Judaism – Page 13

The art of creating ketubot

Mordechai Edel beside the personalized ketubah he created for A.J. and Olena Steigman; A.J. is a chess champion and Olena is a classical pianist. (photo from Mordechai Edel)

Vancouver artist Mordechai Edel is one of a handful of people in Canada who make ketubot (singular: ketubah), the standard contract for traditional Jewish marriages, which have been used for millennia.

“I was trained as an impressionist artist, from which I developed the philosophic concept of ‘impression-mystic’ art,” Edel told the Independent. “Hopefully, this contributes in a small way to ‘marrying’ wedding contracts with art and harmonizing the opposites of heaven and earth, chiaroscuro [the use of strong contrasts of dark and light], fire and water.”

While the central theme of a ketubah is constant – an obligation on the part of the groom to provide for his bride – their designs can vary immensely, and each one designed by Edel tells, in its way, a separate story. He has been creating ketubot for 40 years.

“I often incorporate a stylized menorah symbol, which reflects the potential marriage of all humanity uniting together under G-d’s joyous chuppah canopy of shalom [peace and wholeness],” he said.

A kosher ketubah requires precision and documentation, especially regarding Hebrew names, marriage location and dates. Ketubot are usually written in Aramaic, in calligraphic style, and halachic (Jewish legal) requirements allow little room for embellishment.

“Not much fun there,” said Edel of the creative possibilities. “However, ‘the fun’ may begin with the surrounding artwork. That’s when personal requests start to kick in. I am often requested to incorporate ‘painted stories,’ illustrating romantic memories of how a couple first met.”

In the past several years, Edel has received numerous ketubah requests from local rabbis, including a “standard house model” developed with Rabbi Andrew Rosenblatt of Congregation Schara Tzedeck.

“Occasionally, some people do still enjoy elaborate weddings, which tend to generate requests for more personalized, sometimes eccentric artwork,” said Edel.

Depending on the couple’s budget, the creative detail of a personalized ketubah can vary substantially, from minimal artwork to the most elaborate designs, he said.

Edel can take several weeks to paint a personalized ketubah, although sometimes it can “just click” and he can finish one in two to three weeks. Ideally, couples planning on getting married would contact him as soon as possible, to give him as much time as possible.

Often, he said, the biggest challenge is to receive accurate place, name, date and time information. Sephardi ketubot do not permit any erasures, whereas Ashkenazi halachah (Jewish law) allows changes before the contract is signed and validated by two kosher witnesses, he explained.

Edel shared an experience that happened during a Sephardi wedding in the mid-2000s. He had painted a calla lily ketubah for a couple that had met in Acapulco, replete with a romantic sunset and a ship setting sail for Jerusalem in the background.

“Guess what? The night before the marriage, the rabbi checked the ketubah and there was one letter, ‘vov,’ missing in the Hebrew spelling of Vancouver. I was told it was invalid, it could not be rectified and was void,” Edel recalled.

The solution, Edel found, was to physically cut out the contract part, leaving the surrounding artwork, forming a window. He then spent the entire night rewriting the document, which he then inserted, forming a two-part ketubah.

“This negative-into-positive transformation has become a trademark blessing that I now incorporate into all commissioned ketubot,” said Edel. “And, in case of a last-minute error or wine spill, all ketubot come with a duplicate backup document.”

Along the way, Edel has received some unique ketubah requests. One couple, who had encountered a skunk on their first date in Stanley Park, asked that the scene be recreated in the marriage contract.

“I had difficulty finding a stinky model who would sit still,” Edel recalled. “That turned out to be a most scentimental ketubah.”

Another couple commissioned a grandiose, oil-on-canvas ketubah to fit over their fireplace. At the wedding ceremony, the three-foot-by-five-foot ketubah was carried into the sanctuary. The audience stood up and, according to Edel, let out an enormous communal “wow!”

Some of the more exceptional commissions Edel has seen have come from far afield. He recently completed a request that arrived “out of nowhere” from American businessman and professional chess player A.J. Steigman and his bride Olena, a classical pianist. They got married at the Western Wall (Kotel) in Israel and the ketubah features the groom (chatan) playing chess on a Vermeer-style chessboard with the bride (kalla) playing a Shostakovich concerto, all in the foreground of the Kotel.

Edel has also refurbished ketubot. In one instance, he was commissioned by the son-in-law of longstanding Schara Tzedeck members to “enhance” their original 1948 marriage certificate for their 50th anniversary. He created a ketubah “with memories of leaving the shtetl in sepia tones, transported into modern times via heaven’s kohanic [priestly] blessings, and embellished with a gorgeous bouquet of their favourite, fragrant rose flowers.”

One of Edel’s ketubot, “Le Picnique,” began as a painting commissioned by the late Joe and Rosalie Segal to be viewed by residents and staff at the Louis Brier Home and Hospital. “It later developed into a ketubah as a joyous tribute to this wonderful, caring couple,” said Edel.

Edel is grateful for the many blessings he has received in life, and gives special thanks to his wife, Annie, who helps design the ketubot.

“It is humbly interesting to note that the surname Edel means fine and noble, whereas a play on words of Mordechai suggests the French amour de chai or love of life,” Edel said. “It is this joyous love of life partnership that characterizes our ketubot and relationship between G-d, bride and groom and artist.”

For more information about Edel’s art and his ketubot, visit edelartworks.com.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Tri-Cities Chabad Siyyum Sefer Torah on March 10

Moshe Denburg, founder of the musical ensemble Tzimmes. (photo from Tzimmes)

Tzimmes will take part in the Siyyum Sefer Torah celebration of Tri-Cities Chabad, as the community marks the completion of a Sefer Torah on March 10, 2:30 p.m., at Old Orchard Hall in Port Moody.

Rabbi Mottel Gurevitz, the driving force behind this year-long project and the spiritual leader of Tri-Cities Chabad, expressed the significance of completing a Torah: “The completion of a Sefer Torah is a monumental occasion in the Jewish tradition. It represents the unity of our community, the passing on of our heritage to future generations and the commitment to our shared values. It is a symbol of strength, resilience and continuity.”

– information from Tri-Cities Chabad

Exploring Jamaica’s Jewish history

Congregation Sha’are Shalom in Kingston, Jamaica. (photo from Jamaica Tourist Board)

It was a muggy Friday afternoon just hours after my family and I had touched down in Jamaica for a two-week vacation, and the plan was to attend evening services at Kingston’s only synagogue, Congregation Sha’are Shalom. Too tired to argue, my kids and spouse changed clothes, we squashed six into the rental car and ventured into the city.

Though we knew the stately synagogue on Kingston’s Duke Street had been there since 1912, it still felt surprising to go inside and find eight members of the tribe leading a Shabbat service. The two-level synagogue is a magnificent piece of architecture, with a majestic, mahogany aron hakodesh filled with Torah scrolls from other Jamaican synagogues that closed or merged over the years. The ground floor is composed of sand, making this one of just five sand-floored synagogues worldwide. One story says the sand hearkens back to when Jews were worshipping in basements in Spain and Portugal, during the Inquisition, and sandy floors silenced their footsteps. Another legend says the sand is there as a reminder that we should multiply like sand on the seashore.

Sha’are Shalom has space for at least 300 congregants, but when we arrived, there were just the eight locals and the six of us. The deep, sonorous baritone of one member, who led the service from the mahogany bimah, filled the air with a spiritual melody and, above us, ceiling fans whirred, adding a reprieve to the humid evening. From the bimah, Stephen Henriques, the spiritual leader, spoke of the dispersal of Kingston’s Jewish community over the past four decades, adding that many of today’s members are interfaith. “Still, we are here, celebrating and living our Jewishness, as we have done for centuries,” he said.

We were warmly welcomed to the service, and happily joined in a kiddush of grape juice, challah and sweet Jamaican coco bread. I tried to imagine a time when the synagogue was brimming with Jews, its walls resonating with children’s laughter, congregants’ prayers and Jewish possibilities. There were times like this, but they happened many, many years ago.

Jamaica was occupied by the Spanish from 1494 until 1655. During that time, Jews from Spain and Portugal began trickling onto the island. With the Spanish Inquisition underway, those Jews became Marranos, practising their faith in secret. In 1655, when the British occupied Jamaica, Jews were able to practise their faith without secrecy, but they weren’t completely free from discrimination. Between 1690 and 1740, a “Jew Tax” was levied and only in 1831, the year of the largest slave rebellion in the country, were Jews allowed to vote and participate fully in public life.

photo - Jewish businessman George Stiebel (1821-1896) was Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, in 1881 — Jewish businessman George Stiebel (1821-1896) was Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. *(photo by CoCoLumps / wikimedia)*

Jews had been quietly involved for years before that, but they embraced this opportunity with gusto. By 1849, eight of the members of Jamaica’s House of Assembly were Jewish. George Stiebel, a Jewish businessman who made his fortune in gold mining in Venezuela, was the country’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. He built Devon House, one of the country’s flagship mansions and a national monument today.

We continued to nibble on coco bread in the Jewish Heritage Centre adjacent to the synagogue, wishing we had more time to peruse the walls, where there is lots of historical data on Jewish contributions to the island. It was dark by the time we left, so we didn’t have time to see the memorial garden, where tombstones dating back to the 18th century have been relocated.

A few days into our stay, we left Kingston for Ocho Rios and Montego Bay on the north coast. When the sun shone, we explored Jamaica’s beaches, relishing the feel of the warm water on our skin. When the rain came pouring down, we drove to neighbouring parishes to explore small towns.

One such drive took us to Falmouth, a small town whose poverty and neglect is loudly revealed in its deeply potholed roads and dilapidated homes and buildings. Coming, as we did, from an all-inclusive resort just 20 minutes away, the disparity between the two environments was glaring.

But it wasn’t always this way. The Jewish cemetery in Falmouth is filled with the graves of Jewish merchants who dominated the once-flourishing trade here in the 19th century. When I announced we were making a stop at the cemetery, there was a collective groan from the back of the car. “We went to synagogue – now we have to visit dead Jews?” my son asked. As my husband valiantly navigated through potholes the size of small swimming pools, I tried to explain how a cemetery could be a fascinating place to explore history.

Though we were probably only a stone’s throw away from the cemetery, we never made it. After one particularly large pothole, and another ahead that threatened to drown the rental car, a decision was made. “I love you, sweetheart, but I just don’t want to get stuck out here,” my husband declared.

I couldn’t blame him.

Drive around Jamaica and safety is not a feeling that comes easily. For one, the drivers overtake with such reckless disregard for life that road accidents always feel imminent. For another, the looks you get from some locals leave your Spidey sense tingling with fear. Leave the resorts and there are few warm welcomes from the community at large it seems, with the exception of those who have something to sell. Jamaica is known for its violence, with a rate of 52.9 homicides per 100,000 people, as compared to Canada’s, at 2.5.

We turned around and headed back to the resort, where staff sweep trash off the beach daily, and food and booze are readily available day and night. Moving between the pool and the ocean, it didn’t take long to relax. As the mojitos flowed, though, my mind kept returning to those tenacious Jews who arrived in Jamaica hundreds of years ago. They came with sand in their shoes and buckets of determination to pursue their religion and build success in a new land. I wondered what they’d say if they could see Jamaica today.

Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.

Knishes and relationships

My kids came home asking about knishes. Did I know how to make them? Where do we buy them? I thought this was weird. I asked for more information.

Their school resource teacher and International Baccalaureate coordinator, Ms. T, plays an important role in their lives. She does lunch time enrichment clubs, coaches sports, and her responsibilities include supporting kids with disabilities, and the IB program. When I say that I’m not sure how she does it all, one of my kids springs up out of his seat, showing how she crouches in front of a computer in one office, typing madly. Then he dashes across the kitchen to indicate her rush to the next office, to crouch at another desk. She is, simply, everywhere.

This is when I learned that Ms. T said knishes were not, in fact, everywhere. In Winnipeg, people buy these ethnic foods from synagogues who cater, a Jewish deli or bakery. Due to a strange confluence of events, two Winnipeg synagogues are under renovation currently and without their usual catering kitchens. Other sources for knishes apparently hadn’t worked out. As a result, one of our favourite teachers was bereft of knishes.

As a kid in Virginia, I experienced knishes in two ways: one involved a street cart vendor when visiting New York with family members. The other came from a frozen packet from a far away kosher grocery store in Maryland. I’d never made one at home. I’d never considered it. It wasn’t eaten frequently in my house. Winnipeggers eat them more often. Of course, since moving here, I have, too, but I don’t miss them when they aren’t around.

I was thinking about our relationships with knishes, teachers and community recently, when I took a class from My Jewish Learning on the Hadran prayer, taught by Rabbi Elliot Goldberg. What’s that? Funny you should ask. When a person finishes studying a tractate of Talmud, they recite this prayer. I’d never heard of it until I started studying Talmud daily. When we got to the end of the first tractate, I learned that, when one finishes this kind of thing, there is a siyyum, a celebration of one’s completion of study. I’d never heard of a siyyum as a kid at a Reform congregation. When I first attended one as an undergraduate, it seemed like something that I would never be involved in. I remember an awkward party at the Jewish Living Centre with stale cookies, juice and cheers about the gawky guy with glasses who had finished studying … I’m not sure what. In a siyyum, there’s food, there’s a public teaching of something you’ve learned, and the community cheers you on.

With the start of the pandemic, my own siyyum events have been online, usually through My Jewish Learning. There’s no food on Zoom, so that aspect of the celebration is muted, as is the cheering and crowd. Nonetheless, I have grown to love these events. It’s an hour that I pull out of my day at random, whenever it’s held online, and even during remote school or summer break or whatever, it’s “Mom’s siyyum time.” I’m learning with rabbis online via an iPad, even while making peanut butter sandwiches for lunch or hiding from the whole household to concentrate. It’s cerebral. It’s a shared learning community. It’s oddly emotional.

The first time I heard the Hadran prayer read, I cried. I found myself wondering what was wrong with me, but this class spelled out why it feels meaningful. The Hadran is usually said after studying a seder (order) of Mishnah or a tractate of the Babylonian Talmud, but sometimes it is said at a rabbinical school graduation, a Jewish high school graduation. It’s an acknowledgement. It starts with, “We will return to you, Tractate X (whatever tractate you’re studying), and you will return to us; our mind is on you, Tractate X, and your mind is on us; we will not forget you, Tractate X, and you will not forget us – not in this world and not in the next world.” The prayer goes on to talk about the blessing and value of studying Torah, and the hope that our descendants will have the same opportunities. It’s well worth a read. (Look up “Hadran” on sefaria.org.)

The entire text creates emotional ties and intellectual relationships. I’m connected to the mysterious 10 rabbis from long ago and to unknown great-grandchildren in this text. I’m connected to a cycle of learning and a return to sacred study. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and mindful that it takes work to study, even if it’s a holy endeavour. It’s a prayer that acknowledges that readers have relationships with texts, which mimics what I learned in graduate school about some literary theory, too. That long-ago English professor taught that, when we read novels or newspapers, our life experience, reading skills and emotions bring half of the meaning to the words in front of us. We’re in relationship with texts, just like we’re in relationships with our teachers and communities.

We had an afterschool Reach for the Top trivia tournament to attend with Ms. T. I knew what to do. I figured it out in advance. I made potato knishes. As we hopped out of our car, my twins recognized Ms. T’s bright blue Jeep. They rushed towards her, with carry-out containers full of potato knishes.

I joked, saying, “Who makes knishes?! They come from a cart in New York City!” With a sombre smile, she said, “My baba.” Her grandmother used to make her knishes. Oh. I gave a flip response, saying, “OK! I’ll be your baba now.” She put the knishes in the car and we went off to the three-hour tournament. Ms. T rushed out later. That night, she sent me an email of thanks, saying it made a delicious snack when she headed to her next meeting.

We’re in a cycle of relationships in life, with lots of connections. A siyyum is an opportunity for us to celebrate and acknowledge hard work with a closure ritual. The Hadran tells us that “we will return” to a beloved text or, perhaps, to a beloved teacher.

The trivia tournament might not be Talmud. The knishes aren’t always round, or even necessarily knishes, but the connections between text, teachers, generations of learning, eating and love are real and they’re part of making Jewish meaning, too. A siyyum’s ritual of completion is always linked to food and a sense that we’re part of a bigger family and cycle of life. We return to you – whether it’s a knish made with love or a tractate of Talmud.

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.

The choice to convert

Adam is one of the potential converts interviewed in the documentary Converts: The Journey of Becoming Jewish, directed by Rebecca Shore and Oren Rosenfeld, which is part of this year’s Vancouver Jewish Film Festival. (photo from convertsmovie.com)

A religion that encourages questions, one in which people can speak directly with God. A religion that’s thousands of years old, which so many have attempted to wipe out, yet still flourishes. A religion that’s intellectual and communal, which involves both the head and the heart.

photo - Dana — Danya *(photo from convertsmovie.com)*

These are just some of the aspects of Judaism highlighted in Converts: The Journey of Becoming Jewish, directed by Rebecca Shore and Oren Rosenfeld. The 70-minute documentary is part of this year’s Vancouver Jewish Film Festival, which runs April 4-14 in theatres and April 15-19 online.

Converts follows Adam, Danya and Bianka as they go through the conversion process. Each have their own reasons for wanting to become Jewish.

Adam, a student at York University when we meet him, grew up in a violence-filled neighbourhood in Toronto. His father used the family’s savings – that could have gone into moving the family elsewhere – to establish a church, which failed. Adam was attracted to Judaism because, unlike the Christianity he grew up with, Judaism gave him the space to ask questions and to speak with God directly, though giving up belief in Jesus was hard, he admits.

Danya, a businesswoman from Costa Rica, found out in high school that she has Spanish-Portuguese Jewish roots, that her ancestors were forced to convert to Catholicism from Judaism centuries ago. She feels that ancestral pull and uproots her life, traveling to Israel with her daughter in the hope of converting and living there.

photo - Bianka — Bianka *(photo from convertsmovie.com)*

Bianka, a PhD student in chemistry at the University of Warsaw, lives in Radom, Poland. She immerses herself in a few other religions before finding comfort in what she considers Judaism’s scientific approach, but also in the warmth of the Jewish community, which she discovers by attending synagogue and holiday events.

Well-constructed and well-paced, Converts is a fascinating look at identity, family, community, religion, the search for meaning and the possibilities of change and self-actualization.

For tickets to the film festival, visit vjff.org.

Small but staying visible

A new novel blurb for Tilda is Visible by Jane Tara just arrived in my email inbox. I haven’t read it yet, but its premise is familiar. Publisher’s Lunch describes it as a book “about a successful woman who wakes up one day to discover her ear is gone, the next day her nose; she is diagnosed with a condition whispered about around the globe – as some women age, they start to disappear; she finds a renegade doctor, other diagnosed women, as well as a blind man who might see her more clearly than anyone ever has.”

The plot reminded me of an anecdote I heard. Since a person in a position of authority at work must be impartial, any outward expressions of her Judaism or feelings about the war remain mostly off-limits as a “boss.” An admin assistant proudly hangs a Ukrainian flag, but an Israeli flag is out of bounds. The boss feels that the current situation and increasing antisemitism make her feel smaller. Her recent solution? She put up a piece of tape on her door with a handwritten number. She does this to recognize how long Israeli hostages have been held in Gaza. This idea, started by hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s mother, Rachel, helps people show a visible sign of concern about the hostages. It’s a small way to stay visible during a difficult time.

Older women often experience the feeling of becoming smaller. As women age, their earnings can decrease, despite job seniority or wisdom. If a woman doesn’t dye her hair or “keep up” appearances, others comment that she is “past her prime,” as if worth is only wrapped up in appearances or fertility. Despite recent legal or financial protections, many older women’s financial worth depends directly on a higher-earning male partner.

Many Jews describe a similar feeling of “becoming smaller” after Oct. 7. Politicians pair antisemitism and Islamophobia when discussing discrimination and hate, but the numbers aren’t equivalent. In Canada, the Jewish community is a minority and, in terms of population, substantially smaller than the Muslim community. Jewish community members describe choosing not to shop in areas where they used to feel safe or trying to avoid conflict in places where protests take place. Protesters may hold Jewish Canadians somehow responsible for the Gaza war.

There have always been security concerns, but now when a Jewish event happens, organizers include information about security provisions. We are a small group, forced by circumstance to become smaller to protect ourselves. Our worth and safety as citizens feels tied to the majority’s interest in keeping minorities from harm.

For some, it’s a new and restrictive feeling. However, social media clips of Israeli soldiers singing “Gesher Tzar Me’od” show that this isn’t new. These words, which come from Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, with music written by Ofra Haza, are “The whole world is a narrow bridge and the main thing is not to be at all afraid.”

Rabbi Nachman lived from 1772 to 1811 in Ukraine and founded the Breslov Hasids. He was the great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, who started Hasidism. During his lifetime, Rav Nachman traveled to Israel, moved within Ukraine, and struggled with tuberculosis. Although he died at age 38, his teachings remain vibrant. While this song is old, the message remains contemporary.

One way to understand the feeling of becoming smaller or narrower is to look at Jewish texts that embrace the concept. Psalm 118:5 says, “From the narrow place I called out to you [G-d], G-d answered me from a wide space.” Another translation ends, “the Lord answered me and brought me relief.” The word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, holds within it this idea of a “narrow space.” How eerie that soldiers, heading south into Gaza, towards Egypt, reminded themselves of this.

Continuing the metaphor, when leaving Egypt, Moses took the people into the wilderness, which is seen as a big, uncharted territory. Diving into the unknown is scary. New endeavours feel this way, whether it’s something dangerous like a war or something less worrying, like starting something new or entering an unfamiliar place.

We’re often encouraged that, if we dive in and move beyond our anxieties, we will have great opportunities ahead. Surely Rabbi Nachman’s efforts to help people seemed novel in his time. He taught through niggunim, wordless melodies. He encouraged his followers to embrace uninhibited prayer, personal conversations with the Divine, and to fulfil the mitzvah of always being joyful. To those who just go to services and follow along, or who don’t pray at all, it all might feel a little ecstatic and weird.

Yet, getting beyond a narrow place or being made to feel small can sometimes result in something bigger and better ahead. Whether you make yourself bigger through prayer, protest, quiet signals (like masking tape numbers), getting out into nature and the world or singing, you are finding a bigger space for yourself. When I simply take a walk with my dog and pause to see the prairie landscape, to greet neighbours and be greeted, I feel momentary narrow places dissipating. In contrast, when we think of the truly small spaces where Israeli hostages spend their time, our feelings of being diminished in the diaspora may not feel as pressing.

We choose to see others and be seen when we consider wider possibilities or the wilderness ahead. Being acknowledged and “seen” for our contributions helps everyone. It scares away our inhibitions to make it past the narrow spaces and into a better time. Right now, advocacy through law helps some fight hate and discrimination. Some, like the Israel Defence Forces, physically fight. Others might bide their time in scary, smaller spaces to get to a safer space, a place full of potential, ahead.

When we’re afraid, our breathing becomes shallow. We get less oxygen to our brain. We think less clearly. Rabbi Nachman and Ofra Haza may not have known the biology behind why singing would open up our souls. Surely, those deep singing breaths help us take on bigger, harder things. Those deep breaths, like experiencing the outdoors in nature, offer us more power to conquer our fears. When we sing out, we also become visible. Our voices, even as a minority in the diaspora, may be heard.

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.

2024 public speaking contest

The Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver’s Public Speaking Contest has been happening annually in Vancouver since 1989 and is open to students in grades 4 to 7. The registration deadline for this year’s event – which takes place March 7, 7 p.m., at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver – is Feb. 26.

For the contest, students are asked to prepare a speech of three minutes or less, choosing from a variety of topics connected to Judaism and Israel. Speeches are delivered on the evening of the contest in front of an audience, with two judges who assess the speeches based on content and presentation.

Prizes are awarded to the top three speeches in each age group. While there are winners in every section, participation is valued above everything else, and all participants receive a prize and a certificate.

Those students who are Hebrew-speaking or interested in the Hebrew language are encouraged to deliver their speech in Hebrew. Hebrew speeches have their own grouping and are judged on effort and content, not on their level of Hebrew fluency.

The contest is a great learning experience, good preparation for bar or bat mitzvah, and a skill increasingly needed in our present political climate. For a flavour of the contest, there is a film on YouTube, posted by Larry Barzelai, which was commissioned for the 13th anniversary of the contest in 2018. Barzelai established the contest in memory of his father, a few years after his brother established one in Hamilton, Ont. (See jewishindependent.ca/young-speakers-deliver.)

The topics for the Public Speaking Contest are:

1. Talk about one person from either Tanach or the Talmud and highlight one important life lesson we can learn from them.

2. What makes a piece of art or music Jewish? Is it Jewish just because the person who created it is Jewish or does it have to have something Jewish embedded into it (i.e. a Jewish symbol, tradition or value)?

3. If you were to create a TikTok highlighting the Vancouver Jewish community what would it be about?

4. There are many different ways for Israelis to serve their country. Select one way Israelis do this and discuss why it is important to the country.

5. What is in a name? Talk about your name, what it means and why your parents chose that name.

6. We all have experience where we are the only or one of the only Jewish people. Talk about what it is like to be the only or one of the only Jews in your school, in one of your afterschool activities or at camp.

7. You are planning a trip to Israel. Name one place in Israel that you would like to visit and explain why you would like to visit that place.

8. Rambam (Maimonides), in his eight levels of tzedakah, says the highest form of giving is to enable someone to support themselves. Why do you think this is the highest form of tzedakah?

9. We have a continuing concern about climate change and the environment. What does the Torah say about caring for the land and how can we integrate Jewish values with environmental protection?

10. Topic of your choice.

For more information about the contest, contact Lissa Weinberger at lweinberger@jewishvancouver.com. To register, visit jewishvancouver.com/psc2024.

– From jewishvancouver.com

Pride in being “just a Jew”

There is an age-old question that frequently nags at us along our journey of life: “Who am I?” I’ve struggled with it, and perhaps you have as well. When you ask yourself “Who am I?” you probably start by listing superficial things about yourself. In my case, I’m from Argentina, I play music, and people say I have a great sense of humour. Even though I always knew who I was on the surface, a deeper layer eluded me. There is still more to learn about myself.

When I was young, well, younger than now, I constantly pressed my father with the similar question that was scrambling in my head: “Who are we?” I was trying to find a simple way to get my answer, to avoid spending my own time navigating the question so I could do something (seemingly) more productive, like playing video games. I figured that, by asking my dad, I may very well be who he is, given I’m his son, an extension of him, in many ways. But, every time, my father would reply in the same cryptic way and always with a smile on his face: “Son, we are Jews.”

I was never quite able to comprehend why he couldn’t just give me a plain answer, rather than that infuriating, puzzling and annoying explanation. I was not going to give up and, with my insistent character, I continued asking. I posed the question from different angles, wanting him to elaborate, but he would just say, “Uriel, it’s simple. We are Jews. You and I are solely Jews.”

When my dad couldn’t satisfy my curiosity, I turned to my school’s rabbi, Rabbi Stephen Berger. When I asked Rabbi Berger, his answer was just as confusing and mysterious. He kindly stated that he could not provide me with the answers I sought; I had to embark on this road of self-discovery myself, with the help of my loved ones. Then, about halfway through the year, he introduced me to StandWithUs Canada, an organization that would help me better understand who I was by putting me in touch with other Jewish teenagers from around the world.

I now realize why I couldn’t access a fast-food solution to a philosophical question. I finally found the answer I’d been seeking.

Last August, as I joined 190 of my peers from high schools throughout the United States and Canada at the StandWithUs conference in Los Angeles, I found myself on a path leading to enlightenment that has reshaped my understanding of Jewish identity. The sessions were informative and interesting, but it was when we reached the segment focusing on what Jews were before the dark chapters of persecution during the Holocaust – they were highly contributing members of society, and more – that everything started to click.

A single statement truly hit home: Jews have been forcibly expelled from about 109 countries throughout history. It was a stark reminder that, regardless of our accomplishments and contributions, we would always be seen as “Just a Jew.” It became clear that the essence of being Jewish transcended any specific occupation or societal role. We are a resilient and diverse community with a history of triumphs and tragedies.

This knowledge instilled a sense of pride in my identity, not as a limitation but as a source of strength and unity. Thanks to StandWithUs Canada, I learned that, at the end of the day, embracing who we are, with all our complexities and contributions, is a powerful testament to the enduring spirit of the Jewish people. I felt a sense of pride but a pride that could be taken away from me at any moment. This is when I decided to become a more invested member of the community by being on the board of NCSY, the Orthodox Union’s youth group.

Talking to politicians and people who can truly make a difference became an essential component of my advocacy. I understood how dialogue and education could change people’s perspectives.

My aim in sharing the history of the Jewish expulsions and the resilient spirit of our community is to raise awareness and foster understanding. My tool against bigotry and ignorance is teaching. I am committed, every day, to teaching people about the rich history of the Jewish people.

Uriel Presman Chikiar is in Grade 12 at King David High School and is a board member of NCSY.

Most magical place on earth

Mairav Robens-Paradise, right, has found her community, and so much more, at Camp Miriam. Her closest, deepest relationships are the friendships she has made through camp. (photo from Camp Miriam)

Last summer was my 11th year at Camp Miriam. Even before my first year, in 2012, I dreamed about sneaking onto the school bus parked in the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver parking lot as we dropped off my older brothers to go to what I understood to be the most magical place on earth. Over a decade later, I can confidently say that description is an understatement.

I grew up attending public school, where my siblings and I made up the majority of the Jewish population. I don’t recall my immense excitement to go to camp being consciously related to my Judaism, but unbeknownst to 8-year-old me, it would forever alter my connection to my sense of self and my community. Camp Miriam fostered the environment that allowed me to grow into my Jewish identity. At camp, you are surrounded with people who all relate to their Judaism in different ways, both culturally and religiously, and are given the tools and safety to form that unique, personal relationship.

I am currently in my second year of university at McGill, in Montreal, living with two friends from camp. It has been incredibly important to me to have a Jewish community nearby, especially over the past several months, and my roommates are just a fraction of the connections Camp Miriam has given me.

The strength of the friendships I have made over my years of involvement with the camp overpowers any other facet of my life. The values we learn, the skills we practise and the tools we gain at camp equip us to manage complex interpersonal relationships, resolve conflicts and gain independence. Whether it’s learning how to tie knots for camping, defusing relational tensions or discussing social justice, chanichimot (campers) and madrichimot (counselors) alike do so in a secure and empowering environment. Now, as a student who lives away from home, Camp Miriam and its extensive community keep me tethered and grounded to my Judaism and my personal values.

Camp Miriam’s unique structure as a youth-led camp provides empowerment to its entire community. Over the last two years working as a madricha (counselor), I have been trusted with a multitude of responsibilities. Last summer, I had a tafkid (role) that consisted of organizing the programming that occurs during Shabbat. Some of our traditions every Friday include everyone dressing in their nicest clothes and competing for the cleanest cabin award. These small but significant means of welcoming in Shabbat in fun ways foster an exploratory environment for kids to form their connections to Judaism at their own pace.

As a kid, my favourite part of Shabbat was rikud (dance), when all of camp gathers for Israeli dancing. Now, as a madricha, my favourite part is Havdalah, which is a ceremony held every Saturday night to signify the end of Shabbat. Last summer, we introduced live music to our Havdalah tradition, which we listen to while everyone is gathered in a circle watching the ceremonial candle burn. These shared moments all contribute to creating an incredibly strong community of Jewish youth.

As I’m writing this article, I’m sitting in the living room of a member of my national kvutzah (age group/cohort), surrounded by the company of 18 other Jewish members of Habonim Dror North America, the larger movement that Camp Miriam is a part of. This experience really encapsulates what Camp Miriam has given me as a Jew. The closest, deepest relationships I have are the friendships I have made through camp. It’s just not about making friends, learning and forming your identity, but also about finding your community. As I look around, I come to realize – I owe a lot to Camp Miriam.

Mairav Robens-Paradise is a second-year student at McGill University in Montreal. Last summer was her 11th year at Camp Miriam.

Three essential life lessons

Time at summer camp is an incredible gift to give kids and teens. (photo from Camp Kalsman)

In a world where children and teens are met with a barrage of external pressures telling them who they should idolize, what they should wear and how they should spend their time, summer camps provide a respite. As much as I try to help my three kids build resilience and a strong moral compass, I know that, as soon as they walk out the door, it can be an uphill battle every day of the school year.

As parents, we need more places outside of our home where our kids and teens can feel at home while they can practise the critical thinking, self-awareness and problem-solving skills we all know are so essential. This is why I love summer camp for my kids – and I’m not just saying that because I’m the director of a summer camp! Ask anyone who grew up at an overnight summer camp and most will tell you that camp was where they felt most comfortable in their own skin, where they were celebrated for exactly who they were, and where they learned many of the lessons that have stuck with them throughout their adult life.

Here are the top three life lessons that kids and teens can take away from summer camp.

1. Find your people

Each summer, kids arrive at camp with a ton of baggage and it’s not just in the form of trunks and duffels and sleeping bags. The beauty of summer camp is that campers can shed that layer (or layers) of themselves that build up over the course of the year and spend time exploring who they are, what brings them joy, who brings out the best in them … without the pressures of school peers who “know them.”

photo - The beauty of summer camp is that campers can shed that layer (or layers) of themselves that build up over the course of the year and spend time exploring who they are, what brings them joy — The beauty of summer camp is that campers can shed that layer (or layers) of themselves that build up over the course of the year and spend time exploring who they are, what brings them joy. (photo from Camp Kalsman)

Spending time in an immersive environment like overnight camp enables kids and teens to be vulnerable with their peers in a safe and supported way; eventually worrying less about how they “should be” and feeling more comfortable and confident in who they are. It’s in this state of self-confidence – nurtured by kind, compassionate counselors – that campers are able to find “their people” who “just get them,” reinforcing what we at URJ Camp Kalsman (and every other overnight summer camp!) have known for years: camp friends are the best friends.

2. Be still, present, open

Camp creates an environment that is ripe for self-awareness, self-discovery and meaningful connections away from the pressures of school, sports and, yes, well-meaning adults at home. Without a message to respond to or an assignment to complete, kids and teens are presented with … time. Not the time filled with camp activities (although there is plenty of that, too) but those significant, intentional moments where nothing is planned … the 15 minutes of serenity in the canoe in the middle of the lake or the walk, together with a friend from the cabin, to the dining hall under a canopy of trees, or the silence after hours of belly-laughter, staring up at the stars surrounded by cabinmates. The stillness of those moments, which are so hard to come by when we are shuffling kids to and from school and activities, are priceless and are built into the fabric of summer camp.

photo - Camp creates an environment that is ripe for self-awareness, self-discovery and meaningful connections — Camp creates an environment that is ripe for self-awareness, self-discovery and meaningful connections. *(photo from Camp Kalsman)*

3. Don’t run from mistakes

As parents, we want our kids to be gritty – to be able to take responsibility for a mistake and bounce back, whether from making a poor choice, disappointing a friend, failing a test, or not being cast in the school play. At camp, mistakes and failure happen every day, and kids must live with it – there is no escape, they can’t hide in their rooms alone or take the long way to class to avoid a friend. Camp is a 24/7 living and learning experience, where campers are supported and guided through conflict and failure, whether it is not making it to the top of the tower or tension with a bunkmate. Mistakes happen, we fall short of expectations, and camp provides the structure to help kids recognize where they missed the mark and the opportunity to try again tomorrow – or in 15 minutes!

Time at summer camp is an incredible gift to give kids and teens – one that they will benefit from long into adulthood.

Rabbi Ilana Mills is camp director, URJ Camp Kalsman. If you are interested in learning more about URJ Camp Kalsman, visit campkalsman.org or contact Mills at imills@urj.org.