Joanne Seiff – Page 2

Gifts, property and curses

We recently had some work done on our garage. In 2021, when we purchased our new home, which was built in 1913, the inspector marveled at the garage, which was an early, purpose-built building meant for cars as compared to the converted carriage houses nearby.

There are still outbuildings in the neighbourhood, now used for cars or workshops, which contain horse stalls, but our garage, the inspector said, was special. That said, it’s narrow and the floor’s broken. It had the remains of both an old knob and tube electric panel and a chimney. Once, we imagined, a chauffeur warmed the space with the woodstove every winter to keep the car running.

When the contractors who fixed our house so we could live in it came back to work on the garage, things became complicated quickly. It turned out it was not just a couple rotten boards. Long ago, someone had cut important structural supports to put on larger heavier garage doors, likely when cars themselves became larger. A little stabilization project became a multi-week event, complete with new concrete footings all the way around the building and new structural supports. The garage no longer sits at a dangerous tilt. Our kids can go inside without danger.

This expensive project doesn’t mean that we’re suddenly using the garage in Winnipeg this winter. The concrete floor is still broken, the doors are narrow and the whole thing needs a coat of paint. All of those renovations will have to wait, because winter’s here. I’ve just cleaned snow off the car, parking on the street again this morning. This experience was one of those reminders that, in life, unexpected things happen, and that we make the best decisions we can in the moment, and roll with it.

This brought me to what I’ve been studying in Bava Batra, the talmudic tractate I’ve been studying as part of Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day). Lately, what I’ve been learning has to do with death-bed gifts and inheritance. There’s an understanding that, if someone is on their death bed, they can give their property as a gift without the legal formalities that would normally be required. Also, the rabbis rule that, if a person miraculously does not die, their promises and gifts can be retracted. In other words, if you gift everything to your brother on your death bed, but then you don’t die, you can keep your home and fields.

On page 153, there’s a woman who gives away her property as a gift as she’s dying, but, by some miracle, she recovers. She goes to Rava, a wealthy rabbi who headed a school in Babylonia, and asks for her property to be returned. After all, she is still alive and needs her belongings back. But Rava says that the “gift” cannot be returned. His ruling doesn’t align with the rest of the rabbis or the law.

Obviously, this unnamed woman is upset and protests. Rava then has his scribe, Rav Pappa, create a ruling that, on the surface, looks like it’s in this woman’s favour, but references a text that indicates that this woman should just leave, without her property. Rava assumes this woman won’t notice his trickery, but this (unnamed) woman is smart, and angrier than ever.

Left with no other options, the woman in question resorts to a curse. Given the time, roughly 1,670 years ago, curses, amulets and magic were all used, and, in this case, the curse works. The woman curses Rava, says his ship will sink. Rava, somehow trying to trick the curse, soaks all his clothes in water to avoid it. Readers: the curse works, and not the tricks. Rava’s ship goes down. Rava drowns.

Later, medieval commentators wonder why the curse worked. The woman felt angry for good reasons. Rava had robbed her of her property. Rava’s ruling also had shamed her, and it was meant to trick her into leaving. This woman was clearly wronged. Sometimes, when a curse punishes the correct target – the later rabbis conclude a curse has strong power.

Long ago, someone really wronged our property, this garage, when they cut the structural supports. Given how unstable it was, it could have killed someone. Thankfully, no one was on their death bed here and apparently there were no curses. I did wonder whether we were expecting a miracle to fix this historical structure, or whether an expensive demolition was in order. It’s sometimes hard to undo a bad decision, but we were able to afford to repair a bad situation, which was created by someone else’s bad judgment.

People often seek the easiest way out – through tricks or pulling a fast one. Finding the best way forward sometimes means enduring jackhammering, structural work and funding a costly repair. Maybe if we hadn’t asked “our guys” to check out the garage, we wouldn’t have known the danger. Once we did, though, we couldn’t ignore it. Once the garage project started, even though this huge expense wasn’t in the budget, we had to deal with it.

Hanukkah is coming up. Although our kids will still get treats and gifts, my husband and I will celebrate getting our garage back. Unlike this powerful, smart, unnamed woman who was wronged in Bava Batra, we didn’t lose all our property. We rolled with the unexpected, and now have a safe space, instead of a precarious risk. All this worked out better for us than for that unnamed woman long ago – and we didn’t even have to curse anybody.

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.

Against their best interests

Writers often get submission calls saying “Sorry, we cannot pay you, but our publication is widely distributed. You’ll get great exposure!” I don’t bother, thinking something like “No, thanks. I live in Manitoba, Canada. We can die of exposure.”

For most, writing isn’t lucrative. If I sell an article, sometimes the cheque covers the grocery bill. Years ago, I decided that I don’t work for free. I avoid residencies and literary submissions with reading fees. Even a well-appointed writer’s residency often costs money for travel, food or lodging. Meanwhile, I pay for utilities and care for my kids, so I write at home. It’s cheaper. Same for reading fees. Although small publications need support, if I pay them to read my submission, it conflicts with my goal to get paid. It’s common sense when trying to make a living.

In early November, I read Winnipeg Free Press editor Ben Sigurdson’s column about writers, books and awards called “Paper Chase.” The headline read “Authors, artists boycott Israeli cultural orgs.” It summarized a petition signed by “thousands” of writers, listing by name some with Manitoba connections. These writers choose to avoid working with Israeli cultural and literary institutions, publications and festivals because they are ostensibly “complicit in violating Palestinian rights.” The petition doesn’t mention Hamas, which governs Gaza. It doesn’t hold Hamas or Egypt accountable for their contributions to the crisis or mention Oct. 7. There’s no reference to the wider global conflict, which includes Iran and Hezbollah, among others.

By withdrawing their work, these authors want to punish non-political Israeli entities. They assume that, with their great literary fame, they’re important enough that their choice matters. They wish to deprive Israelis of hearing or reading their work. Due to their moral outrage, these authors won’t earn money from Hebrew translation rights, appearances at Israeli universities, conferences, festivals or book signings.

I noted that Sigurdson’s column removed the name of Jonah Corne, a Jewish University of Manitoba professor, from his list of Manitobans who boycott Israel’s literary scene. I don’t know why he did that.

Some suggest these protests are against Israel, where half the world’s Jewish population resides, but not against diaspora Jews. Why then leave a Jewish Manitoban off the “notables” who joined the boycott? Is it a mistake, or a tell? This protest conflates all Jews and Israelis, no matter one’s political beliefs or where one lives.

Writers fail to look after their own self-interests, be they monetary or ethnic, with this type of activism. Signing a petition could bring an author’s work attention, assuming “any publicity is good publicity.” Yet not all Manitobans on the petition got that dubious editorial publicity. Omitting a Jewish Canadian from the list of Manitobans who signed the boycott smells fishy.

Sigurdson also didn’t mention the long list of authors and creatives who signed a counter-petition by the Creative Community for Peace. This group is against discriminatory cultural boycotts. They support free expression for all. This list includes many recognizable names, from popular and intellectual circles, including Ozzy Osbourne, Mayim Bialik, Bernard-Henri Lévy and Gene Simmons, among others. Professors, actors, directors, musicians, Pulitzer-winning journalists and Nobel Prize-winning authors populate this list. These creative communicators, against boycotts and for free speech, include Jewish writers, but also allies.

This connects to the commotion about Canada’s Giller Prize. Jack Rabinovitch started this prize in honour of his late wife, the journalist Doris Giller. This award is Canada’s largest literary fiction prize, which comes with $100,000. The prize highlights Canada’s diversity and literary excellence and is sponsored by Scotiabank. It’s now fashionable to protest the prize and Scotiabank’s investment in Israeli arms manufacturer Elbit Systems. The petition lists others, including Indigo and Audible. Many authors now protest and boycott the jury. Others pull their work from consideration and sign petitions against the Giller via “Canlit Responds.”

The Globe and Mail’s Marsha Lederman writes that, if Scotiabank were sufficiently pressured, it might withdraw sponsorship from the prize rather than fully divest from whatever financial investment offends the protesters. No other sponsor would be likely to take on a prize that comes with so much protest baggage. The largest Canadian literary fiction award would disappear. Have these protesting authors thought this through? If the Giller Prize collapses, Canadian fiction authors can no longer benefit from it.

Rabinovitch and Giller were Jewish Canadians. This prize celebrates Canadian literature. In 1972, Giller, as a Montreal Star writer, worked as a correspondent in Israel, but this couple lived in Canada. Protesters forget to be grateful. The generosity of this prize and the positive attention it brings Canada’s literary scene shouldn’t be underestimated. Lederman writes that protesters haven’t targeted other large literary awards with financial ties to Israel or many other businesses on the boycott list. Is this protest about financial ties to the Middle Eastern conflict, or is it about bias against Jews, even if they live in Canada?

Practically, writers must make money if they want to work in their field. Publicity for political pet causes might make money from literary appearances, book signings, sales, or translations. But boycotting financial opportunities and suppressing access to books doesn’t help writers support themselves. Many readers support worldwide free expression and won’t purchase the books of those who boycott. Some readers won’t support those who hold Israeli cultural institutions, literary events or citizens responsible for a conflict that spans the Middle East. We don’t hold the Giller Prize, a literary award, responsible for North American political conflicts and policies. Why hold it and Israeli literary institutions responsible for a war started by Hamas and Iran?

In Canada, we celebrate diversity. The 2024 Giller Prize jury writes: “Writers of fiction imagine … what it means to be another: to be marginalized, to be suppressed, to be guilty – to be joyful! – or simply not seen.” Writers remain unseen and marginalized when readers don’t buy or read their work.

Further, Canadians have marginalized Jews, both in Canada and worldwide since Oct. 7, 2023, failing to condemn Hamas or antisemitism. For those who choose boycotts, that “othering” and marginalization of the world’s small Jewish population remains acceptable. Some now believe that, when it comes to the cultural contributions of Jewish Canadians, “none is too many.”

Cutting communication with the Israeli literary scene threatens Canadian cultural institutions. A political boycott also threatens half the world’s population of Jews, those in Israel. It doesn’t embrace free expression or bring peace. As Lederman suggests, it’s unlikely to help any Palestinians.

Boycotts allow writers to shoot themselves in the foot. Writers can’t pay for essentials when they aren’t paid for their work. Without big awards, even famous writers sometimes can’t pay for groceries. Limiting readership limits income. It’s noteworthy that, while past Giller winners protest, the media hasn’t reported on anyone returning that $100,000 prize.

Choosing diversity means including all Canadians, even Jewish Canadians who create opportunities like the Giller Prize. When it comes to how we behave, cause and effect still matter, even when writing and selling fiction.

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 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.

Our family sukkah traditions

I look at all the fancy sukkah kits people use when I cruise Instagram. I wonder how fast the structures go up, and whether they stand up to strong winds, but we’ve never spent the money on one to find out. Our sukkah is different. It takes a lot of work to put up and take down, but it’s sturdy and has a history.

Our sukkah was created by my dad in the 1960s for my parents’ congregation at the time, in Ann Arbor, Mich. My dad, an engineer, drew up his blueprint, signing it the “Dexter Sukkah Company” because they lived in Dexter, Mich., at the time. While my parents helped build sukkot at our congregation in Virginia where I grew up, and I helped decorate them, we never had one at home. I only learned about the “Dexter Portable Sukkah” as an adult.

As newlyweds, we told my parents that we might build our own sukkah. We lived several hours away from them, in North Carolina. My dad brought us copies of his plan. I think he may even have brought down some scrap lumber for us to assemble our own. That first year, we did it. My brand-new spouse and I harvested bamboo from an overgrown lot across the street for the schach (greenery put on top) and got started building. My beloved then dropped a piece of lumber on my head. The next day, my grad school advisor suggested I visit the student healthcare centre. A doctor concluded that I probably got a concussion. Although I am handy with a drill, that was the first and last year I built the sukkah with my husband!

Over time, we’ve moved for our academic lives and careers. The lumber got left behind in North Carolina. The year we lived in Buffalo, NY, while my husband did a postdoc, I taught at a community college, and we didn’t build a sukkah.

At the next stop, in Kentucky, we put the sukkah up in a grassy side yard our first year. My husband was a new assistant professor. We invited all his work colleagues to a big party. It took time for us to “get wise” to the antisemitism issues of our college town. We kept putting up our sukkah each year, but moved it to the fenced and gated backyard, where it was private. The schach in Kentucky mostly smelled stinky, as we cut back endless tree-of-heaven saplings from our overgrown backyard.

Fall evenings in Kentucky were warm, so we would have dinner parties in the sukkah, complete with bug spray. Friends and colleagues would comment about the runner beans and flowers we’d planted in the yard, while our bird dogs wrestled and chased crickets. Sukkot became a favourite holiday to be outside, sharing harvest food and hanging out with friends. We stayed in Kentucky six years. By the end, my husband’s enthusiastic use of deck screws meant that our sukkah lumber was splintered. We abandoned it when we moved to Winnipeg.

Building a sukkah in Winnipeg, 15 years ago, we started from scratch, using the Dexter Sukkah Company’s blueprint, and bought new lumber, too. That piece of paper with the sukkah plans took up residence in our cordless drill case. No matter what we fix, we see my dad’s plans. A friend from synagogue biked over to help that first year, with his drill gun tucked into the small of his back the way some people carry firearms. This time, my husband used an IKEA-type interlocking fastener approach to frame the walls, where it takes longer to assemble and disassemble the pieces, but the wood remains in better shape. He used mostly oak, elm and crabapple branches as schach at our first Winnipeg house. That year, we continued with the dinner parties, including wine and cheese, with new professor friends. The small crabapple fruits added some additional colour overhead, and some additional excitement when one landed in a wineglass.

As time passed, our sukkah became decorated with preschool fruit stuffies and paper chains, filled with twins who squeaked with enthusiasm from high chairs. Eventually, they were grade-school kids who set the table and cleared afterwards, in hopes of getting dessert faster.

In our new home (still in Winnipeg), this is the second year we’ve managed to build a sukkah. The schach comes from Virginia creeper vines and Manitoba maple shoots. The kids are big enough to hold up the sides while my husband screws it together. I worry about whether somebody will get hit on the head again. For the holiday, I bake lots of food in advance to feed hungry teens – fresh air seems to make them eat even more! We sometimes invite over other families. Sometimes, we just celebrate on our own. We hope it won’t rain too hard or snow – because we’re not diehards. If it’s a cold rain, we’re celebrating indoors at the dining room table instead!

We reuse our decorations, including the stuffies and the plastic wine goblets, every year. This is a holiday that is not expensive for us. We’ve never upgraded to a fancier kit sukkah, fairy lights or pricey ushipizin (guest) artwork, and that’s OK. This year, in a holiday season when, to be honest, everything has felt pretty hard to get through, I was heartened to see the sukkah rise again in our backyard, from 2×4 lumber, cut long ago.

Some years, my holidays are enriched by study. Yes, I loved studying the talmudic tractate describing the rules around building a sukkah, which can seem ridiculous. You can use the side of an elephant as part of your sukkah! That’s legal, according to the rabbis, but also entirely unnecessary. It’s also fine to build your sukkah out of scrap lumber and paper chains.

This year, my husband spent a full day of a long weekend erecting our old-fashioned sukkah. Looking exhausted, his face red from wind, he smiled when he remarked that we’d been doing this now for 26 years. He continued with “every year’s sukkah is a little different, but every year’s design is the same, too.” There’s nothing wrong with that! In a time with so much upheaval, family traditions like these – even if they are clunky, heavy and time-consuming – are well-worth keeping.

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.

There is value in diluted wine

Recently, a stranger responded to a forum post I wrote on Ravelry, a knitting website. I’ve worked off and on for many years designing knitting patterns. In the last four years, I’ve been distracted by the pandemic, by moving house and renovation, and the war. I haven’t put out any new patterns for awhile. Then, hit by a variety of antisemitic interactions, I decided I didn’t want to market my past work either. Most of my patterns are like anyone else’s, but a few show my Jewish identity. This includes two kippah knitting patterns and a hamantashen grogger design.

So, I mentioned my hesitancy about marketing during wartime to a Jewish knitters’ group. Out of the blue, I got a screed from an outsider that shows just why I’m wary. According to this response, I’m one of those “people without a soul.” Among many other comments, it was insinuated that

Israelis appropriated everything – we even stole hummus. Of course, the “we” showed exactly how jumbled up this person was. She assumed all Jews were Israelis or that all Israelis were Jews. The person didn’t understand the word “antisemitism” at all. It was quite a daunting paragraph. I knew many things about this hateful post were off base, as did others who were on this forum. Despite multiple reports about this screed, however, the website’s owners didn’t respond to us or promptly remove the hateful post.

Meanwhile, my household encountered hateful graffiti about the war in our neighbourhood again, which we reported to the police. This is at least our fifth report; there’s an investigation complete with incident numbers, as most of the graffiti isn’t about the war but simply Jew-hatred.

I then read a biased media report online. Recognizing the name of a journalist associated with it, I contacted her – and here’s where the narrative changes.

The journalist was open to my concerns, thoughtful, and the article was immediately edited. The police contacts I have dealt with have been unfailingly responsive and empathetic. I was comforted by professionals who saw our concerns, indicated they too saw the hate or bias, and acted on it. These were smart people who used their roles to stand up for what is right. Were they allies in every way? I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but, in these instances, I felt less alone.

As part of my Daf Yomi (page of Talmud a day), I’ve been learning the Babylonian tractate of Bava Batra. In Bava Batra, on page 96, a question arises. At what point is a food so significantly transformed that we need to change the blessing we say when eating it? Rabbi Elliot Goldberg introduces this in an essay on My Jewish Learning, and it gets at the weird gradations we encounter and how to categorize them. On this page, there’s a question that relates to beverages. At what point is a drink derived from grapes so watered down that it’s no longer wine, and now just some sort of flavoured water? I immediately understood this because, centuries later, I’ve also had those bubbly waters flavoured with “real fruit.” Is there any actual nutrition from the fruit in what we are drinking? No, there isn’t. It’s usually just a little grape taste in the carbonated water. It tastes good, but it’s not juice.

My household traveled in September to a family bat mitzvah in New York City. There were many great moments during the weekend, including the bat mitzvah, which was held at the famous congregation, the Society for the Advancement of Judaism. This is where Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan served on the pulpit and the cantor was famous for composing “Hava Nagila.” Reconstructionist Judaism started in this building. There was good food, some great sightseeing. I especially enjoyed the perfect fall weather in Central Park during Shabbat, watching cousins play and chat in the playground.

Even so, I don’t love travel. A 12-hour journey, two airplanes, an international border and huge crowds can be a drag. Like the diluted wine conversation, it reminds me that not everything is obvious. Some dilution (or travel) is fine. Too much can result in a less pleasurable experience that we must bless and define differently.

On the airplanes, I read a novel, Suzanne Joinson’s A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar. At first, it appeared to be a story about women missionaries and their proselytizing efforts in Western China. By the end of the novel, it was about sexual assault, lack of medical care, gender identity, riots and war, colonization, British identity, exoticism, refugees and more. Just like diluted wine, sometimes things are not what they initially appear to be about. A book I sought out as entertainment was something more.

So, too, what we see as entertaining or as a diverting hobby – a knitting project, for instance – can be more. The design is a piece of technical writing, the finished garment keeps us warm and, somehow, discussion about it can turn into an opportunity for those who hate. Even the chore of reporting something can turn positive, via an opportunity for dialogue with a journalist or police officer, or negative, when a site’s moderators and owners fail to respond appropriately or quickly.

During the High Holy Days, we reflect on our behaviour, with clear markers of right and wrong, good and evil. Usually, that is more than enough to think about, but, this year, everything I ponder is tinged with this last year of tragedy, war and its aftermath. As I escape into the outdoors, a good conversation or a novel, I go back to the talmudic conversation about diluting wine. The past year has felt “diluted” to me by the sadness and the war and antisemitism. Yet, I hope, as always, that Sukkot will bring good weather for sitting outdoors, and interesting conversations. Simchat Torah might give me a chance to dance with the Torah with joy and without reservation.

As I sat in Central Park, a cousin asked me, with only a little smirk, if I was still into “the knitting thing.” I paused. It’s OK to acknowledge that our intellectual energies and what we find entertaining have changed or diluted during this time. Many have changed irrevocably since Oct. 7, 2023. The High Holy Days offer us an opportunity to get back in touch with ourselves and consider who we are. The changes may be hard ones. We may be “diluted” differently, but the change itself isn’t bad. Rather, it’s part of life’s journey. Here’s hoping for sunny moments in the sukkah this fall, but, if it snows instead here in Winnipeg or it rains in Vancouver, we can’t control that. We can just control how we understand and bless it. Gam zu le’tovah, this too is for the best.

Think first, then share news

When I write articles lately, they’re usually columns with an Opinion header near the editorial section. Most writers try to back their opinions up with research and information. I’m no different. However, some readers can be easily swayed regardless of the facts involved. This was clear to me when I ate dinner at a neighbour’s home recently. I chatted with my host about a syndicated columnist who gives succinct opinions about all sorts of world politics.

The writer’s accessible approach makes it seem like his opinions are solid. His tone is breezy and confident. But he covers so many different world events and conflicts that I wondered how he knew so much about it all. My host suggested he had a large staff to help him. I doubted this. Writing’s just not that profitable these days.

Here’s why I grew to doubt this columnist’s work. When it came to how he analyzes Israel and the Middle East, I have some academic background in the subject and I read widely. I saw where I disagreed with his assumptions. In several cases, I had more information about the issues than he presented. I saw his bias. I questioned what I read. Yes, his work is always on the newspaper’s editorial page. It’s always an analysis piece but that doesn’t mean his facts and conclusions are always correct. Now when I read his work, I see the “mansplaining” tone. He’s overconfident and oversimplifies big conflicts. Sadly, I suspect few people call him on it.

My host and I had this exchange while talking about mainstream media. In North America, we like to think our journalism is objective, fair and impartial. When I was a kid, my family visited relatives in France. I noticed the sheer quantity of publications on the French newsstands. More than one relative explained that they subscribed to certain newspapers that represented their political view and bought others with differing views. This way, they could get a full picture of world events. They acknowledged that everyone had biases and that media wasn’t objective. The way to get a fair representation of events was by doing more: more reading, more information gathering, critical comparison and analysis.

My recent Talmud study, from the tractate Bava Batra, has taken me through some fun “tall tale” narratives from Rabbah bar bar Hanna. He was prone to exaggeration. In Bava Batra 73, he sees enormous antelopes and a frog as big as 60 houses. He claims that a dragon swallows the frog, which is then eaten by a raven. The raven then sat in a tree. Can you believe, he says, how sturdy that tree was?

When Dr. Sara Ronis introduces these stories in the My Jewish Learning essay for this page, she calls them what they are: a real fish tale. (You should have seen the fish that got away!) These myths also perhaps have parallels to a Zoroastrian text called the Bundahishn, according to Drs. Reuven Kipperwasser and Dan Shapira. The stories might be crazy, but they were floating around in the ether of multicultural Babylonian marketplaces. Rabbah bar bar Hanna returns to the study hall with his crazy stories. The other rabbis call him on his nonsense. They insult him and call him names, criticizing his choices. There are lots of modern scholarly opinions about why the other talmudic rabbis do this, and what it means. It’s a topic for academic debate.

However, what if this is an ancient reminder for us? What if, during this period of Elul, when we’re supposed to start doing serious introspection, we’re also supposed to be examining exactly what crazy stories we’re swallowing? Imagine social media and news outlets as our marketplace. Maybe we’re bringing home Zoroastrian tall tales and repackaging them for our own consumption. The rabbis teach us in Bava Batra that swallowing these fish tales whole is not the smartest move. The rabbis ask why Rabbah bar bar Hanna didn’t just stop and think more before bringing this “stuff” home with him.

We’re often plied with misinformation – about the war in Israel, but also about other news. What do we know about Russia and Ukraine, repression in Iran, the Uyghurs or the Sudanese crisis? How much propaganda has been sent our way and who paid for it? It’s hard to tell. Too often, a seemingly objective, sincere journalist’s narrative might mislead us simply because their unconscious bias and opinion is submerged in the text. The editor’s headline guides us, too.

Worse, sometimes it’s not subconscious bias. Sometimes, it’s bots or outright propaganda, paid for by a country that wants to mess up North American elections or culture. I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I believe that, like the rabbis suggest to Rabbah bar bar Hanna, one should reflect on things you read or hear, really look at them, and think critically.

This season’s the time when we’re supposed to be examining our deeds since last year. Most of us were guilty of complacency in this past year. Last Sukkot, we couldn’t have imagined what was ahead. If someone had described what was to come, we would have accused them of telling an abhorrent tall tale. For many, Oct. 7 and its aftermath have been one scary, real and gruesome nightmare.

It’s easy to understand complacency. We want to feel safe. We don’t want there to be metaphorical enormous frogs or dragons around the corner. That said, we owe it to ourselves to be like the rabbis in the study hall who called out Rabbah bar bar Hanna. Those rabbis asked bar bar Hanna to pause and think more about what he saw, read or told them.

In the spirit of the High Holidays, let’s be true to ourselves. There is plenty of horrific real news for us to share. Let’s read widely first. Let’s keep our eyes open so we recognize bias and what is really happening before we pass something along. Let’s avoid the rumours and speculation, too.

Wishing you a sweet, happy, healthy and peaceful 5785, free of misinformation.

Allowing for joyful holidays

My house smells like chicken soup. That is one of the surefire ways to tell that holidays are on the horizon. It’s a cooler summer day. I have two slow cookers “working” to make that all important broth for autumn days to come. Chicken soup is a little thing but it’s one of those small details that I do in advance to make our family holidays special.

I recently read an introduction to a page of Talmud on My Jewish Learning by Dr. Sara Ronis. It examines Bava Batra 60. This page of the Babylonian Talmud resonates with what many of us are wrestling with during this past year of war. To summarize, Rabbi Yehoshua comes upon Jewish people, who, after the destruction of the Second Temple, in 70 CE, chose to become ascetics. They give up eating meat and drinking wine, because these things could no longer be offered in sacrifice at the Temple in Jerusalem. The ascetics suggested that, given the loss of the Temple, life could no longer be as spiritually rich or as physically nourishing.

Rabbi Yehoshua tries to reason with them, asking if they should stop eating bread, since the meal offerings at the Temple have also stopped. The ascetics suggested they could subsist on produce.

Rabbi Yehoshua asked if they would give up eating the seven species of produce offered at the Temple. They said they could eat other produce.

So, Rabbi Yehoshua says, I’m paraphrasing here: “We’ll give up drinking water, since the water libation has ceased.” To that, the ascetics responded with silence – of course. You can’t give up drinking water and stay alive.

Rabbi Yehoshua encourages the people to make space for mourning but to avoid extremes; he suggests that choosing to be an extremist is dangerous. Making space in our life for other things like daily pleasures and regular foods is important. Devoting all our energies to mourning will rob us of life, too.

This story came to mind when I saw the celebratory photos of Noa Argamani, a rescued hostage. She wore a yellow bikini and danced with her father atop others’ shoulders at a party. In addition to having been a hostage, her mother had passed away from brain cancer, only three weeks after Noa’s rescue on June 8. The pure, almost ecstatic joy of the images clashed in a difficult way with the ongoing war, the hostages still in Gaza, and all those suffering in the conflict. Some immediately sought to criticize this behaviour. There are those who said, “if only Jewish women were more modest, the hostages would be returned.” On the other side, some said, “Look at these Israelis celebrating even while Gazans suffer.”

I remember being told at a long ago Simchat Torah celebration that mourners, after a death of a family, shouldn’t dance or sing. Yet, maybe 10 years ago, when my twin preschoolers asked a Moroccan Jewish family in mourning for their mother, to sing with them Mipi El (a Jewish acrostic song, a piyyot, with a traditional Sephardi tune loved by my sons), these older men held up my kids, danced and sang with the Torah. It was a meaningful moment. It was full of emotion. Maybe one can dance with the Torah and celebrate a little – even while mourning. I almost felt their mother, who I never knew, who raised them to be committed and involved Jewish adults, would approve.

Rabbi Yehoshua’s logical argument and suggestion that we hold onto joy even while mourning is important. Making space for all these feelings in our lives is both powerful and hard. Smelling the chicken broth aroma filling my house makes me anticipate the New Year and holidays to come. Also, like many others, I will never be able to celebrate Simchat Torah the same way again. Yet, nothing made me happier than seeing Noa Argamani and her father make the most of every moment they have together. They deserve every happiness.

In this past year, finding ways to be grateful, to anticipate rituals, holidays and joy has felt really heavy at times. Twice in recent weeks, my family has returned home from a fun summer outing to see antisemitic graffiti in our neighbourhood. There is nothing like having to take photographs of a hate crime, call the police to make a report, and send off the photos to B’nai Brith and CIJA as well to turn a sunny family adventure into a downer. I struggle with processing all this and going on with daily life.

So, when someone I follow on Instagram showed off her Instant Pot chicken soup process, I started up my serious chicken broth production. Here’s to getting new batches of chicken soup, that liquid gold, into the freezer, ready to make new positive memories and associations for the fall holidays to come.

Haiku signs in the bathroom

This summer, our main event was a road trip. My husband had a conference at Cornell University in Ithaca, NY. Since we met at Cornell as undergrads 30 years ago, we thought it might be worthwhile to make this a family trip. We hadn’t been back in 20 years.

When you go back to old haunts, they might not be what you expect. There were so many new campus buildings. I took our twins on a campus tour where a 19-year-old guide talked about economics (her major), business and start-ups. When she asked the alumni in the group about their majors, I told her I was a double major: comparative literature and Near Eastern studies. She said, “So interesting!” in a tone that made it clear she thought I was ancient and bizarre.

I didn’t feel at home in Ithaca, which I used to feel was “my place.” My kids found holes in Cornell’s sustainability mantras that I used to deeply respect. While trying to dry clothing by draping it in the back of the car, for example, they pointed out there were no clothes lines in the dorms where we stayed or outdoors. When we went to buy the obligatory university sweatshirts, they couldn’t believe the campus store stocked tons of branded items made entirely of synthetics – manufactured from petroleum and likely made in poor working conditions.

When we visited a renovated cafeteria, where I had eaten with my husband when we first met, we had to go to the washroom. Each stall had a short message posted. It explained what not to throw down the toilet. It also explained what had happened to require the message to be posted. It was the soul of brevity, a haiku of sorts, but it answered every question that a smart-mouthed adolescent student might ask.

With a smirk, I commented that this was still my kind of place – it offers the full explanation. As an adult, I’ve lived in places without the full explanation. Here’s an example: when an event is announced in Winnipeg, there is a start time, usually with a vague location, and the announcement just assumes everyone knows where it is. There’s also an assumption that you’ll know that, if food will be served, what kind of food, and what else is likely to happen. If there is a contact number at the end, it’s a postscript that reads, “If you are dumb enough to not understand this, call this person – but, guess what, they won’t know either.” Admittedly, I’m paraphrasing a little here, but, inevitably, if I call that number, the person is completely stymied by my questions. They wonder about why anyone would need to know what I am asking. They aren’t used to newcomers who might not know what to expect or who need all the details.

Maybe I’m just that annoying person who likes to know what I’m getting into, but when I hang out with relatives from bigger cities, their event schedule is full of the pertinent details. When I look at my sister-in-law’s fridge, in the DC suburbs, every single school event flyer or invitation has all the information. Maybe it’s a Type A thing? Even if they’re uptight, those are my people.

Recently, we had a visit with a local teacher here in Winnipeg and she mentioned a place run by two nice Jewish guys, called Friend Bakery and Pizzeria, which has delicious cinnamon buns. The bakery’s not near our usual activities. Out on an errand, we stopped in. We were greeted by the owners. They were welcoming, and open to our family deliberations. While we eyed the big $11 challahs, I said it was too bad that we’d already started ours in the bread machine – because it’s summer and I’m so not turning on the oven. The man nodded with understanding. We wished each other Shabbat Shalom. I got a little teary driving home. I had found more of my people.

Finding one’s “people” isn’t easy or without contention. Wandering around Ithaca on our trip, I encountered a Gaza war propaganda sticker with real venom to it. I was upset. For the first time ever, I unpeeled that sticker and threw it away. They might be free to spread misinformation, but I was just as free to see its harmful hate and throw it out.

Summer is for rest, reflection and productivity. I felt physically rested after spending many days in the car. Yet summer is also a time for growing things, embracing learning out of school and in the world. My kids saw lakes, gorges and waterfalls, ate lots of ice cream and watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for the first time. (The movie is still funny.) The grandeur of steep craggy landscapes and huge lakes is still awe-inspiring.

My world has narrowed some since Oct. 7. I actively avoid encounters where I suspect my household might face hate or harassment. A friend and ally suggested that it must be even more upsetting when it happens in a place where I’m relaxed and least suspect it. The places where I used to feel safe are painful to be in.

Even so, I’ve felt love, support and outreach from unexpected places. Two close non-Jewish mom friends, who consistently wish me Shabbat Shalom, encourage me to vent and they listen with love. A few of my husband’s colleagues and friends’ parents just contacted us out of the blue to say they care and are thinking of us.

I don’t know “where we go from here” in the middle of a war, and the hate it’s stirred up. I think about the bathroom sign haiku with a weird fondness. It said everything that needed saying. I wish bigger, scarier times allowed for that kind of precise explanation and brevity, but I know it isn’t possible. Smart people disagree, struggle and work to find meaning. This is what Torah and Jewish rabbinic tradition models for us. The key is to keep it up, not lose hope, and to avoid the paralysis that comes with irrational fear.

When we find “our people,” they don’t always agree with us, and things are always changing. A long road trip can remind us that we’ve been stuck in ruts. But, sometimes, the GPS directions are wrong. We need our brains, a hard copy map and common sense to get out of tricky situations; autopilot doesn’t always suffice. However, our personal and historic experiences offer a roadmap of what has gone before and what might lie ahead. With that context, we can go forward: towards a new school year, a new Jewish year, new learning and better times.

We must keep asking “why?”

Our short Canadian summer is full of wonder. We try to spend lots of time outdoors, finding things to marvel at on dog walks and even on errands. While we might not be out in the bush too often, we still can spot foxes, deer, woodpeckers, butterflies and moths, as well as magnificent gardens, in our neighbourhood in Winnipeg’s city core. As toddlers and preschoolers, children go through a “why?” phase. Everything is a question. Parents must come up with meaningful but short answers every time. However, as our tweens transition to teens, I have been pleasantly surprised to discover there are still a lot of “whys” being asked.

On a practical level, sometimes I end up saying “that’s a Google question” because I cannot remember every detail of European history. If our resident biology professor dad isn’t home, we’re trying to figure out flora and fauna on our own. (Hint: there’s an app for everything now.) Most of all, I am thrilled that intellectual curiosity is still a thing. Our household still finds space to wonder about how things work, what things are called and why events evolved in one way or another.

Just the other evening, I admonished our kid about being gracious about gifts. He didn’t know what I meant. We stopped to discuss the phrase “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” and take apart what it means. This kind of daily learning is an exciting part of life, and especially in summer, when we have hours at a stretch to talk and think about things, as well as seeing natural wonders, going to museums, meeting new people, reading and listening together. Pursuing this kind of informal learning makes a well-rounded education.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day, and right now we’re studying the tractate of Bava Batra, one of the three Bavas (translated as “gates”) that deal in civil law. I find nuggets of wisdom in these tractates, even as some of them seem dry to other students. If you’re wondering, for instance, who pays for a fence, or making the decisions about erecting a fence across a shared courtyard? The beginning of Bava Batra will help you figure out whether this is possible, and how to get along with your neighbour in the process. Each issue is examined with a “why?” lens.

How does one decide where you’re from? If you’ve lived in many places (I have), this is a real question. Do you define home as where you were born? Where you lived the most years? Which kitchen or garden you liked best? This is examined on Bava Batra 11, which suggests that, if you’ve lived in a city for 12 months, you can be considered a resident. However, if you buy a house earlier than that, or even, according to Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, land that would be suitable for building a house, you’re immediately considered a resident. This bit of ancient law discussion struck me as useful in an age where so many decisions are made based on where one lives: where one votes, gets health care, sends kids to school and other bureaucratic needs. Establishing residency is still often up for discussion.

There is an advantage to maintaining intellectual curiosity and nurturing critical thinking when it comes to negotiating the world. As recently as a year or two ago, I would have been upset to think that one should be getting news from social media or email newsletters. Now, however, I find access to multiple reports about the Israel-Gaza war in English and Hebrew, through Instagram and X (formerly Twitter). I then end up satiating my curiosity by clicking through to read from multiple other news sources, finding out about elections in Europe, antisemitism worldwide, or even locating (and avoiding) possibly violent protests in my own city. Asking “why? why? why?” becomes a daily necessity in trying to decipher both what’s happening and the political angle of those who write the articles, blogs or tweets.

A recent piece covering humanitarian aid distribution in Gaza on the CBC, for instance, used the word “Hamas” only once, when mentioning “Hamas-led militants” on Oct. 7. The word “Israel” could be found on the page 18 times. While 18 is a lucky number, in this case, it sounds like an uncritical reader could lay blame on one side simply through repetition. One might completely lose sight of why Gazans are in this mess in the first place. If, perhaps, Hamas chose to stop firing rockets into Israel? It might be easier to distribute supplies and return to normality. Also, the journalist mentioned Egypt only twice. Egypt also shares a border with Gaza. Egypt could choose to facilitate humanitarian aid. Whose responsibility is this? The article’s slant, and the journalist’s bio, made me suspect a bias. When examining the journalist’s X posts online, I saw only one side of this conflict emphasized. It didn’t reference anything about Oct. 7 or Israel’s experience.

It can be hard right now to maintain an even keel while facing the barrage of information about the Gaza war, Russia’s war on Ukraine, politics in Canada, the United States and Europe, and the famines and violent conflicts elsewhere in the world. Unplugging and getting out to see and do things with family, taking a vacation, exploring wild places, helps us recalibrate. It can also boost our “why?” skills so we can return refreshed, with energy to analyze all the new craziness as it erupts.

I’ve just begun Bava Batra, but one topic hit early on is where and how to donate charity to do the most good. Bava Batra 8b reminds us that money donated towards “saving captives” is a great mitzvah, the biggest commandment/good deed that one can do. Sometimes, an ancient text can remind us to readjust our priorities. Reading critically and asking “why?” are essential to Talmud and rabbinic discourse. It’s also essential for us. We must keep helping our children ask “why?” We ourselves must maintain the wonder that enables us to stay curiously critical thinkers.

Criticism is hard but vital

A year ago, for an important birthday, we bought a mature lemon tree. This perhaps sounds absurd because we live in Winnipeg, which has extremely cold winter temperatures. However, our home has a heated sunroom and the lemon tree, in its pot, blossomed and bore fruit. When warm weather came, we moved it outside to enjoy the summer. The outdoor location, against a wall, sheltered the tree and two lemons ripened.

My kibbutz year came back as I picked that first lemon. The lemon blossoms perfumed the indoor air as they came and went. Off-the-tree citrus, just like any other fresh produce, tastes so much better than anything bought at a grocery store. While lemons offer a sharp, puckery sour taste, their zest and juice absolutely make food sparkle.

I posted about our “crop” of two lemons on social media. Immediately, I had a friend from Israel commenting on how lemons were her favourite fruit. Two other North Americans asked how we managed to grow them. I sensed their excitement through their onscreen responses.

This experience recalled another scenario, which plays out regularly in Jewish life – that of feedback, or constructive criticism. I was a blunt kid, accused of being not just assertive but aggressive at times. Instead of cloaking things in demure, “ladylike” manners, I said what I thought. I took to heart the idea that everyone can improve and that we should have high expectations. Yes, criticism can be difficult, and it’s sometimes unwarranted, but, without it, we sometimes can’t grow and improve as individuals or communities.

I recently took part in a Jewish business fair for newcomers at our Jewish community centre. Sponsored by Jewish Child and Family Services, it uplifted many who had moved from elsewhere. I loved the opportunity. I smiled and chatted with everyone who came to my writing and editing booth. One community member recognized me and took the time to let me know she was sorry nothing was good enough for me here. Her view of my work, written over many years for both Jewish and non-Jewish publications, was overwhelmingly negative. I responded cheerfully, suggesting that there were many good things about Winnipeg’s Jewish community, but that it was also a good thing to learn about other possibilities from elsewhere, reflect and improve. She sniffed disapprovingly and walked away.

This interaction reflected other times when I’ve been asked for suggestions or advice. The responses often included some version of “That’s not how we do things here” with a sneer, grumble or angry tone. Even when the feedback includes a lot of praise and support, including data or anecdotal evidence from other communities, some people are defensive and aren’t ready to hear it.

In some cases, I’ve heard “since I didn’t land that gig/volunteer position/award, I was just offering sour grapes.” Sour grapes are that metaphor for saucy words we offer when we’ve been rejected and react with impulsive hurt, though sour grapes make good wine. That pucker-up taste, just like with lemons, can do wonders, with time, to improve food and drink.

A wise friend, a Holocaust survivor in her mid-80s, asked for feedback after our family’s lifecycle event at our congregation. Akin to an exit interview, it’s important to have congregants’ thoughts on how the synagogue is doing, what went well and what could be done better. I took the time to respond. I sent the information to the people in responsible positions who should see it. I also wrote a separate gushing, positive note about the livestreaming feed, which is so inclusive for us when we cannot be in the building. I got a response from someone about the livestreaming feed email. I’ve received nothing so far about the constructive criticism.

It’s normal to feel defensive about criticism, especially if it hits hard or close to the bone. Yet, a professional should be able to respond. Feedback helps us grow, whether as a customer service-oriented synagogue or a business. I have struggled with this. Rejection and negative feedback are part of being a writer.

I used to joke that a swift, rude rejection didn’t reflect on my work. Instead, I imagined a grouchy editor who ate a burrito for lunch. He had bad indigestion and took it out on me. Then the rejection wasn’t such a big deal. The guy’s stomach trouble and bad manners became funny, rather than a reflection of my efforts.

In time, I’ve embraced the notion that a rejection, including a frankly critical one, offers positive opportunities. An editor’s simple “No, thank you” can result in a quick sale when I resubmit the piece elsewhere. Helpful feedback means I can improve my skills. Complete silence doesn’t mean anything – it doesn’t indicate that my work is awful or it’s still being considered.

Jewish tradition grows from a long rabbinic tradition of debate, discussion, criticism and reproof. It’s part of who we are. It’s sharp and puckery like that fresh lemon bite or the tannic pucker of sour grapes. It’s not easy to hear. Yet, when offered in good faith, thoughtful analysis only shows how much the respondent cares. Hearing nothing from a congregant, colleague or friend doesn’t mean everything is good. It may mean that they don’t care enough to respond. Or perhaps they say nothing because they can’t stand the rude response, defensiveness or silence that might follow.

It’s important, as part of a community, to offer effusive praise and support for one another whenever we can. It’s also key to our future to reflect, reevaluate and offer ways to improve. We often make a good salad spectacular with a squeeze of tangy lemon. Sometimes, we need to pucker up to improve things, so we may experience the huge flavour that can follow.