Simchat Torah

“We will dance again”

Rabbi Susan Tendler at Beth Tikvah’s aron hakodesh, where two Torahs feature covers memorializing heroes lost in the latest war. (photo by Pat Johnson)

On Simchat Torah, Jews worldwide celebrate the completion of the annual Torah reading and the beginning of another cycle. The day of rejoicing, which across centuries has been marked with often ecstatic festivities, is a time of dancing and spiritual uplift. How, though, do Jews celebrate this day after Oct. 7? The mass murders and litany of horrors perpetrated on Simchat Torah 5784 cast a pall over the occasion.

Rabbi Susan Tendler of Richmond’s Beth Tikvah Congregation expressed the emotional challenge of marking the festive holiday in the changed world.

“I can get through Oct. 7,” she said, “but how am I supposed to joyfully sing and dance on Simchat Torah?”

Last summer, a friend was headed to Israel and told Tendler about the Simchat Torah Project. The friend was going to attend a ceremony at the Kotel, the Western Wall, with family members of individuals killed on Oct. 7 and in the ensuing war. At the ceremony, specially crafted Torah covers would be transferred to individuals from around the world, who would carry them back to their congregations.

Each cover has the name and date of death of the person it commemorates. So far, 635 Torah covers have found homes in 525 congregations in 287 cities in 31 countries. Two of those are in Beth Tikvah’s ark. Another is at Congregation Schara Tzedeck in Vancouver.

The project is inspired by ancient and modern words. King Solomon declared: “There is a time for everything under the heavens … a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” More recently, Israelis, in defiance of the enemy’s determination to break their national spirit and in emphatic solidarity with those murdered at the Nova music festival, declare, “We will dance again.”

For Tendler, the resonance was crystal clear. With most of the other congregational rabbis in Metro Vancouver, she was part of a trip to Israel in December 2023, which included an emotional visit to the Nova site, where 364 young people were murdered and crimes against humanity were perpetrated, including torture and rapes.

At the same time, in Tel Aviv, the exhibition commemorating the Nova festival pogrom was just opening and everywhere the rabbis saw the defiant declaration, “We will dance again.”

When Tendler heard about the Simchat Torah Project, it was the answer she had been seeking.

“I thought, that’s the pathway for me to be able to breathe and dance again on Simchat Torah,” she said. “On Simchat Torah, as we lifted up the sefer Torah, we would symbolically be lifting up those human beings and enabling them to dance again.”

The rabbi’s family and another family, Mindy Zimmering and Allan Seltzer, purchased a Torah scroll in honour of the bat mitzvah of Daniella Sadoff, the daughter of Tendler and her husband Ross Sadoff. The Beth Tikvah community united to provide a home for a second cover.

photo - Rabbi Susan Tendler holds one of two Torahs featuring memorial covers from the Simchat Torah Project — Rabbi Susan Tendler holds one of two Torahs featuring memorial covers from the Simchat Torah Project. *(photo by Pat Johnson)*

One of the covers honours the life of Itamar Shemen, a 21-year-old medic in the Israel Defence Forces who fell in battle on Dec. 23, 2023. He was also a volunteer for Magen David Adom and was known to spend his days off volunteering to help the emergency responders.

The other cover is dedicated to Ermias Mkurio, a 19-year-old known for his leadership and constant smile. He died a national hero on May 10, 2023.

The Torah covers note the date of death and not the date of birth because, as Tendler describes Jewish tradition, it is the totality of a life that is marked on a yahrzeit.

“We’ve done nothing when we come into this world,” she said. “But the day of our death is about the culmination of the life we’ve lived and our deeds and our legacy.”

The two Torah scrolls – blue lettering on white cloth – stand in Beth Tikvah’s aron hakodesh.

On Simchat Torah, it was these two Torahs that the community lifted first and foremost.

“We wanted to make sure that these were the ones that were lifted the highest and that sense of connection, that sense that it’s up to us to ensure that these individuals are still rising and still connected and that their lives were not for want or that they are quickly forgotten but instead they are still impacting us and they are still dancing and they are still teaching us,” she said.

“The symbolism of having brought out the scrolls and people going and kissing them was incredibly emotional,” she said. “Watching people, knowing that these are very much in memory of people who have fallen for the state of Israel, recognizing what we are doing, and having these individuals symbolically pass around the congregation, and people finding holiness and treating them with holiness and respect, reaching out to kiss them, to interact, to engage with them, recognize them, and knowing that, no, they’re not here, but symbolically they are with us, and we are grateful and we are moved and we are humbled by your service, by the sacrifice of your life, that you’re still here with us and we are going to continue to keep your memory alive, brought many of us to tears.”

When new is also ancient

It turns out that a war and a worldwide increase in antisemitism may cause more Jewish people to return to Jewish spaces. Some Jewish atheists try out fasting for Yom Kippur. New faces appear at synagogue. Lectures and events that were sparsely attended in the past seem to have more takers. If you’re a regular in a Jewish community, you may have seen this already. There are many reasons, including a need to find community and avoid antisemitism, or to return to religious practice after dealing with so much death. For those who were already attending or even occasionally attending Jewish services or events, things have also changed.

My twins had their b’nai mitzvah in June. I’d long thought of how cool it would be if they could help fill out a minyan more often (a group of 10 needed for communal prayer). However, there have been obstacles. Our congregation’s building was under renovation. The temporary spot, while lovely and hospitable, required a car ride.

This fall, the congregation moved back to its building and we live in easy walking distance. My kids attend public school and didn’t have Sukkot off. Yet, when one kid asked to attend minyan on Hoshanah Rabbah, the last day of Sukkot, I immediately said yes. He would have “an appointment” that morning, according to the attendance sheet, and arrive a little late. We figured, no need to claim a religious holiday (antisemitism concerns, again), but that’s what it was, of course.

Hoshanah Rabbah was a new experience for us, though it’s an ancient ritual. It involves circling the pulpit (a stand-in for the Temple altar) seven times, with lulav and etrog in hand. Marking the end of the fall holidays, it’s a last chance to ask for forgiveness and a better year.

Traditions differ about what is said during this ritual, but our congregation read piyyut, which are traditional poems, a part of Jewish liturgy that often includes acrostics (poems that use the alphabet). Some of the piyyut are very old. I found myself praying that my fruit trees don’t get fungus or that my fields wouldn’t be cursed. It might seem funny to ask for some of these things, but my city backyard has young apple, apricot, plum and cherry trees. I don’t want fungus!

It was especially poignant to pray – in the “Foundation Stone (“Even Shetiyah”) poem – about “the goodness of Lebanon, beautiful place, joy of the world.” This came straight out of the Siddur Ashkenaz (the Ashkenazi prayerbook), with specific quotes from Isaiah, Psalms and Lamentations. Our historic relationship with Lebanon is a rich one. Many of us, Israelis and diaspora Jews, would love to visit Beirut, the “Paris of the Middle East.” Some of us have ancestors who lived there, and we would like to see where they grew up or spent time. This urge isn’t new; our desire to have a good connection to Lebanon as a neighbour is ancient.

Then, we all were handed bundles of willows. We beat these on the lectern with force while saying, “Save your people and bless your heritage, care for them and carry them forever.” It was primal, cathartic, and very messy. There were willow leaves everywhere.

My kid was only a little late to first period art class. I went home in wonder. Later, I joked with one of my professors from graduate school, Jack Sasson, who I respect deeply, about how, for me, this previously unknown Jewish ritual felt stirring and exotic. He suggested that paganism still has something to teach us. The beating of the willows is ancient indeed. It’s a namburbi ritual from Mesopotamia, he said. When I remarked that I could get into this paganism thing, his reply left me laughing. “Ishtar will welcome you.”

I was still reflecting on all this when watching some new friends with young kids dancing on the evening of Simchat Torah. To help everyone through the first yahrzeit of Oct. 7/Simchat Torah, our rabbi dedicated each hakkafah (circuit around the room with the Torahs) to a different group: first responders, those who had died in the past year, the unity of the People of Israel, etc. The next afternoon, the kids came over for snacks and to play. One of the parents asked me why there was so much reference to Israel stuff. I realized that here, too, was a confluence of old customs and new experience.

I explained that some of these prayers, for instance, the prayer for the hostages, weren’t new. The Talmud, codified in 500 CE, discusses the topic of hostages at length. The first instance of the prayer for the redemption of hostages that we use today was documented in the Mahzor Vitry, named for Simhah b. Samuel of Vitry, a French talmudist who died in 1105 CE.

I reminded them that many present at the synagogue were in mourning for people who had died. While celebrating old holidays, we need to acknowledge the current situation. These days, services usually include prayers for the state of Israel and the Israeli army, too. None of these are newly written prayers.

Of course, Sukkot itself, a harvest festival that required Israelites to go to the Temple in Jerusalem – last destroyed in 70 CE – is also all about Israel.

I drew a few conclusions from these social encounters. First, for those who may feel jaded and aware of Jewish yearly events, there’s always something new to learn. For me, it was the primal connection to Mesopotamia, namburbi ritual and, yes, Ishtar, the goddess herself. For those who hadn’t been at synagogue for some time, there were many questions, new encounters and experiences, too. What unites it all is a realization that, while our individual learning curve might be new to us, the rituals, the prayers, and the historic connections to Israel are ancient.

For all of us, in a time when political rhetoric seeks to disconnect diaspora Jews from the land of Israel, Sukkot and Simchat Torah were a powerful – and timely – reminder of our past and our future, together.

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.

Finding joy

From the solemnity of Yom Kippur, we move into the season of rejoicing, Sukkot. As with many of our traditions, this one has multiple layers. The shelters for which the holiday is named represent temporary dwelling places, the transitory generations on the way from bondage in Egypt to the Promised Land and, by extension, the impermanence or fragility of Jewish security.

It would be an understatement to say that the creation of the state of Israel 68 years ago changed Jewish perceptions of ourselves and our place in the world. The existence of a Jewish state presented an alternative for Jewish people living in places of repression and danger. For Jews living in free countries, like Canada, Israel is a source of pride but also the source of a deeply complicated and often challenging reconfiguring of our identities. Diaspora Jews, prior to the success of Zionism, were subject to the changing winds and whims of local populations and leaders. For a few years after the War of Independence, Israel was widely admired around the world as a model of what a new country can be. This was also a time in history when antisemitism may have been at its lowest ebb, or at least at its least visible. For emerging postcolonial states in 1950s and ’60s Asia and Africa, Israel’s head start provided a template for independence and progress.

After the 1967 war, though, the perception of Israel morphed from a model for post-colonialism to one of neo-colonialism, and Palestinians replaced Jews as a cause for progressive peoples. In the time since, Diaspora Jews have often been placed in the position of defending (or not defending) things that Israel does. Yet it remains a haven for Jews who are threatened in their homelands, including, incredibly, in parts of Europe. For those Jews who feel safe in our countries, Israel is also a beacon – of Jewish diversity, knowledge and technological innovation.

The Promised Land, as our historical narrative tells us, was not a place of permanent joy. Twice the Temple would be destroyed and the people dispersed. The impermanence of Jewish sovereignty, even after the ancient return of the exiles, would carry on another two millennia until 1948. The sukkah is a symbol, too, of that impermanence.

And yet, it also represents a joyfulness based on our people’s adaptability and willingness to find a unity and presence even in places and times of disunity and impermanence. And, at the end, we observe Simchat Torah, a celebration of the written word that many believe is the very reason a homeless people were able to maintain cohesion and continuity through generations of dispersion.

The state of impermanence

As a harvest festival, Sukkot is infused with thanksgiving for the bounty that Jews in Canada and, mercifully, in most of the world today, enjoy. The holiday is also an earthy affair, as we move out into our backyards (or, in some cases caused by this hot housing market, our sliver of a balcony) and into temporary shelters inspired by those used by the Israelites during the 40 years of exodus in the desert. The emphasis of the sukkah is on impermanence and inhabiting one, even if just for a meal, inspires reflection on the impermanence in our lives, including life itself.

Sukkot is immediately followed by Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah – and the juxtaposition is striking. On Simchat Torah, we celebrate the most permanent thing the Jewish people have experienced. On this day, we complete the annual reading of the Torah and immediately begin again, missing not a beat between the end of Devarim, Deuteronomy, and the beginning of Bereisheet, Genesis.

For a people who have known – who, indeed, have just finished a week of reenacting – historical impermanence, Simchat Torah is a reassurance that, in the face of all historical, social and technological change, at least one thing remains constant: the book that binds us in spirit and practice.

The Torah is a constant in times of change, and it is easy to take for granted that, in the long history of the Jewish people, we are living out one of the most dramatic epochs our people has ever known. For millennia, our forebears yearned for Zion, longing to celebrate next year in Jerusalem and to be a free people in our land. In our generation, this dream has come to pass.

The creation of the state of Israel has changed Jews, Judaism and Jewish practices in small and large ways. One of the most significant ways is the sense of permanence provided by a Jewish homeland. Yet, there have been times of war and terror when the dream has turned nightmarish. And there remain many in the world who would like Israel to be an impermanent way station, merely another sukkah, for the Jewish people.

Jews – in Israel and around the world – are determined that Israel should remain as permanent and enduring as the Torah. Yet, unlike the Torah, which has a definitive beginning and end, Israel’s borders are not recognized by the international community, nor is there a consensus in Israel about where precisely they should be in the event of a final status agreement for a two-state solution.

While Jews worldwide were contemplating construction of their sukkot, the United States and others were condemning Israel’s recent announcement of additional housing construction in East Jerusalem.

Such settlements do nothing to convince the world that Israel is acting in good faith vis-à-vis a two-state outcome. On the other hand, condemning construction as the primary obstacle to peace in the region is a difficult pill to swallow: there are more pressing impediments to peace on both sides of the conflict.

However, while settlements may not be the main impediment to peace, they are an attempt to build something relatively permanent in a region without clear borders. It seems a considerable waste of resources – human labor, building materials, money, time, even Israeli and Palestinian PR efforts and goodwill – to keep building, especially knowing that the area is disputed and, therefore, impermanent.

Such construction also raises the hopes and dreams of those who ultimately will live there – what happens if they are forced to move? Israel has demonstrated its willingness to uproot Jewish residents in Sinai and Gaza in exchange for the faint hope of peace.

Through history and ritual, Jews understand that most things are temporary, like settlements that eventually give way to compromise. We also understand that some things are meant to last, like Torah and like the irreversible redemption of the Jewish people to the land of Israel.