was an atheist, he attributed his questioning and creativity to the rich encouragement of his childhood. Gehry changed his name from Goldberg to Gehry at the urging of his first wife, who wanted to avoid antisemitism.

I gained access to this fuller description of these creative figures not from a single write-up but from several. If I’d relied on the CBC’s account of Gehry, I’d only have known about his Judaism from his name change and antisemitism concerns; CBC never used the word “Jew” or “Jewish.” The retrospectives on Stoppard’s work came from both the CBC and Jewish publications, but Stoppard’s last name came from a non-Jewish stepfather. That man wanted him to stop using the name Stoppard when his work became too “tribal” or Jewish for his stepfather’s taste.

Stoppard and Gehry were ethnically Jewish and had identity struggles. They and their families wrestled with who they were in a cultural climate that made it hard to be Jewish. I didn’t know either of these men or their families, but the public obituaries and descriptions brought into sharp focus that same feeling I’d had when I wrote about church activities from a first-person perspective.

I remember a family friend who changed his name to avoid quotas, to get into medical school more than 60 years ago. I’d hoped that this need for identity code-switching would no longer be so pressing when I moved to Winnipeg in 2009. For a time, this was true. I didn’t have to be so careful about saying who I was and what that meant. Now, after Oct. 7, this struggle has risen to the forefront again.

Since Oct. 7, 2023, we’ve faced options like whether to downplay our ethnoreligious identity, embrace it with joy and pride, perform it by speaking out against hate or by being a “good Jew” who doesn’t, the kind with whom many non-Jews feel most comfortable.

This isn’t an obvious choice. Many of us code-switch daily. It’s no different than what Jews did during the Hellenizing days leading up to the Maccabees and the Hanukkah story, or the days of the European Enlightenment, when Jews were finally considered “citizens” – up to 1933 or so.

There isn’t a “one size fits all” answer, nor is it clear that anyone would have the same answer for every situation. I often think back to that “famous author,” carefully performing as a heterosexual, married man and droning on as an expert. It may be that we’re all experts on our own identities, but it’s also necessary to name the experiences we have when we purposely or unconsciously obfuscate, struggle or react with pride when it comes to who we are.

Some parts of our identities loom large. Other aspects of who we are may lurk in the background most of the time. We cannot examine these issues until we think about them and name them. It’s easy to tell people to “write what they know.” It’s much harder to write who we are and what we don’t know, especially when it feels unsafe. Further, just like how Gehry and Stoppard’s names changed, we, too, evolve, morph and change over time, even if we don’t know how to describe it.

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.