Judaism – Page 23

Experiences shape identity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

The excitement of holidays

As meaningful and fun as most of the Jewish holidays are, there’s a lot of running around, cleaning, cooking and other preparation that generally goes into them. Three recently published children’s books – two about Passover and one on Shabbat – capture the joys of the holidays, and the craziness that can sometimes precede them.

Passover, Here I Come!, written by D.J. Steinberg and illustrated by Emanuel Wiemans was put out this year by Grosset & Dunlap. It’s a compilation of short poems, all related to Passover, from “Scrub-A-Dub-Dub!” preparations to “Bye-bye, Bread!” and “Hello, Matzoh!” it goes through pretty much every aspect, including the Passover story, what’s for dinner and the search for the afikomen.

“Made by Me!” is about making up the seder plate, and all the plate’s items and their symbols are noted alongside the illustration. For the poem “Our Magic Table,” the drawings and words again combine to wonderful effect. We see the tables from set-up to guest-filled, and the typesetting, leaving gaps between the letters forming the words “g r o w s a n d g r o w s,” communicate the truly magic nature of a Pesach table that does seem to fit an enormous number of people, when we’re lucky to have many friends and family join in our celebrations.

Steinberg’s verse and Wiemans’ drawings work well together, simultaneously entertaining and teaching. The basics of Passover are all covered in Passover, Here I Come! which even includes a recipe for Mom’s Matzoh Brei after the four-line poem “World’s Best Breakfast.”

A Persian Passover (Kalaniot Books) by Etan Basseri with illustrations by Rashin Kheiriyeh, also contains a recipe – for hallaq, which is Persian-style charoset. In addition, the end of the book features a brief description of Passover and what goes on the seder plate, a glossary of Persian and Hebrew words used in the story, and a couple of paragraphs on Jews in Persia, known today as Iran, though, notes Basseri, “the culture and main language of this region is still called ‘Persian.’”

Set in Iran in the 1950s, A Persian Passover follows siblings Ezra and Roza, who are helping their family get ready for the holiday. Everyone is put to work and Roza is finally old to enough to accompany older brother Ezra to the synagogue, where families bring their own flour “to be mixed, rolled and baked into soft, delicious matzah.” Though older, Ezra is not necessarily wiser and he’s still a kid, with energy to burn. Not having learned from an earlier collision with a neighbour – as he ran a lap around the house, being timed by Roza – Ezra once again asks Roza to measure how fast he can run to the next street corner, freshly baked matzah in hand.

“But he didn’t see the rut in the road up ahead. ‘Oof!’ yelped Ezra as he tripped and fell. Splat! went the bag of matzah as it dropped into a puddle.

“‘The matzah!’ they exclaimed together.

“‘That was all the matzah we had for the week. Now it’s gone. What will we tell Mama and Baba?’ asked Roza.” (The glossary notes that baba means dad in Persian.)

Ezra and Roza set out to find replacement matzah before the seder starts, and we meet more of the neighbourhood folk. Hopefully, it won’t be too much of a spoiler to know that the kids succeed – not only receiving kindness, but also showing kindness to others along the way.

The last book that recently came out has to do with matzah, but not with Passover, which is why it’s included in this brief roundup even though it’s about Shabbat. Good for year-round reading, Bubbe and Bart’s Matzoh Ball Mayhem, written by Bonnie Grubman and illustrated by Deborah Melmon, was published by Seattle’s Intergalactic Afikoman last November. Created by two dog lovers, it begins, “This is Bubbe’s story. Believe me that it’s true. Her puppy loved each Friday night like Jewish puppies do.

“When Bubbe made her matzoh balls, Bart was at her feet, waiting for a ball to fall, and not some doggie treat.”

While Bart’s begging doesn’t achieve the desired result, he does get to eat all the matzah balls he’s able to catch. Bubbling away in the pot on the stove, the matzah balls grow so large that they blow off the lid and zoom all over the room. Not to be held back by “a better lid, and some very sticky tape,” the balls continue to fly. And we get to count them as they do. (Another spoiler alert: Bart gets to eat an awful lot of matzah.)

Eventually, with a little magic, calmness is restored and dog and house are cleaned up in time for Shabbat dinner with the family.

Bubbe and Bart’s Matzoh Ball Mayhem ends with a couple of paragraphs about Shabbat, “a very special day of the week,” and a short glossary.

PJ Library resources

One PJ Library holiday offering is Passover is Coming by Tracy Newman and Viviana Garofoli.

Long a trusted resource for Jewish families in more than 35 countries around the world who receive their free books each month, PJ Library offers fresh reading, audio stories and tasty treats for families celebrating Passover this year, April 15 to 23.

Hundreds of thousands of children are receiving new books this month, each providing a carefully curated selection of age-appropriate reading related to Passover. New this year, families will also receive a colourful illustrated “Matzah Mania” fold-out that includes recipes for homemade matzah, matzah trail mix, and matzah pizza lasagna, along with ideas for serving a seder grazing board. The keepsake fold-out includes culturally inclusive information about seder traditions, and the Four Questions of the seder, which are printed in English and Hebrew.

image - In Every Generation Haggadah cover English — PJ Library’s Haggadah is available in five languages, including English and French. As well, PJ Library has many other Passover resources, such as children’s books about the holiday.

In the PJ Library program, which was created by the Harold Grinspoon Foundation, families who sign up may receive free books for children from birth through age 8. For kids ages 9 and up, PJ Our Way allows kids to select and review books on their own each month.

In April, two new Passover-themed episodes of the PJ Library Presents podcast network will launch. These new podcasts bring Jewish traditions, culture, holidays and values to life through audio storytelling. On April 4, Kiddo Learns about Passover will be the latest Afternoons with Mimi audio story, and Humpty Dumpty and the Passover Feast will be the newest tale in the Beyond the Bookcase series. Families may listen to the award-winning podcasts on all major streaming sources, and more information is at pjlibrary.org/podcast.

PJ Library has become one of the leading sources for family-friendly Haggadot, with its illustrated In Every Generation: A PJ Library Family Haggadah. Since 2018, the organization has shipped more than 675,000 individual Haggadot to more than 110,000 PJ Library families for free. (For non-subscribers, the printed Haggadah is available for purchase via Amazon.) PJ Library also offers a digital version that can be downloaded in five languages: English, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian and French. This Haggadah is filled with songs, blessings and explanations and is available as a free printable PDF from pjlibrary.org/haggadah.

This year, PJ Library has updated its Passover hub – pjlibrary.org/passover – with new book lists and dozens of fresh ideas and resources for families, including stories and songs, games, activities and recipes.

– Courtesy PJ Library

Weddings to stop plagues

According to the Nov. 11, 1918, Winnipeg Tribune, Rose Schwartz and Abraham Lachterman were married in a plague wedding in Winnipeg, Man. More than 1,000 people attended, Jews and non-Jews.

Relatively early in the evolution of the coronavirus pandemic, in March 2020, there was an unusual wedding in Israel. The ceremony took place in Bnei Brak’s Ponevezh Cemetery. The bride (kallah) and groom (hatan), both orphans, had not previously known each other. Even in the ultra-Orthodox community, where there is a range of arranged to forced marriages, such an event – a black (shvartse) or plague (mageyfe) wedding – is extremely rare.

Written accounts of plague weddings date back almost 200 years, to eastern Europe. In these accounts, one learns that “targeted” couples were people who were orphaned, homeless, or had physical or intellectual challenges. In these scenarios, the community contends it is doing a favour to these brides and grooms, as it assumes that the couple has only a slim chance of marrying otherwise.

Had this contemporary couple under the wedding canopy been free to choose, or had they been coerced or something in between? Were they promised something to get them under the chuppah? Maybe they were gifted, respectively, their wedding dress and suit? There again, however, these outfits could have come from a wedding gemach, a charity warehouse from which people borrow items of clothing. Or perhaps, as was customary in earlier times, some well-to-do community member offered to “set up house” for them.

One thing is clear: even though it wasn’t their families who sat down and discussed terms, this was an arranged marriage. The couple had been picked to stop the ravages of the coronavirus. In a way, they were a sacrificial appeasement to G-d, who was thought to have brought on the pandemic.

The wedding was purposely not conducted in a synagogue, in a wedding hall or in someone’s house. The reasoning was that the community hoped that the souls of those interred in the cemetery would reward this act of marrying two orphans and intercede to block the evil decree. Perhaps, G-d would be induced to have pity on the couple and, by extension, halt the spread of disease.

The first record of a plague wedding goes back to 1831, in Russia, during a cholera pandemic. Another written reference to this type of ceremony dates to 1849, in Krakow, Poland. Another publication, from the early 20th century, deals with stories about Rabbi Elimelekh Weisblum of Lizhensk, who apparently arranged such a marriage in 1785, during a cholera outbreak. Some historians argue that the tradition is older still. In any case, the ritual became firmly entrenched in the Jewish communities of the Russian Empire during the 1892 cholera outbreak. (See Jeremy Brown’s comprehensive article, “The plague wedding,” at traditiononline.org/plague-weddings.)

Over time, the ceremonies became more elaborate. Hanna Wegrzynek writes of “several instances” where part of the cemetery was demarcated, symbolically closing off the affected area, so to speak. Some ceremonies were accompanied by feasts and dancing.

Brown notes that Eastern European Jews who resettled in the United States early in the 20th century brought the plague wedding custom with them. Across the country, during the Spanish flu epidemic (in which my own maternal grandfather almost died), desperate Jewish communities married off dozens of young couples. One of the most celebrated and widely reported plague weddings took place between Harry Rosenberg and Fanny Jacobs in October 1918 at a cemetery near Cobbs Creek in Philadelphia. The event was attended by more than 1,000 people. Unfortunately, genealogical research suggests that neither Harry nor Fanny survived the Spanish Flu, dying along with 50 million others.

In November 1918, Rose Schwartz and Abraham Lachterman were reportedly married in a similar ceremony in Winnipeg, Man.

Yizkor, or memorial, books of Jewish communities wiped out in the Holocaust record a number of black weddings. And three of the most famous 20th-century Yiddish and Hebrew writers make reference to plague weddings.

In 1945, I.B. Singer wrote about a cemetery wedding in his short story Gimpel the Fool: “It so happened that there was a dysentery epidemic…. The ceremony was held at the cemetery gates, near the little corpse-washing hut. The fellows got drunk. While the marriage contract was being drawn up I heard the most pious high rabbi ask, ‘Is the bride a widow or a divorced woman?’ And the sexton’s wife answered…. ‘Both a widow and divorced.’ It was a black moment for me. But what was I to do, run away from under the marriage canopy?”

S.Y. Agnon mentions such a wedding in his 1945 Only Yesterday – “and they’ve already held a wedding for two orphans on the Mount of Olives to stop the plague.”

This past summer, Jerusalem’s Khan Theatre performed a dramatic adaptation of I.L. Peretz’s 1909 short story In the Time of Pestilence, in which there is a discussion about orphans marrying during an outbreak. The theatre company performed the work at Hansen House, the site of a former hospital for people suffering from Hansen’s disease (also called leprosy).

Since the 1800s, when the first plague wedding was reported, there have been a number of global pandemics. In chronological order, they include cholera, bubonic plague, measles, Russian flu, Spanish flu, Asian flu, HIV/AIDS, SARS and COVID-19. (See “Pandemics That Changed History,” at history.com/topics/middle-ages/pandemics-timeline.)

Even though plague weddings don’t seem to be at all effective in stopping outbreaks of diseases, for the guests, at least, the ceremonies could be seen as a means of escape, for a short time, from worry and despair.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Positive Jewish leaders online

It’s hard not to doom scroll lately, but I’ve been heartened by watching Jewish leaders take centre stage via social media. These are bright spots in a difficult time. Here are a few to Google and follow. I’ve learned a lot online this way. Perhaps you might, too.

In the world of social media and Talmud study (yes, that’s a thing!), the short social media videos of Miriam Anzovin have gotten a lot of attention. She offers TikTok, YouTube and Instagram posts and links via Twitter. These are on the Daf Yomi, the 7.5-year cycle where one studies a page of Talmud a day. Anzovin’s amazing effort offers a brief summary and analysis of some of the big rabbinic issues. It’s also a breath of fresh air in a field historically dominated by men. Anzovin is a writer and visual artist. She describes her videos as “Daf Yomi reaction videos.” These takes often include slang, curse words, and perhaps difficult interpretations for the usual Jewish text study audience.

Some Orthodox men have voiced criticism to this approach to Talmud study. I would argue that this is a defensive, unhelpful reaction. More Talmud study is good. Talmud study of any kind, is, quite simply – more. It brings more attention to Jewish text and ideas, which is a good thing both for Judaism and for intellectual analysis. Sometimes, the reaction stems from being forced to admit that there are other perspectives and ways of reading religious text. Anzovin centres women’s voices, issues and opinions, critical thinking, liberal and modern views of very old texts. Social media offers her a perfect platform and her work has taken off. It’s long past due. I’m thrilled to see her show up in my feed.

Rabbi Sandra Lawson has been one to follow for awhile. She’s a leader – an activist, a musician and a teacher. Her social media presence allows me to learn a lot. I’ve learned Torah, said Kaddish, and more. Through her anecdotes, she’s encouraged hard examination of ways in which racism is a problem in Jewish life. She’s taken on a lot of firsts in both her former role as the associate chaplain for Jewish life at Elon University and is now the first director of racial diversity, equity and inclusion at Reconstructing Judaism. She was the first African American and first openly gay African American accepted by the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. Her open, strong online presence embodies many things Judaism needs to see: her identity as a veteran, vegan, personal trainer, musician and wise educator pushes the boundaries of what some people think Jews or rabbis look like. For younger Jews on the web, seeing her laughing with her wife Susan, featuring her little dogs as she makes music – these are models of joyful, modern Jewish life that we need now more than ever.

What does informal Jewish education look like on Instagram? Well, many people source Jewish news specifically from A Wider Frame (@awiderframe).

Debbie, the jewelry designer behind @rootsmetals, posts deep dives into very specific historic, geographic and cultural Jewish topics. It comes complete with bibliographies. Prepare for her snarky responses to trolls (ever present online) who try to threaten her well-being.

Ashager Araro, @blackjewishmagic, is a liberal, feminist, Black Israeli. She does incredible work as an educator in person in Israel. She’s also on Instagram and Twitter, and travels to speak at Hillels and Jewish student centres in the United States. Her focus on Ethiopian Israeli history and modern Jewish life is illuminating, particularly for those who view race only through a parochial North American lens.

Some social media education targets a specific group. For example, Shoshanna Keats-Jaskoll speaks out for others who aren’t able to in the Orthodox world. She tackles the issue of agunot. Agunot are women who cannot obtain a Jewish divorce from their husbands and are unable to remarry according to Jewish law. Keats-Jaskoll also works to provide modest images of women through an internationally sourced photo bank. This works to combat the erasure of women’s faces and bodies and imagery in Orthodox photos, publications and Israeli billboards. Chochmat-Nashim (Women’s Wisdom), her organization, advocates for Orthodox women, including both modern Orthodox and Haredi groups in Israel and the diaspora.

This is just a taste of what’s out there. It’s a start to diversifying your feed. You may have noticed that I started by writing about leaders I admire and, guess what? They’re all women. It’s not that I don’t admire some male leaders. There are plenty of them and some of them are fine human beings – but too many “leader lists” leave women out entirely. March 8 is International Women’s Day. It’s one thing to say we advocate for equality, and to celebrate women’s achievements on a specific day. It’s another to raise up, embrace and educate on a daily basis.

Our tradition offers us moments to celebrate women’s roles, such as the recitation of Woman of Valour (Eishet Chayil) in some homes on Shabbat. However, that’s not a standard practice in every household. Plus, it’s only one moment of one day of a week, when Jewish women are contributing 24/7.

Many of our paid leaders, rabbis and cantors, and even volunteers, such as synagogue board members, are men. It’s been “traditional” to embrace a male leadership model in some communities. However, in an era when more of our lives are both online and more egalitarian, it’s OK to stop the doom scrolling and open up one’s mind – and feed – to some new leaders. In this case, they also just happen to identify as Jewish women.

Sadly, not a new experience

Some of us are likely struggling to recover from the hostage-taking event at Congregation Beth Israel in Texas, along with pandemic stress. Perhaps most stressful is that we know a synagogue invasion could happen anywhere, during any service. Most of us figure out where the exits are when we go to synagogue, a Jewish community centre or other Jewish institution. We know the history. We need to be on guard when we gather.

On Jan. 15, we streamed our local congregation’s services to our Winnipeg living room and watched a kid my children knew from elementary school lead services. He was becoming a bar mitzvah. Jewish life continues despite the pandemic.

Antisemitism and traumatic events continue, too. When I realized what was happening in Texas, thanks to Jewish social media, it was hard to look away, even though it was Shabbat. Initially, non-Jewish news reports said there was an “apparent hostage-taking event.” This language was used despite the event being livestreamed. Why wasn’t it “real” from the beginning? Even after the hostages were freed, alive, thank G-d, the FBI didn’t immediately use the word antisemitism or hate.

There was no immediate answer from the FBI on why this person chose a synagogue during Shabbat services. There was a rush in some quarters to discuss why Islamophobia is wrong. Even as the hostage-taker identified his cause as aligned with that of Dr. Aafia Siddiqui, a convicted felon who was outspoken in her antisemitism at her trial, others (including the synagogue president and the FBI) suggested this was a random event. Some articles said the hostages were “detained” – somehow implying they were at fault by being at synagogue on a Saturday morning.

When Jewish leaders, as well as President Joe Biden, Vice-President Kamala Harris and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau spoke about this as an antisemitic act of terrorism, it wasn’t a narrative immediately embraced elsewhere. I found this unsettling. The feeling – of pointing out an issue but not being believed or heard – felt all too familiar. Language and how we tell our stories can twist our understanding of events, and this experience already seemed to be depicted in a way that didn’t ring true.

Certainly, the hostages will be debriefed, the hostage-taker’s family and history will be examined. We’ll learn more about what his motivations might have been. However, my instincts follow that of many Jewish people, as Rabbi Rick Jacobs, Union for Reform Judaism president, told MSNBC, “There’s no doubt that the underlying whole premise … was antisemitism,” he said, “The hostage-taker didn’t go to McDonald’s, didn’t go to some random place, and that is part of the story of antisemitism, to single Jews out.”

Remembering similar recent experiences hasn’t helped. Since the May 2021 war in Israel and Gaza, I’ve spent time reminding myself that I’m not crazy, and that I studied a lot of Middle East history as part of my long-ago undergraduate degree and graduate work. I knew that some of the narratives being touted online about the Israel/Palestine conflict were incorrect and badly mangled interpretations of the relevant history. I was particularly upset by the idea circulating on social media that Israelis were simply “white colonizers” subduing a brown people. This narrative didn’t reflect our thousands of years of history in Israel, nor did it account for the detail that, in fact, more than 50% of Israeli citizens are people of colour.

I recently studied a text in the Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 29A, which brought these issues to mind. It explored where Jews could find the Divine Presence in Babylonia. Rabbis were discussing how to find a holy place in the Diaspora after the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Abaye says the Divine Presence visits the ancient synagogue in Huzal and the synagogue that was destroyed and rebuilt in Neharde’a. From there, two different stories are told about when the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, made itself known in Neharde’a.

Abaye died in 337 CE. So, we know that nearly 1,700 years ago, synagogues existed where Jewish people went to pray and study, and some of them were ruins that were rebuilt. Our need for holy places of gathering in the Diaspora is not new. Further, according to the stories on this page of Talmud, these places didn’t always feel safe. Sometimes, even the Divine Presence herself, the Shechinah, dropped by and that was frightening – never mind modern-day hostage-takers with guns.

A bit farther down on the page, Rabbi Eleazar haKappar, a late tannaitic rabbi (who lived roughly around 220 CE) suggests that, one day, in the future, all the synagogues and study halls in Babylonia will be transported and reestablished in Israel. Even then, there was a longing for return to Israel. Archeology shows us that Rabbi Eleazar haKappar was a real person, a colleague of Judah HaNasi, who likely spent most of his life in Katzrin. There is a door lintel originally from his beit midrash, his house of study, in the Golan Museum. Found in a mosque in the Golan Heights, its inscription says, “This is the Beit Midrash of Rabbi Eleazar haKappar.”

I felt reassured by reading about the Babylonian synagogues and the longing for Israel that was felt so long ago. Our religious connection to Israel is old. It’s in every synagogue service, every Passover seder, and deep within the Talmud. Our stories are tied to Israel. Despite others’ “versions” of history, the Jewish connection to Israel cannot be made into just a 19th-century European political movement.

Also, like the rabbis, I believe that those who are inclined to do so can feel the Shechinah within ourselves and in our synagogues. Jews and allies prayed world over for the safety of the hostages at Congregation Beth Israel. It would also take the hostages’ training and bravery and the intervention of police and FBI. Many people, including Rabbi Angela Buchdahl in New York, called 911 in the effort to try to help things turn out OK.

The trauma of this experience will linger with the Jewish community of Colleyville, Tex., for a long time. A man with mental health issues was offered shelter in a synagogue and given a cup of tea by Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker. That man became an armed hostage-taker. He took Jews as hostages. That rabbi and his congregants bravely handled the situation. The rabbi threw a chair at the right moment – and then, this man died there.

We’ll surely learn more detail over time. Meanwhile, we continue to be on our guard. Our congregations are holy because we come to be inside them. Sometimes, the Shechinah is there, too. This is the powerful story of the synagogues in Huzal and Neharde’a.

The text reminds us that we must keep track of our Jewish identity and narrative. Journalists who call Jews “apparent” hostages or say that Jews were “detained” in their own place of worship and an FBI spokesperson who doesn’t mention antisemitism? This isn’t our narrative. We can’t let it become the history that matters.

We’re People of the Book. We’re a people with a long, well-documented history. This ages-old written and oral history, and even archeological evidence, gives us confidence to believe in who we are and our story. Our words and the way we use them matters, so we must choose carefully. No story is perfect, we are only human. Even so, we should be the ones to tell it and guard it for future generations.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

A minority within a minority

Rivka Campbell, co-founder of Jews of Colour Canada. (PR photo)

On Jan. 9, Rivka Campbell, co-founder of Jews of Colour Canada, spoke on the topic Harmony in a Divided Identity: A Minority Within a Minority, the third Zoom talk in Kolot Mayim Reform Temple’s 2021-22 Building Bridges lecture series.

A Jew of Jamaican descent, Campbell seeks to create a sense of community among Jews of Colour in Canada. At the same time, she works to establish dialogue with mainstream Jewish organizations and to provide a better understanding of Jewish diversity and the experiences of Jews of Colour.

Her opening remarks focused on what she labeled “the question” – that is, the unwelcoming, uninviting and off-putting line of inquiry Jews of Colour often confront when entering Jewish spaces. Though born and raised in Toronto, Campbell, like other Jews of Colour, is often asked, “Where are you from?” – the implication being that she is not Jewish.

This question, she points out, is alienating from the start and is not the kind of introduction that Jews of Ashkenazi backgrounds ordinarily face when, say, entering a synagogue.

A decisive period for Campbell occurred after getting married and starting a family. At the time, she wanted to introduce her children to their Jewish roots so that they could understand and appreciate every aspect of who they are.

“We leaped into the community with the assumption that I am a Jew and that this should be a non-issue. I am going to go to synagogue, put my kids in Hebrew school and just do stuff. I was wrong. What I didn’t reflect on was that I did not meet the stereotype, if you will, of what a Jew looks like, and it never occurred to me because I am Jewish, what’s the big deal? And I realized that for some people it was.”

The questions and comments would come even before a hello – Are you Jewish? How are you Jewish? But your last name isn’t Jewish.

“If I am a new face, then fine, we should welcome new faces. But the way to welcome new faces is with ‘Shabbat Shalom. My name is So-and-So, what’s your name? Here’s where we keep our siddurim.’ Welcome me first and the rest will flow naturally,” Campbell said.

She referred to these episodes, when she is singled out and her Jewishness is openly questioned, as “microaggressions.”

“Microaggressions are like mosquito bites at a summer camp. You might spray yourself and take other measures to prevent bites. Nothing works, so you spray yourself more and wear long sleeves and still nothing. After many efforts and layers, you finally say, ‘I can’t do this any longer,’ and you remove yourself from the place where the mosquitoes are,” she said.

For Campbell, there also have been more repugnant full-on aggressions, including having the derogatory term “Schvartze” directed at her.

“Would you continue to want to put yourself in that position? I have met and spoken to quite a few Jews of Colour who have said, ‘I am done. I can’t take it anymore.’ They do not want to subject themselves or their children to that kind of treatment. If we say there is no racism in our community, then we are fooling ourselves. All of us should feel they belong,” she said.

Campbell had a very good experience during an extended stay in Israel, where she met Jews from myriad backgrounds. In Israel, she did not feel she had to explain who she was and did not encounter the same questions she is asked in Jewish spaces in Canada. That trip caused her to realize that the Canadian Jewish community could do better and led her to start Jews of Colour Canada.

Things changed dramatically in May 2020 after the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, which, to Campbell, symbolized the banality of evil.

“That event made me not give a hoot whether people were comfortable or not with what I say because, until we are all uncomfortable, there won’t be change,” she said. “It really flipped the way I felt about diversity and the work that needs to be done. And that is where we sit today. And I see us as a community doing the work – we are listening and not just hearing what people are saying. You fix your own house first before you fix anyone else’s. And you cannot rest on the laurels of others, such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel.”

Campbell is the executive director at Beit Rayim Synagogue in Vaughan, Ont., and a board member of ADRABA, Toronto’s first 21st-century Jewish high school. She also hosts the CJN podcast Rivkush, which focuses on diversity, Israel and other Jewish topics. She is the sole Canadian recipient of the inaugural JewV’Nation Fellowship from the Union for Reform Judaism. For more information, visit jewsofcolour.ca.

The next speaker in Kolot Mayim’s Building Bridges series is, on Feb. 6, poet, author, literary scholar and internationally recognized speaker on transgender issues Joy Ladin on the topic of Jonah, God and Other Strangers: Reading the Torah from a Transgender Perspective. On Feb. 13, Reverend Hazan Daniel Benlolo, cantor, rabbi and founder of the Montreal Shira Choir for special needs adults, presents The Power of Music. To register for either or both talks, visit kolotmayimreformtemple.com.

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

Fostering nature’s care

Richmond Jewish Day School held a week of activities revolving around Tu b’Shevat. (photo from RJDS)

Richmond Jewish Day School held a weeklong event celebrating the holiday of Tu b’Shevat, which fell this year on Jan. 17. Tu b’Shevat has developed into an ecological holiday that reminds us of humanity’s connection to the earth and to our role as caretakers of the environment.

photo - Students assisted in planting several fruit trees in the school garden, sponsored by the Jewish National Fund — Students assisted in planting several fruit trees in the school garden, sponsored by the Jewish National Fund. *(photo from RJDS)*

On the holiday Monday, each classroom performed a model Tu b’Shevat seder, a meal that partly mirrors the Passover seder and involves eating biblical foods native to the Holy Land and drinking four cups of wine or, in the students’ case, grape juice. Additionally, all of the students assisted in planting several fruit trees in the school garden, sponsored by the Jewish National Fund.

On the Tuesday of that week, students potted succulents from the garden to give away to seniors in the Richmond community. And, in the remainder of the week, classes planted parsley and other herbs for Passover, and assisted in a large-scale, school-wide garden clean-up.

When students are able to see the effort and care needed to grow plants, they develop a sense of ownership for these living organisms. Developing this awareness of how precious nature is can help children become better connected to their environment, learning to be strong community ambassadors and advocates in protecting the planet.

Judaism is not alone in advocating for environmental protection. From Buddhism to Christianity to Hinduism to Islam, various faiths acknowledge the need for environmental stewardship and their scriptures urge followers to be caretakers of the planet, looking after the natural earth and the organisms that live in it.

– Courtesy Richmond Jewish Day School

Sit, stand? It takes all kinds

When it was warmer, back in the fall, I met an older friend outdoors for coffee. A third person was there, someone she wanted me to meet. She couldn’t imagine how I’d never met them before. Winnipeg is like this, small enough so that everyone might have a few connections in common. Big enough that, actually, you don’t know everybody either. As it turned out, my new acquaintance was someone in the Jewish community. By the end of our meeting, I’d learned that she really didn’t like when new melodies were introduced at services. I suggested that it was important to keep learning, that the melodies themselves weren’t what was important. And that, in fact, some of the “new” melodies introduced were pretty old themselves, but just hadn’t been used at the congregation she’d attended.

She wasn’t to be swayed. As we parted, it was clear that I liked the changing tunes and she, most certainly, did not. This exchange came to mind because at the Saturday morning Shabbat service I attended (via streaming only) on Jan. 1, Adon Olam was sung to – snort – the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

All this came to mind, too, as I considered the Jan. 5 anniversary of when I started studying Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day. This year, in 2022, I’ll have pursued this endeavour for two years. I’ll be a fourth of the way through the commitment. At a page a day, this process takes seven-and-a-half years. For me, it’s mostly a solitary practice. I study late at night before I go to sleep, and only occasionally learn with others during a special class or siyyum (celebration when finishing an entire tractate).

I read mostly in English translation, only reading the Hebrew and Aramaic in chunks when I’m not too tired or struggling too much with the text. It’s not perfect, but it’s what I’ve got for now. It’s enriched my Jewish learning and practice. Now I find answers for many things I never knew before – the information has always been there, spelled out in the Babylonian Talmud.

For instance, I read in the tractate Megillah, on page 21, about the seemingly arbitrary rules we set up for ourselves – like how many parshiyot (Torah portions) we read, how many people can read each one and when. For the Megillah reading on Purim, we can sit or we can stand, we can hear one person read or several. How does this work?

I flashed back to all the different ways I’d heard the Megillah or even read it through the years, from spiels and Purim carnivals as a kid and onward. I remembered when I read the Megillah to myself in an airport on the floor, on a long layover between flights.

One snowy, cold Purim, crammed into a smaller, overheated, crowded room at Chabad, one of my twins nearly passed out in his polar bear costume. I rushed him through the open fire door, into the hallway, to the emergency stairwell. His colour returned as he cooled down. This, too, was a place to hear the Megillah.

Before my son nearly passed out, I remember that we were sitting near someone who smiled at us, in the integrated seating (men and women sat together) area. He was familiar, part of the community. Only later, it turned out he had a date in court for something that went very wrong. This also is community.

I thought a lot about variations to traditional practice last week as we watched services, streaming, on Shabbat morning. It was a bitterly cold morning in Winnipeg, the kind when the windchill is -45 and you feel remarkably lucky if your car starts. Except, because of COVID, we didn’t have to decide to stay home or go. On Jan. 1, there were only three people in the sanctuary. Two people ran the service, and one person did the streaming.

A service must be adaptable. One person, the cantorial soloist, read the entire Torah portion – a real feat, she did a beautiful job. So, I thought, here we have a tradition with a lot of rules, a lot of “ways things should go,” but also, to keep our traditions strong, we build flexibility.

In Megillah 21a, it says, if it’s the custom to say a blessing before the reading of the Megillah where you are, say a blessing. If not, don’t. Later, it explains, yes, here are the blessings to say and it’s good to say a blessing, but it’s a truly open discussion. Do what works and is usual where you are.

In the midst of the Omicron wave, I hear a lot of random but repeated comments: “in-person schooling is much better” is one. However, safety and avoiding healthcare collapse really must come first, in my view. In our family, during most of the 2021-2022 school year, we did remote schooling. I worked, writing at night. As a former teacher, I was able to help my kids learn and guess what? They came out of it better academically prepared than they were previously. What does this mean? There is no one size fits all. There’s no perfect way to be.

We are all different. Yes, we need to work together, as individuals and communities, to acknowledge this pandemic challenge. We must choose to do everything we can to be as safe as we can: vaccinate, wear high-quality masks like N95s, stay home as much as possible, social distance, self-isolate when sick, etc. But, there isn’t just a single way to take care of a community. That’s what Torah – and the talmudic tractate Megillah 21 – tell us. There isn’t just one way.

It’s been a hard two years

Last summer, given COVID’s continued presence and restrictions, campers were especially happy to be at camp. (photo from Camp Hatikvah)

Prior to 2020, Camp Hatikvah was experiencing unparalleled success. With enrolment maximized, the organization was in the position to focus not only on capital and program development but also on long-term financial planning. According to Liza Rozen-Delman, the camp’s executive director, Hatikvah’s future had never looked brighter. “It was a period of great excitement for us,” she said. “We honestly thought that nothing could get in the way of our growth and success.”

The pandemic, however, changed everything. “The impact of COVID was immediate and devastating,” Rozen-Delman said. “We went from being on top of the world to worrying about our very survival.”

photo - Boys during a service at Camp Hatikvah — *(photo from Camp Hatikvah)*

Luckily for Hatikvah, donors immediately stepped in to cover the camp’s mounting financial losses. “People knew we were in trouble and they rallied around us,” said Rozen-Delman, with great emotion and gratitude. “Not only did they cover our operational expenses entirely in 2020, they made it possible for us to open in 2021 by funding all of the camp’s COVID-related expenses, like testing, site upgrades and more.”

Rozen-Delman went on to share how incredible it was to welcome campers back to camp last summer. While capacity had to be dramatically reduced to adhere to government group-size limits, close to 400 children participated in Hatikvah’s program in 2021.

“We rearranged our session lengths to make sure that every single Jewish child wishing to attend our camp was able to do so,” explained Rozen-Delman. “While this meant that each camper was at camp for a little less time than is typical, everyone was just so grateful to be there.”

“Our campers are always happy to be at camp but last summer, they were elated,” added Eden Gutterman, the camp’s associate director. “They needed to socialize, to be outdoors and to be away from technology and it was just so beautiful to watch them revel in camp and each other.”

photo - Campers at Camp Hatikva give a thumbs up — *(photo from Camp Hatikvah)*

Gutterman shared her favourite memory from last summer. “One Shabbat, we asked all of the campers who had their bar and bat mitzvah’s over Zoom to stand in the middle of a circle made up of the rest of the campers and counselors. We then did the hora around them as a tribute to their milestone and accomplishment. None of these campers got to celebrate their simchah in person so it was incredibly touching to see them surrounded and celebrated by their friends. It is something we – and they – will never forget.”

photo - Camper jumps into the water — *(photo from Camp Hatikvah)*

Camp Hatikvah is now busy preparing for summer 2022.

“We recognize that COVID will likely not be over by summer,” acknowledged Rozen-Delman. “And, while we wish it wasn’t the case, we feel well-prepared to deal with anything.”

Rozen-Delman shared that the Gutman family and Rockdoc Consulting Inc. have provided the funding for the camp to build a new infirmary in time for this summer.

“Given the realities of the ongoing pandemic, this gift couldn’t have come at a better time,” said Rozen-Delman. “Our new infirmary has been designed with COVID and any future infectious disease in mind and will have recovery rooms that can be used as properly ventilated isolation space if necessary. Its functional space has also been thoughtfully designed to allow us to meet and exceed current best practices in camper care. It is a gift our camp so desperately needed and we couldn’t be more grateful to Sam and Belinda and Gloria and their families for their generosity.”

Joanna Wasel, Camp Hatikvah’s board president, commented that, while she wished the world hadn’t had to experience this pandemic at all, she believes that the camp will ultimately be stronger because of it.

“We are entering 2022 with a renewed sense of purpose,” said Wasel. “Our community supported us through this challenging time because they believe in our mandate to help raise the next generation of strong, confident and resilient Jewish leaders. Their faith means everything to us and we are determined to make them proud.”

– Courtesy Camp Hatikvah