Talmud

What “Jewish food” means

(photo from levhaolam.com)

Summer this year brought me an unusual experience. My twins went to stay with grandparents in Virginia and work as CITs (counselors in training) at a Jewish day camp. My husband dropped them off and then attended a conference. After a flurry of paperwork, packing and arranging, my family had left. Suddenly, I was alone with the dog. I’d made no solid plans while I’d spent so long getting everyone else ready. I settled into household chores, dog walks and routines that still needed to be done, even though there was no one else home.

Eating by myself for 10 days felt daunting. Previously, I’d spent a lot of time procuring healthy food and cooking for teenagers who eat a lot. I hadn’t been alone for this long since before having kids 15 years ago. I started off strong, cooking myself eggplant for salads, potato gnocchi and apple crumble. I prioritized things I like that other family members don’t. After awhile though, I was relieved to get two invitations for dinner and one helpful ride to pick up my car, which had been in the shop.

One dinner invitation was from neighbourhood friends. The other was from synagogue friends. In both cases, the people inviting me were Jewish retired professionals, and at least my parents’ ages. There were many differences – one intermarried, one person who chose Judaism long ago, one secular and some deeply committed to Jewish religious life. Yet, part of the conversation at both meals and during the car ride was “Jewish food.” What was Jewish food? What did I want to eat? Also, there were discussions on how beloved relatives’ and friends’ North American recipes shaped our cooking and eating.

All my hosts discussed North American versions of Eastern European Jewish food in detail. They had specifics: a long-lost recipe for kasha, a brisket, a “New York” cheesecake, homemade pickled beets, cucumber pickles and horseradish. In each conversation, they seemed surprised that my understanding of Jewish food didn’t mean exactly what they thought it meant.

I tried to explain childhood foods I ate at home in Virginia: Southern (American) cooking, mixed with both Eastern and Western European foods, occasional New York Jewish deli items, plus other influences like Israeli, Middle Eastern and Asian foods. This, too, was Jewish food. The foods my friends called Jewish were also Eastern European, often shared by our non-Jewish Ukrainian, Polish or Russian Winnipegger neighbours. We’re a product of family and ethnic ancestry and our environment. Winnipeg’s colder climate means that those with Eastern European backgrounds have every reason to eat the ways their ancestors did: hearty meals with root veggies and long cooking times.

Comparing this life experience with what I’ve been studying lately in Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) has been interesting. While kashrut evolved over time and has precise requirements, it also has many differences from one household or community to the next.

I was taught as a kid to appreciate whatever was served to me, eat it, and say thank you. Not much was different with these recent meals. None was kosher. All were carefully prepared for me, with affection. I ate with gratitude. I appreciated being fed and included at the table. This contrasts significantly with the detailed analysis of kosher slaughter that I’m reading about in the Babylonian talmudic tractate Chullin, but it’s not as different as one might assume.

When discussing the kosher slaughter details, the rabbis are concerned with proper health and safety, as they understand it. Today, we’re lucky to have laws around food security and safety and home kitchen hygiene. In a sense, these laws do some of the same work, as the concepts were understood 1,500-2,000 years ago.

Due to wider travel and modern communication, we now recognize a diversity of eating habits and cultural traditions. What’s considered a normal diet or food consumption varies significantly. So, too, things differed throughout the Jewish world, according to the Babylonian Talmud.

There’s an understanding among the rabbis that people were keeping kosher differently, according to different rabbis’ rulings. That is part of what’s discussed in Tractate Chullin. On page 59A, Rav and Shmuel debate the kashrut and safety of a deer that had its back legs cut off. Their concern and care for each other means that, even if they debate many rabbinic rulings, they want to protect each other. (Rabbi) Shmuel worries that they might be poisoned by bad meat, because the deer might have been bitten by a poisonous snake. The two decide to cook the meat in a particular way. They will be able to tell if the meat is poisonous by whether it falls off the bone when roasted. They discover through this experiment that the meat is unsafe. They don’t endanger themselves by eating it.

There’s a lot to unpack here. Scholars, leaders and others can disagree on many things in a civil manner and care deeply about one another’s wellbeing. Our heartfelt discussions about food, recipes and preparations are how we nurture each other, show affection and protect each other from harm, whether it’s poisonous venom or loneliness. Further, Jewish traditions teach us that, while we may be absorbed in the details – Is it kosher? Is it safe? Is it your favourite? Is it vegan, vegetarian, non-allergic, gluten-free? – it’s not what we eat that matters, but rather how we show our care for others as we feed them that counts.

When I contemplated being alone, friends asked what my favourites were – and, to be honest, I couldn’t even tell them. After cooking meals for others for so long, I just appreciated the invitations, conversations and any food that was different than what was on my table. If pressed, I’d say that I love salatim (Israeli salads), fruit, cheese and dessert. In the end, brisket and turkey meatloaf were just as good. I understand that being included at someone’s Shabbat table and being part of a community is the important part.

If you’re Jewish, and you’re thinking about food carefully, with gratitude and care towards others, it’s all Jewish food, no matter what you put on the table. So, please extend that invitation. Welcome guests!

As a guest, remember to say thank you for the opportunity to share someone’s companionship, no matter what they feed you. It’s the (Jewish) thought that counts.

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.

Patriotic belonging diminishes

(photo by Cynthia Ramsay)

When I was a kid, living near Washington, DC, my dad would hang an American flag up out in front of our house on US holidays. We’d all go outside for Memorial Day or 4th of July and raise the flag together. It was a solemn ritual. It was uncomplicated and patriotic.

As my understanding of US history and geopolitical actions changed, I still remember feeling a sense of awe as we sat on a blanket under the night sky, celebrating Independence Day with fireworks and Sousa marches. I carried that mostly uncomplicated feeling with me when we moved to Canada in 2009, the feeling of pride in where I lived. I became a dual citizen, believing I could hold that feeling for two nations at once.

A few years ago, Winnipeg changed its celebrations around Canada Day. Some of the huge gatherings resulted in spikes in crime. Many events also didn’t properly acknowledge Indigenous peoples’ roles in this country. We found, with younger kids, that the crowds, loud noises and late nights required to celebrate with others became too hard.

The choice to downplay some aspects of Canada Day reflected a new understanding. Manitoba’s Indigenous population is 18.1%, larger than any other province. Winnipeg is home to the largest urban Canadian Indigenous population. Our kids attend public school in a division where the student population is approximately 30% Indigenous. Indigenous peoples have complex relationship with patriotism for many valid reasons.

I felt this nuanced understanding of patriotism and how it related to my country was only fair as a critical thinker who reads the news. Little of it had to do with my Jewish identity, I thought. Since Oct. 7, I realized that was incorrect.

On June 1, Prime Minister Mark Carney announced that “Canada’s civic compact is failing Jewish Canadians.” This speech was, unfortunately, too little, and too late. While he did this, there were more incidents of hate, and little done to enforce the laws to stop it. Carney has created a new advisory council to combat hate, which has only one Jewish person on it. While one of their tasks is to tackle antisemitism, the council has a participant who supports Palestinian resistance via Iranian proxies like Hamas and Hezbollah. Another member is a lawyer who represented Palestinian protesters in a university encampment. This doesn’t strike anyone in the Jewish community as an unbiased or safe environment to combat Canadian antisemitism.

Sorting through my feelings, I found a strange parallel in the Babylonian Talmud Tractate Chullin, which I am studying as part of Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day). This tractate, about kosher slaughter, is technical but contains insights that have broader implications. On page 44, there’s a discussion of treifa and how to detect it. In this situation, treifa refers to an animal that has a physical defect and will likely die soon. This type of animal isn’t kosher.

Sometimes, this is discovered only after slaughter. For the animal’s owner, this is a financial loss, too. In Dr. Sara Ronis’ essay on My Jewish Learning on Chullin 44, she highlights Rav Hisda, “who says: Who is a Torah scholar? This is one who sees his own treifa.” This is someone who sees his animal’s status, takes the financial loss and keeps potentially non-kosher meat out of the food supply. This person thinks critically enough to recognize when something might be harmful even when it’s difficult and the outcome doesn’t benefit them.

All my thoughts about patriotism felt emotional but abstract until October 2023. Then it became personal. The following situation is one I had but illustrates multiple Jewish Canadian experiences.

Someone I knew posted on social media. I’d sat on a committee with her. I visited her farm. I supported her business. Right after Oct. 7, this person cheered “resistance.” She promoted a “walkout for Palestine” at an urban high school near me. This person lived out in the country, not in the city. Still, she had lots of followers and this reaction to the Oct. 7 attack contributed to the antisemitism in Winnipeg.

When I asked her why she did this, I heard that this non-Jewish, leftwing Canadian once dated a leftwing Israeli. She believed in “one state” for Israelis and Palestinians. She’d once raised money to visit the West Bank but hadn’t managed the trip. She then defined antisemitism for me. After this online confrontation continued, I broke off contact, but this person still follows me on Instagram. It feels like I’m being stalked by someone who wants to monitor my minority identity.

My kids now attend that public high school, and I imagine how dangerous it could be if they were there during a “walkout for Palestine.” There’s a straight line from having a leftwing non-Jew feel confident enough to define Jew-hate to me, a Jewish person, and the hate we’re dealing with now. If a walkout happens at school, do my Jewish kids stay in the building, thus getting singled out as targets? My kids’ choice to side with Israeli friends and family and the Jewish state means they could be endangered at school by such “resistance” activism.

When I moved to Canada, I reveled in how safe and public Jews felt in Winnipeg. It was a novelty after moving from Kentucky, where I’d often felt worried about my safety. When someone recognized me on a Winnipeg street and called out to me from her bicycle, yelling that she knew me from synagogue, I felt unsettled. Six months later, I too felt safe enough to put my menorah in the dining room window during Hanukkah.

Sadly, that first Hanukkah in Canada, in 2009, is when my house got egged. It felt safe to be Jewish here, but we still couldn’t be that public about who we were.

When my twins were preschoolers, they walked to synagogue with us, wearing kippahs, because they felt proud of their identity. It was also easier than getting the kippahs on just outside the shul. We’re now in a situation where everyone’s toque, sun hat or ball cap comes off and the kippah comes on – sometimes even inside the building. We’ve had to change. It wasn’t safe.

Like many in Canada and the United States, I am now significantly less trusting of government and our country’s actions. I wonder if I will know when it’s time to move, when things are too unsafe. The older me sees value in the ways of Rav Hisda. It’s a sign of wisdom and maturity when we can identify and predict a loss or risk before it happens, and even cut our losses.

Part of me wishes for that uncomplicated time when I could lay back on my blanket, watch the fireworks and feel soaring pride. I’m sad to have lost that pride and the easy feeling of belonging I had in the past. Now, I wonder if I ever really belonged then, either.

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.

Taking life a step at a time

Feeding teenage boys healthy, homemade food is no joke. It’s a marathon and not a sprint. Every time, I start with “Where did the leftovers go? Did you eat them all?” and “What else can I possibly throw together from the produce in the fridge and meat in the freezer?”

For anyone who is immersed in household routines, food production easily moves from creative enjoyment to drudgery. This morning, I pondered what to make for dinner, as I walked the dog. Just like the need to think up meals, the dog walk feels heavy, each step weighing me down. Then I hear a noise and look up to see Canada geese migrating home. It’s a sign of spring and, after a long winter, a sign of joy.

We’re experiencing what looks like a failing ceasefire, ongoing wars and, in North America, ongoing antisemitic upheaval. I feel I have that sentence on repeat. The situations change but the worry about world conflicts and about friends and family remains. I’m afraid to invest in commenting on today’s news because tomorrow, we’re still going to wrestle with these issues, but the specifics will change. I feel swamped by it, and I’ll guess that I’m not alone in that.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Babylonian Talmud a day. Lately, I’ve been trying to follow the rabbis in Menachot, as they cover the particulars of grain sacrifices and how they were carried out in the Temple. The Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed just under 2,000 years ago, and these rabbis were discussing this more than 1,500 years ago. On one hand, the rabbis’ debate feels important – they worried that, should the Temple be rebuilt, they would need to understand and replicate these sacrifices. On the other hand, the incredible level of nuance in these discussions feels over the top. It’s way past “How one loads the dishwasher” and up there with “How do you clean out the sink drain?” and “Do you sort coffee grounds from tea leaves in your compost?”

It’s between these extremes that a lot of spiritual discussion happens. It’s something like “We are but a grain of sand on an endless beach” and, at the same time, “Listen to your heartbeat, as its beat is the centre of the universe.” As individuals, our lives are nothing in the eternal universe and, also, we are the centre of everything all at once.

I get mired in the minutiae, particularly when it comes to household management. Societally, this is common for middle-aged moms with kids at home. This past week, we bought our kids an old-fashioned clock radio, in hopes they would wake up on their own. Despite the clock, their dad goes in first to tell them to wake up. I come in 15 minutes later, to rouse them again. This morning, something occurred to me as I sang “Modeh Ani” at high volume to my teenagers and then a little Paul Simon, “Oh, my momma, she loves me, she loves me, she gets down on her knees and hugs me, she loves me like a rock!” (I can be annoyingly loud and cheery in the morning.) Maybe, even at 7:15, my boys like seeing us do this. Maybe these will be things they remember. Maybe this is how they are reminded that their parents love them.

Slogans that urge us onwards, to do “great things,” like “How we spend our days is how we spend our lives,” can really rub me the wrong way. After the raucous wakeup, I was outside, dressed and walking the dog 15 minutes later, wondering if this meant that picking up dog poop or reminding a kid not to forget his lunch was indeed how I’d spend my life. In a “loud” world full of people who boast of big world-changing endeavours, where does that leave me?

Some people I went to school with are, indeed, in big important positions in business or nonprofits, making change in the world, and that can make a person feel small and hopeless. The notion of tikkun olam, or fixing the world, feels far off. This umbrella phrase is a concept consisting of many individual mitzvot (commandments). It’s misleading and too broad when the individual commandments (visit the sick, provide food for the poor in your community, etc.) are accessible. Example: I saw a new mom of twins feeling desperate online. I knew, from experience, how to help.

“You can do this,” I wrote. “Take it one feed, one diaper change, one snack and one nap at a time. Take all the help you are offered. Think forward but only to the next thing you have to do.”

When I was in the trenches, alone, with my twin infants, I felt furious when smiling people said, “Enjoy it! It will all go by so quickly.” It was painful and slow, like being a grain of sand on an endless beach. Now, though, as I jostle my teens off to school with their lunch bags, I’m reminded that we can do big things, like raise a whole new generation, through these small details.

The rabbis spent a lot of energy trying to reconstitute what Temple sacrifice looked like. This seems a bit much to me until a kid loses his brand new, handknit mittens. Suddenly we’re retracing our steps, calling the places where he might have left them, and getting into the nitty-gritty. These little steps, how we spend our days, are, I believe, how we find our humanity. The global conflicts and issues change, but, if we can just focus on doing these small tasks for others, we can make enormous change over time.

It’s OK to be annoyed, bored and frustrated by all of life’s mindless tasks. That’s a real feeling that many of us share! It’s legitimate. Now, though, I have to go make chicken meatballs, with onions and dill and matzah meal in them, for supper, which we’ll have with potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets and a salad.

These endless details? They’re about nothing. They mean everything.

Learning to bridge divides

A friend from my grad school, Jill, has a distinguished academic career. She’s now the chair of her university’s religious studies department. She’s co-authored a book on dialogue in education and works with an organization called Essential Partners, which “helps people build relationships across differences to address their communities’ most pressing challenges.” This work shows great promise in helping people listen and learn from one another.

This dialogue-oriented academic approach draws on the Socratic seminar, an ancient learning technique I was taught as a young teacher. It gets students to interact, do analysis and to listen carefully to one another.

I was thrilled that this technique was used in one of my twins’ public school English classes. His regular teacher was on leave and an experienced, retired teacher took over the classes as a long-term sub. As a former English teacher, I watched my Grade 9 student dig into the material. He did prep work to learn how to participate, including writing journal entries and eventually producing a literary analysis essay. The cherry on top was that this whole unit focused on Elie Wiesel’s book Night. The students finally accessed some Holocaust education (mandated by the province but not previously implemented) as part of this rigorous unit.

Then my kid reported that classmates said the sub was “trying to Jewify” them. Later, classmates said he only got high marks because he was Jewish and a teacher’s pet. In a polarized political climate, this teacher did everything right to facilitate safe dialogue and teach important texts. Even so, antisemitism popped up – showing how necessary dialogue like this is for our society at this moment.

Our household likes to discuss and debate. We don’t shy away from difficult topics. I think we succeed at this type of conversation at the dinner table, though we could all benefit from improvement in our listening habits.

When I became a parent, I stepped back from the academic work I used to love. I became a caretaker when we had twins, due to health challenges. I also mostly stopped teaching, due to all the moves necessary for my husband’s work.

To “get back” some of this work, I’ve explored different opportunities in the last year. I spoke on “finding hope,” as part of an ethics, politics and humanity panel at an interfaith conference. I committed to teaching two workshops at Limmud. In another foray, I took advantage of a podcast’s call for entries and applied. This local academic podcast focuses on “peopling the past.” They requested submissions to examine the relevance of the ancient world in understanding contemporary issues.

I wanted to explore how the Babylonian Talmud, in tractates Zevachim and Menachot, examines boundaries, definitions and understandings of “appropriate sacrifice.” I saw fascinating parallels between this ancient discussion and how textbook definitions of words like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “colonization” are being manipulated today. I thought it could make a great case study of how the Talmud recorded hundreds of years of comparison and dialogue between rabbis (scholars) and how that model might be applied to analytic discussion today.

The rabbis disagreed about definitions and details. It was a high stakes conversation for them. Ritual sacrifice in the Temple was a thing of the past, but they felt it essential to understand and record the right way to do this, so the Jewish people would know how to manage if the Temple were rebuilt. Further, if the Temple is never rebuilt, what could we learn from the “right” and holy way to do sacrifice?

Months passed. The deadline for hearing back from the podcast organizers passed. I inquired politely but heard nothing. Then, I did something I should have done in the first place. I researched more about the nearby academic organizing this. I learned this academic was heavily invested in Palestinian activism. Once I read this, I figured I would never even hear back about my proposal. Yet, to my surprise, I got a polite form letter, which (of course) turned down my submission.

My pitch might not have been competitive. I’ve got two master’s degrees but no PhD or university affiliation. The topic maybe was too controversial. Perhaps my write-up was too plainspoken. After sleeping on it, I realized none of that mattered. In fact, I was relieved. After all, considering my family’s challenges in listening more and talking less at the Shabbat table, I wondered if I could have pulled off a podcast conversation with a person so firmly entrenched in an opposing and confrontational viewpoint.

Studying Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) since January 2020 helps me shed light on these career-building experiences. Every day, I read rabbis’ debates, over centuries, that model dialogue and analytic questioning. There are aspects of the Socratic seminar in these texts and the ways in which scholars build relationships and bridge differences to solve their communities’ challenges. Repeatedly, I see this difficult, but meaningful, process play out between rabbis who lived almost 2,000 years ago, in a text compiled a little over 1,500 years ago.

A reflective teacher evaluates what was or wasn’t successful in an assignment or lesson plan. This recent rejection allowed me that reflection. I’d take off points if I assessed myself. First, I failed to do enough research to realize that this podcast, while geographically convenient, wasn’t a good fit for ideological reasons. Second, it helped me examine ways I can grow as a listener and work to create meaningful spaces for respectful, safe dialogue across deep divides. Studying Talmud for a few minutes a day, across six years, gives me even more respect for the role of civilized, rigorous discussion and safe spaces to disagree. Some people aren’t ready to grow this way. They cannot leave space for that intellectual growth. When challenged, they respond with rejection or name calling, as my kid experienced.

Finally, I realized why sometimes academics spend a lot of grant money and time on choosing the “right” professor to travel to their institution. It’s sometimes too uncomfortable to sit in the room with someone who is not an easy match. Still, we might learn more from the dialogue with those more challenging discussion partners. Learning to bridge divides and live together is sometimes the most meaningful work, after all.

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.

When boundaries have shifted

The beginning of January has not been easy in Winnipeg. We’ve dealt with hate crime graffiti, including swastikas, on Shaarey Zedek Synagogue, Kelvin High School, the Abu Bakr Al-Siddique Mosque, as well as a hookah café, residential properties and street signs. For my household, it was personal. It hit our congregation and my kids’ school. It marred street signs near where we live. It defaced a mosque where I know one of the members. This is a lot to deal with. The police triumphantly made an arrest, but, from what I’ve heard, it seems unlikely that this individual did all these crimes. The story is familiar to Canadians at this point. Here it is.

Hate crimes happen. “Oh!” our leaders say. “Hate crimes are horrible. This isn’t Canadian. We will seek justice!” Then, an intermittent flow of outrage and misinformation follows. Suddenly, there’s an arrest. Everything’s solved. Canadians live happily ever after.

That is, until a new crime pops up. When that’s reported, the response sometimes is, “Well, this isn’t fitting into our narrative. We don’t know how this happened.” It even extends to, “Oh, we (police or officials) don’t clean up graffiti, so you can go ahead and do this yourself.” Essentially, another episode is swept under the rug as inconvenient.

I learned about the Overton Window in a social science class years ago. However, when it came up in reference to societal change and antisemitism, I had to review its meaning. The term is neither positive nor negative. It defines something that we have all experienced. Imagine you have a spectrum of beliefs: about school choice, disabilities, tolerance and diversity, human rights, whatever. The term was originally designed to describe how a politician might use a “window” to define policies on this spectrum. Occasionally, it’s used to say where someone’s beliefs fall on the political spectrum. We can shift the Overton Window; for instance, towards increased accessibility for those with disabilities. Some shifts are good, some are not. This term helps describe what’s happening with respect to antisemitism.

As the police described their arrest of the suspect in this recent series of hate graffiti, they said something like they “would have to examine the motive behind the crimes.” I was flummoxed. How could a swastika on a minority’s place of worship or a public school be anything other than an act of hate? Discussion followed about the suspect’s mental health situation, as he is unwell. Soon after he was released from custody, he was arrested again, for breaking into a home and violating the conditions of his release.

Many people have mental health issues, but going out in the dark at 4 a.m. to paint swastikas isn’t a normal, common expression of those challenges. People who perform hateful acts should face consequences. The Overton Window of what is considered “acceptable” antisemitism seems to have shifted.

I’m guessing there are multiple people committing this hate in our city. Yet the narrative here indicates that “Hurray! We’ve got the culprit” and no more effort is being made to resolve the bigger issues.

Meanwhile, I concluded my Daf Yomi (daily page of Talmud study) of Tractate Zevachim, on how sacrifices worked in the days of the Temple in Jerusalem. I’m lucky I didn’t start my learning with this – it felt like a slog. However, I continued studying the tractate, even while I found it somewhat dry and lacking in fun aggadah (stories).

Zevachim examines questions like when is a religious ritual sacrifice acceptable? What is the right physical and mental space for doing these holy rituals? When is it considered transgressive because it’s done wrong? When is it accepted even if it is not done in quite the right time or place? What rituals are exempt from repercussions, even if they are not done exactly right or considered acceptable practices?

These questions are intellectual exercises. We have no Temple in Jerusalem. The rabbis quoted in this approximately 1,500-year-old text didn’t have a Temple anymore. We Jews in modernity don’t do ritual sacrifice. Still, questions about what feels acceptable or forbidden, exempt or meaningful, have real-life repercussions. When the rabbis discussed different parts of ritual, they considered shifting their Overton Window about what they could see as correct, acceptable, exempt from punishment, or such a violation that one was cut off from the Jewish people.

Historically, the Overton Window about what’s considered appropriate discourse or hate speech has also shifted – multiple times. Slurs and crimes against Jews are commonplace throughout millennia. We’ve also had some golden eras, when things felt safe.

This January was another shift in Winnipeg. It’s been horrible, but we knew it was coming. It’s part of a worldwide shift of what’s considered “acceptable” antisemitism. I’ve been asked what can be done. I suggested giving this hate a broad, inclusive definition. Re-read the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition. Nothing good is intended when someone spray paints a swastika on a synagogue door. It’s even more of a threat when it’s on a classroom whiteboard or hidden in a Jewish kid’s locker, as was the recent case.

We must educate people about history, including how to avoid antisemitic hate. Make that education required. With definitions and education, our window of what’s acceptable or a crime firms up.

These experiences have felt like a terrible personal violation. It feels threatening and unsafe. Yet, our congregation responded with courage and love. We welcomed many non-Jewish supporters at our Shabbat services afterwards. We responded with pride and inclusivity.

The kid was so brave. He took a photo of the graffiti on his locker, asked a parent for help, went to the school office. Now, there’s a police report, all his classmates know what happened.

The kid also faced extended questioning from administrators about “if he’d told the whole story.” He was told that “everyone makes mistakes.” One lesson the kid learned is that maybe reporting the hate crime itself was a mistake, because, instead of supporting him, the approach involved the suggestion that the victim did the graffiti to begin with. This is bad news, and a familiar type of antisemitism, where Jewish victims are blamed for having “brought it on themselves.” We shouldn’t say this to any victim. It’s not OK. If this is treated as being OK, it means that victims may trust institutions less, and report less often.

Sunshine is the best disinfectant. Actions like education and transparency can clean up and eradicate hate. We don’t know who did this, but we know who we are. We’re Jewish. We’ve been here before. We’re made of stern, proud stuff. The Overton Window has shifted. It’s time to ask our allies to all lean in to help shove it back again.

Give yourself the gift of love

A friend shared her plans for a “great” day off. This included a deep dive into her refrigerator to clean things out. This household task is necessary. Food safety is important, but that doesn’t make it fun. When the kitchen is completely clean and there’s nothing growing where it shouldn’t, it’s a relief. I also feel much better after a big clean up, even when it’s an effort.

I’m studying the Babylonian Talmud Tractate Zevachim, which is about how sacrifices must be done in the Temple, including what is prohibited. It’s mostly an intellectual exercise. The rabbis discussing this all lived after the destruction of the Second Temple. They were ironing out the minutiae, even when the whole sacrifice infrastructure no longer existed. Some see this debate as a grand effort of the imagination. Others read it to witness ancient legal debate in action. Many ask what we draw from these rabbinic texts today.

Since I’m a mom with twin teenage boys who eat a lot, I think about it practically. The concept of piggul pops up often. This is a disqualified offering, a sacrifice that cannot be accepted because the priest’s plan is to eat the sacrifice after the correct time for doing so. In modern terms, imagine purchasing food for a family gathering with deep spiritual meaning, but intending to wait to cook and serve it after its “best before” date. “Here, beloved relatives, please have this expensive roast that I chose to spoil before cooking!” It feels like a rabbinic prohibition that says: “It’s disqualified and forbidden to make a holy sacrifice this way because it’s wrong to give people food poisoning.” It’s bad housekeeping.

This food poisoning reference is meant in jest! Yet, sometimes we forget to be grateful and celebrate the amazing foods and gatherings that our families and friends offer us. One of my teens is taking a food and nutrition elective at school. This wasn’t a class he rushed to sign up for but he’s learning a lot. When he missed classes due to a field trip, he cooked at home instead. This kid likes to be our salad chef, but now he’s learning to make muffins, cakes and pancakes. He’s suddenly aware of how much goes into making meals. He now feels bad when he sees that I’ve produced (yet another) dinner without help, or when his dad stays up late frying eggs or making pancakes for breakfast the next morning. We don’t want our kid to feel bad. It’s both our duty and gift to our kids to feed them well, but I’m thrilled that he’s learning what goes into this labour so he can contribute, too.

I’m a “maker.” I find meaning in making things by hand, whether it’s sewing clothing, spinning yarn and knitting sweaters, or baking bread. The calm and focus I feel while making things is one of my life pleasures. Still, the drudgery of producing endless meals or sewing 10 pairs of pyjama pants for fast-growing twins can seem less pleasurable.

Since I have high standards for how things are made, my household often claims it is hard to buy gifts for me … so they don’t. (Note: I give them lists, I point out things I admire by other artisans and even voice when something is too expensive!) This past week, I gave myself a gift instead.

First, I came up with easy meals. I arranged grocery pick up so that the rest of the household could do it and then put the items away. Next, I lined up several necessary, but enjoyable, making activities that I wanted to do when I didn’t have work deadlines. As the week unfurled, I spent hours at the sewing machine and hand-sewing. I knitted and read. I took long dog walks. I relished wearing new flannel PJs that I’d just made myself and using new dishtowels I’d sewn. I even sewed a new, natural-fibre oven mitt rather than shop for a subpar one.

On Friday, I scheduled a walk by myself to two well-regarded artisan markets. I didn’t buy much. I came home with a new pottery service piece (for family food production), an industrial sweater pin made by Cloverdale Forge, a blacksmith, and a lot of inspiration for future creativity.

My weekend was also a big present. Our incredible cantor, Leslie Emery, was formally installed at Congregation Shaarey Zedek, though she has worked in our community for many years. My children and I chanted Torah at her installation Shabbat service. We heard amazing music at a Saturday night concert. We celebrated our cantor as a community. It was full of love.

The congregational installation guest was Elana Arian, an accomplished Jewish composer, performer and educator. It turned out I knew who she was. When I attended and worked at what used to be called UAHC Kutz Camp – the international leadership summer camp for Reform Jewish teenagers in Warwick, NY – Elana was one of the children running around. Her parents, Rabbi Ramie and Merri Arian, often came to teach at Kutz Camp. It was a full-circle moment to hear this Jewish musical talent at my congregation. I remembered the joyful little kid she’d been at summer camp, too.

Elana Arian taught us a song from her new album, If We Loved Like That, which is based on the talmudic teaching to “love your neighbour as yourself.” First, Elana pointed out – we need to love ourselves. Sometimes, making time to do this great service, to love ourselves, feels like too much. It’s too hard to offer ourselves a clean refrigerator or a staycation of rejuvenating creative work. It’s too much work to learn to chant a new Torah reading. Fact: we often don’t make time to go to bed early or sleep late, make and eat healthy food or take a long walk. Yet, these are the greatest gifts we can offer ourselves.

Don’t do “piggul” and eat spoiled meat. Carve out time, when you need it, to honour yourself and do things right. By extension, those chores for family, community and the world will feel easier. As one of Elana’s famous songs goes, “I have a voice. My voice is powerful. My voice can change the world …” – but to be the most powerful you? You need to fill your own cup up first.

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.

Cheshvan a great month, too

The Hebrew month of Cheshvan, or “Mar Cheshvan,” is the second month on the calendar after Tishrei. It comes right after all the fall holidays end. The rabbis called it “mar,” or bitter, because it doesn’t have any holidays or special mitzvot (commandments). This mom has an entirely different take. I’m very tired … and relieved.

This doesn’t take away from any of the meaning, pomp or special parts of the fall Jewish holidays, which are all fantastic. I’m still holding one moment as dear: sitting in my sukkah, I could see the clear sky, with a few clouds floating past, see and hear the migrating birds, smell and see the fall leaves, and embrace the chill in the air. It was a fabulous family meal moment, only topped by the solitary lunch I ate on the back porch, in the sukkah sunshine. I had the newspaper, along with a big plate of food. I was warm. There were no wasps. A true triumph, considering it often rains or snows in Winnipeg during this harvest holiday.

Yet, I’m also worn out, and not just from two years of worry about the war. If you live outside big Jewish population centres and you want celebratory holiday meals, the options are limited. In Winnipeg, if you want kosher food, there’s only catering from two or three places. If you’re OK with kosher-style food, there are more options, but, for instance, a beautiful big challah is not always easy to procure at the last moment. Even if you’re not strictly traditional, purchasing and putting together a holiday meal can be expensive and time consuming, even if you don’t cook it.

Challah is a good example. If you want a buy a single challah, it costs somewhere between $6 and $12 in Winnipeg. I like to cook and bake. From what we’ve observed, my recipe is richer and has a higher food cost than these commercially produced challahs. In the past, I used to make one batch (about three pounds) using my bread machine and produce three loaves. One would go into the freezer for a future Shabbat or holiday. Two would go out on the table and last the weekend. I now have twin teenage boys. All three challahs might last through Sunday lunch. Doubling the recipe and doing it all by hand results in more loaves to freeze for another day, but I receive grumbling from the peanut gallery because it doesn’t taste the same.

The person in charge of food prep in your household is well-aware of the grocery planning and food preparation time needed. They’ll even know the time it takes to set a holiday table and get everything out onto it before a holiday starts. Yes, it’s sometimes easier if others help, but sometimes it results in bellyaching and goes slower than if the most efficient person does it all by themselves.

In recent years, this effort has been given a few names: mental load is one. I’ve carefully tried not to gender this task. However, just as women’s pay rates in Canada still don’t equal men’s, it’s also true that women tend to shoulder much of this unpaid burden. Yes, there are exceptions, absolutely. There are women who’ve never left the workforce to have children, haven’t married or compromised in any way for a man’s career, and never been a caretaker. These women might make an equal wage for their work, and that’s great. It’s also true that there are men who shoulder most household tasks. Just like the example of Golda Meir as Israel’s prime minister, simply because an exceptional woman has achieved equity or high office doesn’t mean we’re “there” yet in terms of equality and equity for everybody.

I recently pitched a class for Limmud (an international program offering Jewish learning, where everyone pays to attend and shares the cost) about positive tips for raising Jewish kids. Many of the tips I thought of relate to this situation: special foods or cooking together, holiday celebrations, Jewish stories, activities or events, and Jewish learning and home life. Again, many of these tasks often fall to women, even though there’s no essentialist reason why they should. If a mom wants to do some quiet quitting and pull back to regain some time for herself, her work life or other pursuits, it doesn’t always follow that the other partner will jump into action to fill the void.

While mainstream Jewish organizations bemoan the cost of Jewish life, it’s rare that the supports exist to make this kind of unpaid labour easier. One exceptional example is when Jewish preschools provide parents with a way to order challah for Shabbat. Every Friday or holiday when school was in session, we were able to bring home challah affordably. It made a huge difference.

This isn’t, of course, a new phenomenon. I recently read about the requirements of the priests’ clothing in the Babylonian talmudic tractate Zevachim. Essentially, in the days of the Temple in Jerusalem, if the priests’ clothing wasn’t appropriate, it could make a person’s animal sacrifice invalid. To do a sacrifice, a person incurred a lot of costs: raising or purchasing an animal, getting to Jerusalem, and more. An invalid sacrifice could result in a horrible outcome for the person and their family, the priest and the community. Yet, no one discussed in this section how the priests got the clothing in the first place. Other information indicates that predominantly women spun all this yarn (on spindles, by hand) and wove the fabric and likely sewed it all together for the priestly garb. This effort was thousands of hours of unpaid work behind the scenes.

I’m looking forward to a hopefully peaceful and easier Cheshvan ahead. It’s a time that some may find bitter, but, like a bitter coffee served with dessert, sometimes a little less hoopla might be a nice, restful contrast. It also might give families time to reflect on who provides all that planning and labour to make your home celebrations special and your holidays a reality – there are many ways to alleviate that burden. Further, we should stop using examples of truly exceptional cases – that woman with nine kids who works full time and makes all the meals – to shame everyone else. A better outcome would be more equitable distribution of these Jewish tasks – to increase holiday or Shabbat joy in every household.

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.

Grammar insight on holidays

This year, I volunteered to help during High Holidays at my congregation. As a result, I became one of the “ticket ladies” on Rosh Hashanah. I used a cellphone that scanned bar codes on service tickets. When I first saw this being done on a holiday, I was surprised because of the technology use at a Conservative congregation on a day when some might not carry a phone. My family chose to print out our tickets, but times change. Even though everyone in my family had a printed ticket, we carried our cellphones anyway as we volunteered. It seemed safer to have our phones while walking to synagogue and while we were there. After all, that’s what the tickets are for, too. They indicate that the person belongs or has a spot and that the person is “safe.”

The police and private security guards asked where they should position themselves. More than once, they indicated that being indoors in the lobby might be a good spot. Instead, they were asked to stand outside, in autumn’s sunny weather, guarding the doors and/or directing traffic. I heard only one incident of loud, angry shouts on the street, near the police officer there. That was enough for me. I was relieved police were there, and that there were master lists of everyone who might be in the building that day, just in case.

While outsiders might think that this security is new, this is just the usual necessity at Jewish gatherings, though admittedly now more than ever. At odd moments between ticket scans, I thought of a dear family friend named Marge, who passed away in her 90s. Marge was a venerable and respected volunteer at the temple where I grew up. She was famous for her High Holiday ticket lady efforts. Marge was all business at the front door, a big smile for those she knew as they flashed their tickets. Yet, even if Marge knew you for 50 years, if you forgot your ticket, that grin vanished. A stern reprimand ensued. Marge kept us safe, and she wasn’t playing. She took that job seriously.

The congregation where I grew up, Temple Rodef Shalom in Falls Church, Va., is right near Washington, DC. Rodef Shalom started out small in the 1960s, when my paternal grandparents were founding members. It grew rapidly, along with the Washington area. My mom started its preschool, ran the entire education program, and ended her career there as the administrator/executive director. As a Jewish professional’s kid, I knew where the emergency alarm buttons were and that synagogues near DC were frequent targets of hate. Congregation members who worked for the FBI or CIA formed part of the volunteer security patrol for the High Holidays, too. Everyone smiled as they said that “no-nonsense” Marge ran a tight ship. She was their best line of defence.

Nobody knew this history in Winnipeg when I was given the ticket lady designation. I’d emailed with Marge right up until her passing. I tried to see her at every family visit. She loved to tell me about her Canadian grandfather, a fur trader whose family came from Sault Ste. Marie. The whole holiday, in between wishing everyone gut yontif, shana tova or sweet new year, I longed to tell Marge all about how I was a ticket lady now. I knew she’d love it. When I mentioned this to my mother, we both smiled over the phone. I’d never be as good at it as Marge was, but my mom also said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure Marge knows. She’s proud of you.”

Being a ticket lady was an education. I’ve been in Winnipeg 16 years, so I recognized many names on the tickets, but definitely not all the faces. As people rolled in, I also recognized how diverse we are as a people. Some of us are early, others right on time – and then, there are the rest.

This experience let me greet new people and hold on to lifelong connections. It made me think about a grammar term that’s fallen out of use. I wondered at how, as individuals, we are also dependent clauses. For years, we have seen news, books and other sources where the editing allows a sentence to start with “and” or “but” in a way that’s clearly dependent on the prior sentence. When I see this, I want to chastise, just as Marge might have. To me, that editorial choice still grates, but the volunteer experience made me see how the Jewish community works together. At the best of times, we are an enormous team, dependent on one another to function at our best.

Volunteering is an important part of Canadian identity. It was a required topic to study for my Canadian citizenship test, and I wondered why more congregants hadn’t volunteered. It was a vital part of my holiday this year. It reminded me how reliant we are on one another, as well as on our allies, our laws and law enforcement. Dependent clauses aren’t full sentences on their own. We, too, must remain connected to maintain meaning as Jews in Canada.

In the Babylonian Talmud’s tractate of Zevachim, which I’m now studying, there’s a lot of time spent on what happens when a Temple (animal) sacrifice goes wrong. If the priests in the Temple had the wrong intention or person in mind when performing a sacrifice, it could mean the person’s sacrifice wasn’t valid. We don’t sacrifice at the Temple in Jerusalem anymore, but our intentions, towards ourselves, the community and the world, still matter. Volunteering wasn’t a sacrifice for me. It felt like I was fulfilling my role with the best intentions while I depended on others to keep me safe at that open door. Instead of any kind of sacrifice, it was a High Holy Day bonus.

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.

Be more solution-oriented

Leaders are simply people, of course. And all people have strengths and weaknesses. Just like the traditional approach to weaving Persian rugs with an intentional mistake, we must remember that only the Almighty is perfect.

But some leaders become lionized and celebrated, their human failings swept under the rug (sorry). However, we’re in a political moment where some leaders’ mistakes are all too obvious. No need to name anybody. Many fit this description. It’s upsetting and confusing to realize that even those chosen as “the best” or “brightest” fail sometimes. It’s a useful learning experience, too.

Awhile back, I was discussing politics online with other Canadians. I came upon something that stopped me cold. A poster criticized a political leader. I asked what she saw as solutions. The questions I asked were how, if she were in charge, she’d do things differently.

Her response surprised me. She said the only thing she could do was vote and complain. That, essentially, it was her right to find fault, but not her obligation to offer solutions. Her opinion was that she wasn’t passive because, well, she voted consistently and complained vociferously.

From a Jewish perspective, we have plenty of examples of whiners. Remember the Israelites, wandering in the desert, who wanted to go back to Egypt because they didn’t have meat, fish, onions, garlic, leeks or cantaloupes? (Numbers 11:4-5) It’s a normal response to crave foods when you’re unable to get them. As a high schooler studying abroad, I craved M&Ms so much that my mother brought them when she visited. They were superfluous, but I wanted them.

The opportunity to complain is always available, but it’s unattractive, especially if there’s something you can do to fix the problem yourself. Since that high school moment, I’ve lived many places where I’ve craved food but couldn’t buy it locally. As a result, I’ve become a more creative cook. When traveling, it’s good to “load up” on cravings if they’re available. Not to hoard, but just as an extra pleasure.

Worldwide political upheaval made me study the Babylonian Talmudic tractate of Horayot with more interest. It’s a small part of the Talmud but it’s about how people in charge (kings, high priests, judges, teachers, etc.) can make amends or do the right sacrifices or actions to atone for their mistakes. This text assumes that there will always be errors in judgment. People in certain important positions have societal roles to play, and that means their atonements to seek forgiveness for errors must be bigger sometimes than if they were private citizens.

This may sound irrelevant but consider the role of a teacher. Teachers make mistakes. The best resolution to this would be a public acknowledgement of the error and a demonstration of how to fix it. We might shrug and get on with things after a private math mistake. Yet, if a math teacher makes this error in front of the class, the best lesson is having a student find and correct the error. Then, the teacher can perform the act of learning from their error, thank the student, and acknowledge that no one is perfect.

In our lives, even if we are not teachers, parents, supervisors, or in any authority roles, it’s a great idea to try to practise this approach: to remember that no one is perfect and that it’s all our jobs to find solutions. As Rabbi Tarfon teaches, “that it’s not upon us to complete the work, but neither are we free to stop doing it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:16)

This sounds simple. But, in the tractate of Horayot, there’s a very powerful ending about how our pride and ego can get in the way. It’s about three rabbis and their leadership roles: Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel (Rashbag) was the leader of the Jewish community in the Galilee during the late second century, after the Bar Kochba Revolt; the head of the court was Rabbi Natan; and a great scholar at the time was Rabbi Meir.

Rashbag is upset with a lack of protocol in the Torah academy. He wants everyone to stand when he comes in until they’re told to be seated. Rashbag suggests that, for Rabbi Natan and Rabbi Meir, who he perceives as less important, those studying should rise when they enter, but students can sit down again right afterwards. Rabbis Meir and Natan try to put Rashbag to an intellectual test to prove that he isn’t above them, but Rashbag finds out in advance and bests them.

Rabbis Meir and Natan are expelled from the Torah academy and forced to study outside. However, the academy couldn’t continue without their expertise, so there was the ancient equivalent of paper airplane communication happening. The expelled rabbis would throw questions into the academy, students would try to answer. If the students couldn’t, they’d ask for more help.

Obviously, this was a bad way to learn. Rashbag was forced to readmit the scholars, but only with the proviso that their rulings couldn’t be under their own names. Essentially, the glory of Torah was more important than the glory of Torah scholars. This remained true for all except for Rashbag and his descendants, who insisted on maintaining their grudge and hereditary leadership and denying these two learned men their due.

Where does that lead us? Leaders are fallible. Each of us has the potential to uplift, lead and find solutions. When necessary, we need to stop being passive and lead more. Sometimes, that means trying to avoid big egos or coming up with creative responses to difficult problems. It can feel uncomfortable to raise our voices and act, if we’re used to letting others do the hard work. Also, we need allies to help make change. This means building connections with others, particularly outside the Jewish community.

The pressing example for the Canadian Jewish community is our political leaders’ refrain after antisemitic incidents: “This isn’t who we are as Canadians.” Well, in fact, it is who we are, as evidenced by the dramatic rise in hate crimes. We have leaders who aren’t acting to solve this problem. It’s getting worse. In response, we must step up and ask our allies to do so, too. Nobody’s perfect. People make mistakes. That said, we must hold leaders – and all those passive followers – to account if we expect to remain safe in Canada. It’s time to find solutions. Complaints alone don’t cut it.