Judaism – Page 2

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.

Music can comfort us

On Dec. 3, in the second webinar of Kolot Mayim Reform Temple’s 2025/26 Building Bridges Lecture Series, Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz guided an interactive examination of the potential to harness the power of music, especially that which provides solace, be it secular or liturgical.

Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz, director of prayer and music at the Hadar Institute in New York. (photo from Hadar Institute)

The director of tefillah (prayer) and music at the Hadar Institute, an educational organization in New York City, Sacks Mintz showed how, through text study, deep listening and participation, comfort (or anchor) songs can ignite creativity and provide strength, resilience and hope in an individual – and also serve communities in times of disruption.

“Tumultuous times are unfortunately nothing new. Times have been tumultuous since the dawn of humanity. And, also since the dawn of humanity, folks have drawn comfort from a variety of modalities,” she said, emphasizing that one of those modalities is communal song.

The talk began with a listening and reflection exercise around the question of comfort. Before playing a version of Hashiveinu, performed by Sacks Mintz and members of the Nigun Circle at Hadar, she asked participants to write down something that gives them comfort. The answers were varied and dynamic, ranging from prayer, food and song to family, friends and nature.

The role of comfort music in Jewish text was explored, starting with 1 Samuel: “So, it came about whenever the [evil] spirit from God came to Saul, David would take the harp and play it with his hand, and Saul would be refreshed/re-expanded, and be well, and the evil spirit would depart from him.”

Some in the Zoom audience described what happened in this passage as a possible early form of music therapy, bringing Saul healing and comfort.

Moving ahead several centuries, Sacks Mintz quoted Rabbi Nachman of Breslov’s encouragement for all to sing a niggun (wordless melody, often used in prayer): “It is good for a person to accustom oneself to reviving oneself with a niggun, because niggun is a powerful and mighty tool, and it has the great strength to awaken a person and point their heart towards the Blessed Name.”

Nachman called everyone to music, even those who could not play an instrument or were able to sing, said Sacks Mintz, for music has the power to revive the self, “for the lift of a niggun cannot be measured.”

She explained, “[He’s] not saying, wow, you should become a pro jazz musician and an amazing singer, and then you too can be sustained by song. You just have to be willing to engage in it on your own, and that can revive the self. It’s about being in a relationship with your internal world.”

Sacks Mintz shared two different pieces from the Jewish canon that comfort her, while asking the audience to reflect and unpack what might be core elements in the language of comfort they offer. She also asked the audience to consider what constitutes a comfort song for them.

One piece was by Rabbi Menachem Goldberger, a prolific composer of niggunim. It was an example of the various feelings one can experience in a piece of music. Reactions ran the gamut from feeling rejuvenated and uplifted to grounded and anchored. Similar feelings were expressed after “Mi Yiten Li Ever,” a song based on Psalm 55:7 by Rabbi Miriam Margles and the Hadar Ensemble, was played. The translation on its Bandcamp page reads: “Who will give me the wings of a dove, that I might fly away and find rest? I would flee to the wilderness; finding refuge from the tempest, from the sweeping wind.”

As well as being a facilitator of Jewish communal music, Sacks Mintz is a vocalist and multi-instrumentalist. As a performer and composer, she has collaborated on more than two dozen albums across the Jewish soundscape, including her original spiritual works The Narrow and the Expanse (2020) and Yetzira (2023), with Rising Song Records. A third album is expected in early 2026.

Sacks Mintz received rabbinic ordination from the Jewish Theological Seminary, holds a master’s degree in women’s and gender studies, and earned degrees in music and religious anthropology from the University of Michigan.

Founded in 2006, the Hadar Institute strives to build communities in North America and Israel, offering various programs to support the development of Judaism that is both traditional and egalitarian.

The next lecture in the Kolot Mayim series will feature Broadway historian and lecturer David Benkof on Jan. 11 at 11 a.m. Benkof will deliver his talk – Spotlight on Jewish Broadway with the Broadway Maven – in Victoria in person and on Zoom. For information, visit kolotmayimreformtemple.com.

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

The value(s) of Jewish camp

Summer camp experiences, which encompass a range of activities campers get to try, can be costly. (photo from Camp Hatikvah)

If you get sticker shock when you see the cost of Jewish summer camp, you’re not alone. Pay full fare and you could easily be spending $1,000 per week. But there’s a reason it’s so high, say camp directors. Running a Jewish camp is an expensive endeavour – and it’s not getting any cheaper.

For Camp Hatikvah, which welcomes 480 summer campers to the Okanagan each year and a staff of 90, the biggest chunk of its operating budget – just over $2 million in 2024 – is salaries and honorariums. Only two staff members have year-round employment and the rest serve only in seasonal roles, said Liza Rozen-Delman, executive director. Food is the next largest expense, followed by costs related to site operations. And the general program experiences, which encompass the range of activities campers get to try, don’t come cheap either. Hatikvah campers get to waterski and wakeboard, and have access to an inflatable thunderdome on the lake, among other experiences. Now add the cost of insurance to the equation.

“Camper fees cover the direct costs of care, supervision, food and other daily needs, but donors fund all capital projects, major equipment purchases and our financial assistance program,” she said. “Camp could never break even on fees alone. We rely on our donors to help offset operational costs by funding anything considered an investment that lasts beyond a single summer.”

The biggest challenge facing Jewish camps across North America is maintaining affordability for middle-income families, Rozen-Delman said. “All camps, including ours, have wonderful financial assistance programs for those in clear need. What is harder to manage is families who earn higher incomes but struggle to balance the high cost of living an engaged Jewish life.”

Hatikvah tries to manage this by setting its camp fees as low as possible and requesting donations from those who can donate. “We’re fortunate to have donors who understand the immense importance of a Jewish camping experience,” she said.

The same is true for other camps.

“Camp tuition doesn’t cover the cost of operating Camp Miriam and, as expenses continue to rise, that gap only widens,” said Leya Robinson, Miriam’s community director, who noted that no camper is turned away due to lack of funds and about 40% of campers receive a scholarship each summer.

“We rely heavily on donors and grants not only to uphold this commitment but also to cover essential camp operating costs,” said Robinson. “Operating costs include salaries, staff training and benefits, food services, facility maintenance, utilities, insurance, programming, transportation, property taxes, equipment, medical supplies, annual organizational dues and fees, and security.” She added that the camp, which is located on Gabriola Island, is in the midst of a capital campaign “to upgrade our physical facilities so we can continue delivering the ‘Miriam magic’ for generations to come.”

Camp Miriam has more than 350 campers each summer and 85 summer staff. Throughout the year, they have three full-time and three part-time staff.

In Washington State, Camp Solomon Schechter welcomes 630 campers over the course of a summer, and has a staff of 80 to 100.

“Tuition covers only 80% of our operating costs, so we rely on the community to help us with donations, and on our diversifying revenue stream, which includes an outdoor school and a retreat centre available for rent,” said Zach Duitch, executive director.

Schechter is a kosher camp, and kosher food, especially meat, chicken and cheese, are much more expensive than their non-kosher equivalents. The cost of taking care of 100 staff is high, and running high-quality programs infused with Jewish values and themes requires significant funds, too. Up to 30% of camp staff comes from Israel, South America and the United Kingdom. “We love that delegation and we can’t run the camp without them, but, between agency fees, flights and visas, the costs add up,” Duitch said.

photo - Camp Solomon Schechter kids with Israeli flag and faceprint

The camp experience helps Jewish youth develop lifelong friendships, connect to Israel and have a strong Jewish identity. (photos from Camp Solomon Schechter)

Programming fees are expensive, too. “Today’s parents want and expect their kids to develop new skills at camp, and that demands staff and supplies,” he said. “It’s not enough to play gaga or kick a soccer ball around for three weeks. They want a new toolkit and to know their kids are advancing their skills in terms of tefillah [prayer], sports, arts, cooking and everything we do at camp.”

Like Rozen-Delman, Duitch emphasized the quandary of camp fees for middle-class families. “Affluent families can afford to send their kids to camp. About 25% of our camper base requests some level of financial aid,” he said. “The trickiest part is for middle-class families that want to send their kids to camp. Maybe they need to put a new roof on their house, and that takes priority. How do we make sure all families can come to camp? We know how essential the camp experience is in terms of developing lifelong friendships, connecting to Israel and fomenting a strong Jewish identity.”

Schechter’s annual operating budget is $5.5 million and, while the camp has figured out how to stay financially solvent, it can get challenging when donors drop the size of their gift, or if the camp doesn’t meet its campership goals. “We’re creative and, if we have to pivot, we certainly do,” Duitch said. “We need to focus on endowment, life or legacy gifts, because those can add thousands of dollars into your operations without touching the principal. Our goal is to grow our endowment to secure our programs and infuse cash into our operating budget.”

Consider this, said Stacy Shaikin, executive director of Camp BB Riback in Alberta. “We open six weeks ahead of summer camp, to ‘turn the machine on’ before the kids can come out. There’s an insane number of requirements – health, safety, certifications, and all that stuff has increased in price. We don’t just pay the counselors, we house and feed them. And, remember, nothing in the Jewish community comes cheap. You’re dealing with a market that is small and has ethnocentric needs, such as kashrut and special skills required for teaching. We bring in Israelis to add those cultural pieces to the experiences, and that comes at a cost, too.”

Camp BB Riback welcomes around 250 campers and 70 staff each summer, and its prices run at the lower end of the Jewish camp fee spectrum Canada-wide, said Shaikin. However, there are costs of running a Jewish summer camp that can’t be avoided.

“I have 40-plus buildings that use electricity, a boat that requires maintenance and fuel, a ropes course that has to be certified every year, a horse program and a swimming pool. Anyone that runs a swimming pool will tell you it’s a money pit,” Shaikin said. “And, every year that goes by, you have to think about renovations and replacements.”

He stressed, “I’m not complaining – I’m just offering insight into the business. We’re not-for-profit and our goal is to not lose money, but also to put something back into keeping our campsite up.”

Most of the nearby Jewish summer camps were established more than 70 years ago and maintenance costs run high – keeping the property competitive and its facilities clean, safe and up to code, means putting money back in every year.

So, as you start to consider a Jewish camp experience for your child, keep in mind the value being offered, as well as the values being imparted.

“We’re not making money at our Jewish camp. We’re literally just trying to keep the business afloat and out of debt, which is a struggle for not-for-profits,” Shaikin said. “We’re a community entity and we’re not gouging families in any shape or form. We take our responsibility seriously: to encourage people to send their kids to Jewish summer camp. If they do, then we will continue to have a flourishing Jewish identity in our province, our country and in the world.”

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

Chance led to great decision

The list of things that kids learn at summer camp, while having fun and making friends, is almost endless. (photo from Camp Miriam)

Serendipity led us to Camp Miriam. In the span of one week in the fall of 2017, two friends – who didn’t know each other at the time – asked where I was planning to send my then–7-year-old daughter to camp. I had been thinking about it but had no idea where to begin. Having not grown up in Vancouver, I didn’t know the options. Both friends spoke glowingly about Camp Miriam. One was an alum; the other had sent her older daughter.

Camp registration day was approaching, and both of my friends’ daughters were desperate to know who else would be going. I relied on those moms’ advice and, with their gentle prodding, made one of the best parenting decisions I’ve ever made. To this day, these moms remain among my most trusted friends.

That first summer, after the five-day introductory session for her age group at Camp Miriam, our daughter came down the steps at the ferry terminal looking exhausted but happy. She was holding hands with a new friend. She hugged her friend goodbye before she hugged us hello. In the car ride home, we asked her to tell us about camp.

“There was a big holiday and it was so much fun. Can I go to camp every year for that holiday?”

I pulled out my phone to Google Jewish holidays in July. There were a few obscure ones, but nothing that seemed worth traveling on three buses and two ferries to celebrate.

“Do you remember what holiday it was?” I asked.

“They called it Shabbat.”

My husband and I looked at each other.

“Shabbat happens every week – we celebrate Shabbat, too,” I started to explain. From the rearview mirror, I could see her face scrunch up.

“Well,” she said, “they celebrate it much better at camp.”

It turns out Shabbat isn’t the only thing they do better at Camp Miriam.

Recently, I asked my daughter what she loves most about camp. She mentioned a few specifics – tiyul (the overnight backpacking trip), rikud (the weekly Shabbat Israeli folk dance) – and then said something I wasn’t expecting, because it’s exactly the same thing I love most about Camp Miriam. She said her favourite thing is how much she learns there.

photo - two boys carrying a pail — *(photo from Camp Miriam)*

As she rattled off the list of topics – Israel, Jewish traditions, Hebrew, practical skills, responsibility – I realized how often I’m pleasantly surprised by what she has learned from camp. Things beyond the public school curriculum, and often beyond even my most patient and, dare I say, awesome parenting. Camp is both a safe space and a challenging one. At camp, my daughter has the opportunity to hone essential life skills: independence, resilience, teamwork, acceptance, adaptability. She has gained confidence, built friendships, appreciated the restorative power of nature, and enjoyed time away from screens. She has learned to paddle a kayak, varnish a wooden canoe, and passed the swim test doing the backstroke the year she forgot her goggles and decided the chlorine stung her eyes. She didn’t even know what varnish was before camp. And I didn’t know she could backstroke across an entire pool.

I’ve learned a lot, too.

The Camp Miriam registrar later told me I had been the stereotypical nervous mom. I would show up at information sessions full of concerns and fire endless questions at the staff. Eventually, she gently reminded me that my anxiety could rub off on my child. “We’ve got this,” she told me. Then, she gave me the most valuable advice of all: “Tell your kid that when they’re at camp, they should go to their counselors with their concerns and problems. That’s what they’re there for.” I can honestly say that in all the years she’s been at camp, the counselors have been there for her 100%. After a few years, I realized I should leave space at the information sessions for the new crop of nervous parents.

We’re now getting ready to send our daughter to Israel this summer with her Camp Miriam kvutzah (peer group). I’m no longer the nervous mom I was. Camp Miriam has helped me hone my own parenting skills. Even if a bit of nervousness still lingers – though I won’t admit it does – I’m mostly just thrilled for my daughter. I’m full of gratitude for the experiences camp has given her. I know this upcoming trip will be transformative, and that she’ll come back with greater insight, understanding and appreciation of Israel and Judaism. She will make friends from around the world and return home an even more confident, compassionate and resilient human being.

And, after the trip, when I pick her up at the airport, as she hugs her camp friends goodbye, I’ll be busy hugging my camp-mom friends hello.

Connecting Jews to Judaism

Chabad of Nanaimo’s annual Hanukkah menorah lighting gathering is one of its most publicly visible events. Last year, it was held in Maffeo Sutton Park. (© Norm Wolf)

When Rabbi Bentzi Shemtov and his wife Blumie established Chabad Nanaimo and Central Vancouver Island in 2015, there was no Orthodox organizational presence in Nanaimo. Their arrival ignited a spark of Yiddishkeit that has helped Jews in the area make a deeper connection to their Jewish roots.

Rabbi Shemtov’s path to the Island led him through various places. Growing up in Toledo, Ohio, he attended yeshivah in Detroit, studied in Israel for two years, spent time in Chicago, and then moved back to Detroit. Eventually, he ended up in New York, where he finished his rabbinical studies and married Blumie, who is the sister of Rabbi Meir Kaplan – Kaplan, with his wife Chanie, established Chabad of Vancouver Island in Victoria. Before the Shemtovs settled in Nanaimo, Rabbi Shemtov gained experience running services and teaching classes in places all over the world, including St. Thomas, Colombia, Moscow and Uruguay.

Chabad of Nanaimo and Central Vancouver Island was established with the encouragement of Rabbi Kaplan. Prior to 2015, Kaplan would travel from Victoria to Nanaimo and the Cowichan Valley (Ladysmith, Parksville, Qualicum Beach) on Sukkot with the Sukkah Mobile and for the public lighting of a Hanukkah menorah in Nanaimo. On these journeys, he would speak to Jews residing in these areas, and he saw the need for a Chabad House in the region.

“Rabbi Kaplan called me up and told me that he was visiting Nanaimo for 10 years and he was doing a menorah lighting and the population was growing and he was getting requests for more Yiddishkeit here and asked if I could check it out,” Shemtov told the Independent. So, they came to Victoria for Pesach and spent it with the Kaplans. “And then, after Pesach, we came up here to visit with some of the families and then we decided to move here,” he said.

photo - Rabbi Bentzi Shemtov at Chabad Nanaimo and Central Vancouver Island, which he and his wife Blumie established in 2015 — Rabbi Bentzi Shemtov at Chabad Nanaimo and Central Vancouver Island, which he and his wife Blumie established in 2015. *(photo by David J. Litvak)*

Shemtov said he thought Nanaimo was a beautiful place and, by being there, he and his wife could serve a need in the community, though he admits they didn’t really know how many Jews resided in the area at the time.

“We did a women’s circle a couple of weeks later and there were about 28 women who came, many who may have met before but didn’t realize they had common Jewish ancestry,” he said.

Events and classes have been added over time. Today, Chabad of Nanaimo offers programming both at and away from its physical space. It commemorates all the Jewish holidays, offers weekly Shabbat services, has a Hebrew school that meets twice a month, a teen event that’s held twice a month, a camp in the summer, a Jewish woman’s circle and weekly classes for adults. The best-attended events, according to Shemtov, are holiday-related, including Rosh Hashanah and Passover dinners, the Megillah readings on Purim, Shavuot services, and the Hanukkah gathering. For special events, Jews come from all over Vancouver Island and the surrounding area, including Cormorant, Hornby and Galiano islands.

According to Shemtov, Chabad of Nanaimo is strategically located in northern Nanaimo and not downtown.

“We wanted to be as close as possible to the northern communities of Lantzville, Nanoose Bay, Parksville and Qualicum Beach because a lot of retired Jews live there and north Nanaimo is right in the middle.”

There are a lot of young families, as well, who don’t live in the downtown core, or even the city, he said.

Chabad is not the only Jewish organization in town. The Central Vancouver Island Jewish Community Society preceded them, and they still hold monthly discussions and a yearly Hanukkah party. The society was founded by Dr. Phillip Lipsey, a Montrealer who moved to Parksville, and Arlene Ackerman, a former Torontonian.

“They have been here for a long time and have kept the Jewish community here together … because they wanted to make sure there was a Jewish community for the kids growing up here,” said Shemtov.

While the two groups serve different constituencies, Shemtov said, “There is overlap between our two groups and I have a great relationship with the organizers, and I learn every week with them.”

The presence of Chabad, though, has helped Jews in the region deepen their connection to Judaism, with some community members now lighting Shabbat candles regularly, keeping kosher, attending Shabbat and holiday services, and planning lifecycle events like bar mitzvahs for their children. The synagogue’s first bar mitzvah will take place Dec. 6.

One older member of the community was even inspired to have a brit milah (circumcision) later in life after connecting with Chabad of Nanaimo, said the rabbi. Another member, who attends services infrequently, told Shemtov that Chabad is the only place in the city he feels at home in – he’s “grateful we are here because it gives him a sense of comfort knowing that there’s a Jewish presence in town, especially after Oct. 7,” said Shemtov.

One of the most publicly visible events Chabad of Nanaimo hosts is its annual Hanukkah menorah lighting, which last year was held in Maffeo Sutton Park, drawing more than 200 people. For information about this year’s event on Dec. 14, people can check out Chabad’s website. It is open to Jews and non-Jews alike and provides an opportunity for non-Jews to show their support for the Jewish community of Nanaimo and celebrate shared values, said Shemtov. Usually, local elected officials attend, from all levels of government.

“It was the Rebbe who pioneered the idea of the public menorah lightings, which encountered opposition from Jews initially who were afraid to publicly express their Judaism,” said Shemtov. “Today, everyone does it and they have no reservations about it, and they feel good about publicly expressing their Judaism and are proud to show that they are Jewish.”

Shemtov said Hanukkah is “an exciting time for the Jewish community of Nanaimo and the holiday is all about bringing light to the darkness and acknowledging our right to be good people out in public.

“It also gives a sense of pride for the Jewish community in Nanaimo to celebrate their Judaism in public by lighting a menorah with our non-Jewish friends and supporters” he said. “The message of Hanukkah is that we should always focus on increasing the light, which is the vision of the Rebbe, who loved every Jew and wanted to make sure that no Jew will be left behind, which are values that Chabad represents.”

For more information about Chabad of Nanaimo, visit jewishnanaimo.com.

David J. Litvak is a prairie refugee from the North End of Winnipeg who is a freelance writer and publicist, and a mashgiach at Louis Brier Home and Hospital. His articles have been published in the Forward, Globe and Mail and Seattle Post-Intelligencer. His website is cascadiapublicity.com.