Life – Page 19

Importance of this tradition thing

Passover traditions like the seder connect family and friends, and remind us who we are. (photo from flickr.com)

“I know I read an article somewhere that the greatest number of suicides happen on holidays,” Naomi said to her mother.

Rebecca ignored her. “Just keep lining the shelves.”

“But it makes sense, truly it does. Why are we taking this perfectly clean kitchen apart and practically rebuilding it? Does it say anywhere in the Bible that you go straight to hell if you don’t drop with exhaustion the week before Pesach?”

“This is the way my mother did it, and her mother did it, and one day you’ll do it for your kids, too.”

“You’re kidding yourself. If you think I’d ever inflict all this work on my daughter, you’re crazy. And why doesn’t Joe have to help?”

“He will. He’ll kosher the stove and the sinks.”

“And that’s another thing. Two minutes with a blowtorch and then he’ll pour a kettle of water. Big deal. And Dad doesn’t even do that.”

“He conducts the seder.”

“Another big deal. We take the place apart, vacuum chairs and wash curtains and change over dishes, not to mention 40 kilos of kneidl and all that stuff that gives you indigestion. What am I saying, indigestion? All those eggs – you’re probably giving us a gift of coronary heart disease. Jesus!”

“Naomi, stop it.”

“I’m sick of it. I want to escape like Faye.”

Rebecca’s lips tightened. “Fagie’s coming to the seder, too.”

But Naomi was not to be sidetracked. “Fagie, what a name! No wonder she rebelled. Naomi and Joseph, they’re bad enough. But Fagie, what were you thinking of?”

“It’s a good Jewish name. I was thinking of my grandmother. If you and your sister could have known her, you’d understand. The least I could do was keep her name alive.”

The spotless refrigerator was being polished within an inch of its life. Naomi sat down and watched her mother.

“I thought Passover celebrated freedom from slavery. But every year, you become a slave and you make me one, too. If you think you’re giving me wonderful memories, forget it. As soon as I can leave home, I will. Faye told me the best thing about marriage was being able to run her house like the 20th century. Now we’re in the 21st, for chrissake.”

“I hate it when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“So tough. All those profanities. What happened to femininity?” she asked her daughter sadly.

“Feminism came along, only you’ve never heard of it. Dad and Joe get out of everything ’cos they’re men. You’re the biggest chauvinist ever, because you not only condone this status quo, you actually perpetuate it.”

Rebecca sighed. “You don’t understand. Neither does Fagie.”

“You bet we don’t. Here, I’ve lined the last bloody shelf. I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“Out, as in O-U-T.”

“When will you be back?”

“If I had my way, it’d be around May or June – after Pesach.” She slammed the door. Rebecca heard the car start up. Her eyes filled with tears. She was exhausted. “This is gratitude,” she thought bitterly. “Here’s Naomi, barely 18, with her own car. We were married six years before we had one.”

Fagie started her marriage with all the things that she and Sam still don’t have after 27 years. And look how she is bringing up Brendan. Brendan! What sort of name is that? No wonder Fagie and Joel hadn’t wanted to give him a brit. If she and Sam hadn’t insisted, their grandson wouldn’t even have had that. They’d treated his Hebrew name, Baruch, as some sort of joke. Well, maybe in their circles it sounded strange. But at least among the family…. Everything with Fagie was a war. If she bought the child a kippah, Fagie would get upset. If she wouldn’t eat in her daughter’s treif house, it meant another argument. What did you have children for?

She heard loud music from upstairs. The Grateful Dead. No wonder they were grateful – they can’t hear the cacophony, she surmised.

When the key turned in the lock, she didn’t have the strength even to go and say hello to Sam. He wandered into the kitchen. “It looks beautiful,” he said, patting her shoulder and taking in the sparkling clean room.

“To us, maybe.”

“What’s wrong? Fagie been getting to you?”

“Not just her. Naomi’s just as bad now.”

Sam sat down heavily. “I don’t understand it. We sent them to day school – forked out in a year more than our education cost in a lifetime. And what do they give back? Where’s Joe?”

“Can’t you hear? He’s studying. That’s his usual accompaniment.”

“Even so, he’s a good student. He’ll make us proud one day. He’s talking about medicine or law, maybe architecture….”

“We’re kidding ourselves, Sam. Even if we’re proud of him, he’ll be ashamed of us.”

“No, not Joe. Why do you say that?”

“Because we’re fighting a losing battle. The things that are important to us are hateful to them.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. “Joe’s turning his back on our traditions, too?”

“Not yet. He’s only 14. But he will – give him a few years.”

Wearily, Rebecca made dinner. The three of them ate in near silence. Joe had a book next to his plate and didn’t seem to notice. He had already left for school next morning when Rebecca, Sam and Naomi sat down for breakfast. Naomi avoided her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“No, you’re not,” Rebecca answered, “you meant it.”

“I just wanted you to understand….”

“Oh, I understand. Your father and I made a decision last night. You tell her Sam.”

He cleared his throat. “Naomi, since Pesach is so distasteful to you, you can go and stay with your sister. Your mother and I are taking Joe and going away for the week. That kosher guest house in the mountains –”

“You mean no seder?”

“What for? For Fagie’s family, who barely tolerate it. For you, who finds it such a chore? You know what it says in the Zohar? It says a little hurt from kin is worse than a big hurt from a stranger. Who needs it?” He pushed his chair back abruptly and, a minute later, they heard the front door close.

Naomi pushed the food around on her plate. “I think you’re overreacting. We always have a seder.”

“We always used to have a seder. We’re not going to do it any more. I didn’t care about the work, the exhaustion, because I thought it meant something. If it doesn’t, there’s no point.”

“It meant something to you and Dad.”

“So, we’ll sit at someone else’s seder. Naomi, go to university. You’ll be late for class.”

An hour later, the telephone rang. “Mum, it’s Fagie.”

“Oh, it’s Fagie today. What happened to Faye?”

“Don’t be sarcastic Mum – it doesn’t suit you. Listen, are you home? Can I come round?”

“What for?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m not babysitting if that’s what you want.”

“Brendan’s at play group. I just want to talk to you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. But come if you want.”

Thirty minutes later, Fagie’s car drew up. Rebecca poured her a coffee and pushed it towards her.

“So?”

“It’s about the seder.”

“Naomi didn’t waste much time. What’s wrong? You don’t want your sister’s company for a week?”

“Please listen. It’s not right what you’re doing.”

“Not right? For whom?”

“For anyone. Dad will hate not conducting the seder.”

“He’ll survive.”

Fagie’s voice trembled. “Maybe we won’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know how to say this. It’s just….”

Rebecca remained silent, not attempting to help.

“It did mean something to us – me and Naomi – even Joel.”

“What did it mean?”

“It meant we were a family. It kind of bound us together. We need it. Brendan needs it. That once a year at least – to remind us who we are.”

“Who are you exactly? You can go and celebrate Easter. It’s all the same to you.”

Fagie’s voice trembled. “You’re making it hard for me. Mum, it’s true we don’t keep all the things you and Dad do. Most people don’t anymore.”

“And that makes it right?”

“Yes – no – I don’t know. It’s hard for us, to be different from our friends. But we need something. We need to know it’s there for us.”

“Not good enough. What happens when we go?”

“Maybe we’ll take it on then. When there’s no one else.”

“Why would you want to do that, if it’s not meaningful now?”

“For our children. I can’t explain. We can only give up these – traditions – because we know you still keep them. That they’re there for us to come back to. Sure, we ridicule them, but it’s like a family. We insult one another all the time because it’s easier than saying, ‘I love you and I need you.’ Do you understand me?”

Fagie was crying openly now. Rebecca didn’t trust herself to speak.

Three nights later, the candles were lit in the candelabra in Rebecca’s dining room, the flames casting shadows on the snowy white tablecloth. Sam sat at the head of the table and inspected the seder plate with its three matzot, the parsley, saltwater, horseradish, charoset, shank bone and roasted egg. He planned where to hide the afikoman, so that it would not be too hard for Brendan to find. Joe was filling the wine glasses, with the extra big one for the prophet Elijah, while Naomi handed out Haggadot. His grandson sat between Fagie and Joel, his face flushed with excitement. Sam’s eyes met his wife’s, which were moist with unshed tears, as were his.

“Baruch atah,” he began. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who created the fruit of the vine.”

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She has written 14 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant, which was made into a movie, and her latest novella, Searching for Sarah. She can be contacted at dwaysman@gmail.com or through her blog dvorawaysman.com.

Pesach: a tale of two stories

“The Crossing of the Red Sea” by Nicolas Poussin, 1634. (photo from wikimedia)

We are a people with many memories, many stories, and who we are has been shaped by the stories we remember and tell.

More than any other holiday, Pesach is about remembering and passing that memory down to the next generation. Every Jew is commanded to see themselves as if they came out of Egypt, and to tell their Egypt story to their children. The telling of this story is not mediated by teachers or rabbis, nor is it told in a communal framework. The setting of the seder is one of family and immediate friends, and the responsibility is upon every one of us to decide how we convey the story.

What makes this particularly challenging is that, beyond the complicated family dynamics, a Haggadah that is deeply problematic and different sensibilities with regard to what needs to be done, we have inherited two different stories. The challenge is not merely how to tell the story, but which story to tell.

One story, which dominates much of the Haggadah, not to speak of the story as told in the Torah, focuses on Pesach as a story of exodus, of the Jewish people being freed by God from the slavery of Egypt. “I am the Lord. I will free you from the labours of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements. And I will take you to be my people, and I will be your God.” (Exodus 6:6-7)

More than freedom and salvation, Pesach is a story of the election of the Jewish people, as God pours down God’s wrath on those who enslave the chosen ones and redeems us out of the hands of Egypt to be God’s chosen people. Each plague, told and magnified, is an expression of love, a gift of betrothal of God to us, an offering that bonds us to one another. “I the Lord am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage: you shall have no other gods besides me.” (Exodus 20:2-3)

One of the core consequences of this election narrative under Jewish law is the sanctioned discrimination between Jew and non-Jew, between the Children of Israel and the nations of the world. Because God saved us, all of us, from the slavery of Egypt, Jews are all equal, and no Jew can take another Jew as a slave. However, those who are not the recipients of the gift of exodus, the non-Jews, can become our slaves (Leviticus 25). When we go to war, even wars of aggression, the God who took us out of Egypt will always fight on our side, because the moment of election creates an us-them dichotomy in which God is always with us (Deuteronomy 20). Idolatry is neither false nor futile. It is the worship allotted by God to the non-elected. We, the chosen people, are alone commanded to worship God. The God who saved us in Egypt is our God alone (Deuteronomy 4).

This tale of the story of Egypt finds its culmination in our traditional Haggadah, in which one of its concluding prayers is a petition to God to “Pour out your wrath on the nations that do not know you…. Pursue them with anger and destroy them from beneath the heavens of the Lord.”

There is a second story of Pesach, a story in which neither the exodus nor its accompanying plagues takes central stage, but rather the hundreds of years of our subjugation in Egypt. It is to this memory that the core symbols of the holiday – matzah, the poor person’s bread, charoset, the paste that resembles mortar, and maror, the bitter herb, which cause us to relive the experience of pain – all direct us.

It is this memory that shapes the most-repeated commandment in the Torah: “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens: you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the Land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19) The story of Egypt is not one of us-them, but of us being them, of us being members of the community of the downtrodden, and the subsequent obligation to treat all who are in need, Jew and non-Jew alike, as equal members of our society.

In an interesting twist on this story, the Ten Commandments obligate us to rest on the Sabbath, “so that your male and female slave may rest as you do. Remember that you were a slave in the Land of Egypt, and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm: therefore, the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day.” (Deuteronomy 5)

It is not merely that because we once were slaves we are bonded to all those in need. The redemption from Egypt is no longer exclusively the moment of election of us, but rather an expression of God’s care and compassion for all who are enslaved. Both our slavery and our salvation unite us with God, in a common mission to bring freedom and equality to our world.

It is with this idea that we begin to tell the story of Egypt in the traditional Haggadah. “This is the bread of affliction that our forefathers ate in the Land of Egypt. All who are hungry let them come and eat.” All, and not merely fellow Jews.

Pesach is a tale of two stories. Each has shaped who we are. As we tell our stories and pass them down to the next generation, it is our obligation to take responsibility for what will define us in the future and what will determine our religious and national identity. The choice is ours. As you tell the stories this year, choose wisely. Our future and the future of Israel depend on it.

Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman is president of the Shalom Hartman Institute and author of the 2016 book Putting God Second: How to Save Religion from Itself. Articles by Hartman and other institute scholars can be found at shalomhartman.org.

Hadrian’s Arch – built to last

Damascus Gate today and, below it, the Aelia Capitolina arch leading to the Roman Plaza. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

Revenge is sweet. Apparently, while the Roman Emperor Hadrian did not spike enemy heads on palisades, after three years of battle, he did construct an arch celebrating the suppression of the Bar Kochba revolt. This archway was quite detailed, as it marked the northern border of his Jew-less Roman colony (Jews were only allowed in on Tisha b’Av to mourn the temples they had lost) and the Aelia Capitolina, a colony built on the Jerusalem the Romans had destroyed.

Below and to the left of Damascus Gate (built by Suleiman the Magnificent in 16th century CE) are the remains of Hadrian’s Arch of Triumph and his Roman Plaza. Although the site has been explored since 1864 by numerous archeologists, only recently have the Israel Antiquities Authority, the Jerusalem Municipality and the East Jerusalem Development Company (PAMI) cooperated to open to the public the arch that Hadrian ordered built in 135 CE.

The arch seen today was actually part of a three-arched entrance way. Two shorter arches bordered a taller and wider centre one. Only the eastern entrance remains fully intact, along with the bases of what were once elaborate stone pillars. Inside this archway, one still sees the vaulted ceiling and the floor made of large stone slabs.

The thick blocks making up this flooring measure some two metres (6.6 feet) long and 1.2 metres (3.9 feet) wide. To prevent people from slipping on the stones, the Romans striated some of the pavement, which is still in place, albeit worn smooth from use.

None of Hadrian’s building machinery was motorized, of course. Even the Roman tread wheel crane was run on human or animal power. Not one to waste and not one to overlook architectural beauty, Hadrian scavenged the enormous stones of the razed Second Temple and public structures – Herodian stones from the Temple area are distinct in having narrow margins and low, flat, smooth centre bosses. Hadrian used these stones to build two massive guard towers flanking the archway on the right and left.

As the Herodian stones were not attached by mortar, it was probably relatively easy – the average weight of each is said to have been two to five tons – for Hadrian’s gate builders to dismantle the Temple-area stones. These huge limestone pieces still stand, as the remains of the guard towers, neatly stacked at an incredible height of some 11 or 12 metres.

photo - In the Roman Plaza, a Roman soldiers’ game can be found on the ground — In the Roman Plaza, a Roman soldiers’ game can be found on the ground. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

Soldiers throughout history have faced boredom. To counter this, the Roman soldiers in these guard towers played games. One such “board game,” is still scratched into the flooring near the towers.

The gate with its three arches was typical of its period. Just above the remaining arch, one can still decipher the “C” in the Latin inscription bearing the city’s Roman name, Aelia Capitolina. In Jerusalem, a similar example of this kind of gate is the Ecce Homo Arch. It served as an entrance to the eastern forum of Aelia Capitolina. Part of it may be seen today, along the Via Dolorosa.

As further evidence of how well-planned Hadrian’s city was, the gate opened into a plaza, a circular space that was the junction or crossing point of the eastern and western cardines (plural of cardo; literally, heart) or main roads. According to Simon Sebag Montefiore’s book Jerusalem: The Biography, this plaza led to two forums, one close to the destroyed Antonia Fortress and one close to today’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There, Hadrian reportedly built a temple to Jupiter.

This gate appears on Jordan’s mosaic Madaba Map. On the sixth-century map – a model of which appears inside the discovered Roman Plaza – one sees an open square with a column just beyond the gate. To prevent anyone from forgetting who was victorious over the Jewish rebels, the column was topped with Hadrian’s figure. On site, there is a model of the column to give current-day visitors an idea of how the column looked. From this column, distances to different parts of the country were measured. Moreover, the column is the source of Damascus Gate’s Arabic name, Bab al-Amud.

To the left of the arch entrance are the large millstone remains from the later Byzantine period. Most likely, an olive oil factory existed there in ancient times.

To the east of the Roman Plaza, there are three other sites worth visiting when such things become possible again, once the COVID-19 pandemic is contained:

Zedekiah’s Cave (also known as Solomon’s Quarry) has visiting hours like those of the Roman Plaza. As the cave has very good acoustics, over the past few years, it has been used to host concerts. The entrance fee is currently 18 shekels. The local telephone is the same as that of the Roman Plaza, 02-6277550. There is partial wheelchair accessibility.

Rockefeller Archeology Museum, on the northern side of the street, recently had a small, but fascinating, exhibit dealing with the 100-year history of Jerusalem Armenian Ceramics. (imj.org.il/en/exhibitions/glimpse-paradise). The museum is free of charge, with hours Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, and even on Saturdays. There is a short flight of stairs at the entrance, so contact the curator, Fawzi Ibrahim, about visiting in a wheelchair. The local number is 02-628-2251.

The Northern Promenade route of the Old City’s ramparts allows you to visit these areas from “above,” but is not designed for wheelchairs or strollers. Buy tickets at the tourist office just inside Jaffa Gate.

From the Romans onward, rulers have built special arches marking the defeat of their enemies. Hadrian’s Arch might also have served as a reminder to potential rebels not to try again. What does seem clear is Hadrian has left us with a 1,885-year-old reminder of the many changes of hands Jerusalem has undergone.

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

Jewish Stockholm visit

Stockholm’s neighbourhoods are pristinely preserved. This photo was taken last summer. (photo by Ella Kaplun)

Summer days in Stockholm seem never ending. The sun refuses to set until around 10 p.m., leaving a romantic glow upon the city for the evening hours. It is a city made up of a string of 14 islands, most interconnected by bridges; the blue of the water and the green of the land fit together like irregular shaped pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle.

Stockholm has a unique landscape, with barely any high-rise buildings, except for church spires that pierce the otherwise almost-unobstructed skyline. Since Sweden was neutral during the Second World War, Stockholm was not touched by the war and its old neighbourhoods are pristinely preserved, and feature low buildings in different shades of pastel, inspired by many varied styles of architecture, especially in the Old Town, Gamla Stan.

To get around the city conveniently, a Stockholm Pass, which can be purchased in advance (stockhompass.com), enabled us to hop on and off buses, visit museums and take the always enjoyable ferry rides. But, besides touring, my granddaughter and I also explored Stockholm’s Jewish life here, with its deep-rooted history. Although Sweden has the largest population of Jews in the Scandinavian countries – an estimated 20,000 thousand, 4,500 of whom live in Stockholm – they have a minuscule number compared to other European countries.

To learn more about Stockholm’s Jewish past, we took a three-hour walking tour with knowledgeable guide David Kay from Milk and Honey Tours. We started at our hotel, the Diplomat, a turn-of-the-20th-century Art Nouveau building overlooking Nybroviken Bay. We walked along the waterfront toward the Gamla Stan, where Jews were first officially allowed to settle in Sweden. Ferryboats lined the docks and, last summer, in the many bars and restaurants, including many vegetarian ones, people were relaxing after work, meeting friends and taking in the summer sun.

We crossed a bridge to Gamla Stan, a harbour town built on a hill, with the Royal Palace on top. As we were winding our way up narrow, cobbled streets, passing eye-catching storefronts, our guide told us the story of David Isaac. In 1774, the wealthy gem merchant and seal engraver was invited to settle in Stockholm by Gustav III, to help finance his military expeditions. Unlike Jews who came to Sweden before him and accepted conversion for the privilege of staying, Isaac made it a condition for coming that he be allowed to practise as a Jew. He also insisted that he bring with him other Jewish families so a congregation could be formed.

Our guide then pointed out the middle storey of a three-storey apartment house where the first synagogue in Sweden had been housed. This building, just off the island’s main square, where the Nobel Museum is located, was recently purchased by the Jewish community to be converted into a Jewish museum.

Our tour ended by crossing to another island to see the Great Synagogue. Built in 1870 in a Moorish style, it is a testimony to the wealth and privilege Jews attained by that time and the tolerant attitude of their adopted country. It is now a Conservative synagogue with a female rabbi.

photo - There are many ways of getting around Stockholm — There are many ways of getting around Stockholm. *(photo by Ella Kaplun)*

Jews have contributed, of course, to the cultural and economic life of Sweden. An elegant department store in the centre of Stockholm was established by the Saks family, who also owned Saks Fifth Avenue in New York. The renowned publishing house Bonnier, founded in 1804, is still important in the literary life of Sweden. The Stockholm Concert Hall was built by the textile merchant Isaac Hirsch and the City Hall was largely ﬁnanced by Jewish donors. Even though many of these older families are no longer Jewish, because of intermarriage and assimilation, they continue to support Jewish causes.

However, the climate for Jews has changed and Sweden is no exception to the rise of antisemitic incidents in Europe and in North America. There have been news reports of harassment, intimidation and attacks on Jews in Malmo, Gothenburg and other towns. In Sweden, antisemitism has found oxygen both among white supremacists on the far right and Israel-bashers on the far left.

Nevertheless, Jewish life goes on, albeit on a reduced scale. We spoke with a local high school senior, Eliot, who was involved in the Jewish youth organization in Sweden. He told us that, for him, as for many of his peers, Glamsta, the only overnight Jewish summer camp, was his most important experience in maintaining his Jewish identity. Located in Stockholm’s picturesque archipelago, this small camp attracts children from all over the country. “This was the ﬁrst time I was involved with Shabbat rituals,” Eliot said, “and it made me proud to be Jewish. In this camp you also become part of a close-knit community of young Jews.”

Another important institution that helps to keep the community together is the Bajit (House), a Jewish cultural community centre, built in 2016. It houses the Hillel school, the only Jewish day school in Sweden, with 360 students in classes from kindergarten to sixth grade, and it also sponsors many cultural events. Like all schools in Sweden, including universities, this one is also tuition free.

Although most Swedish Jews hesitate to show any identiﬁable sign of their religion, the Chabad rabbi of Stockholm walks around with a kippah. Chabad is located on the island of Sodermalm, formerly a working-class neighbourhood that has been gentriﬁed into a kind of Soho, with vintage and antique shops, art galleries and ethnic restaurants. Chabad holds an Orthodox minyan, hosts Shabbat and holiday meals, houses a kindergarten and is a gathering place for youngsters. Chabad also offers bar/bat mitzvah lessons and Jewish studies, and caters to tourists by delivering kosher meals to their hotels.

Stockholm’s Great Synagogue is not only an historical landmark, like in many other places in Europe, but also a functioning one. One Shabbat morning during our stay we witnessed a double bat mitzvah. One of the celebrants was a local girl, the other from New York, who chose to celebrate this important occasion in Stockholm because she and her family are active in Paideia, a Sweden-based organization dedicated to the revival of Jewish culture in Europe. Both girls read from the Torah, their young voices ringing out in this soaring historical interior, which can easily seat 900 people. On that Shabbat, fewer than 100 attended, but these young voices were the hope for the continuation of Swedish Jewish life.

Erika Leviant has written travel pieces for newspapers and magazines in the United States and Canada. Her granddaughter, Ella Kaplun, is an English major at New York University.

Balabusta does nothing

(photo from pexels.com)

Lest you think this Accidental Balabusta has been slacking off, let me set the record straight. I’ve been sick since the middle of November and haven’t had the koach to do anything, including writing or cooking. No need for the gory details; suffice it to say that it’s worn me down to a nub.

It’s been a struggle to find the silver lining in all this, and months of illness has taken its toll both physically and emotionally. There were days I couldn’t see the end in sight, and felt like my life had no purpose – a soul-destroying way to feel. There was no energy to do what I love: volunteering, attending Torah classes, meeting with friends.

In the absence of meaningful activities, my mind became a slave to anxiety and rumination, and the negativity spilled over into my various relationships. Let’s face it, no one likes a chronic complainer. Desperate to snap out of that funk, I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to attempt it.

Fast forward. I’m almost fully recovered. So, which came first – recovery or a sense of optimism?

Since regaining the bulk of my energy and well-being, I can now look at that period of suffering and negativity with a more balanced perspective. Which answers the aforementioned question – recovery came first. Which stands to reason, as it’s nearly impossible to feel positive in the midst of ongoing poor health. At least for regular folk.

A short video I watched while I was sick, by Goldie Plotkin, called Inner Strength – Courage and Faith for Life’s Challenges, was pretty inspirational, albeit vague. It emphasized the importance of “seeing the blessings in the challenges,” and learning how to use these challenges as “springboards for good.” Having overcome and embraced her own personal life challenges, Plotkin views adversity and struggle as “impetuses to grow and learn” from, and resiliency as an integral character trait. What puzzles me is this: How exactly do people “access” these blessings while they’re in the throes of illness? Or can we? Maybe it’s only after the fact that we can perceive the blessings.

The question remains: Is there a way to cope more effectively while we’re in the eye of the storm?

It got me thinking. What do Jews of great faith do when faced with illness and suffering? They think positively. Since they trust that G-d does everything for the good, they have faith that something positive will come from every experience. “Tracht gut vet zein gut” – “Think good and it will be good.” A life-affirming attitude, for sure. And one that probably takes a lifetime to cultivate. Unless you happen to be a Chassid. And still.

As my health improves, and the negativity lifts, I’m reminded of a joke from a book called There Must be a Pony, where a boy wakes up on Christmas morning and finds a pile of horse manure under the tree, instead of gifts. Possessing an extraordinarily optimistic outlook, the boy immediately starts shoveling the manure, exclaiming enthusiastically, “With all this manure, there must be a pony somewhere!”

If only faith and trust in G-d were that easy.

During the latter part of my recovery, when I actually had the energy to get dressed, I promised myself that I would do something every day to get out of my head: go for a walk, listen to a Jewish-themed podcast, read something inspiring. Anything to distract my mind from its endless loop of pessimistic storylines.

I started reading a book called Positivity Bias: Practical Wisdom for Positive Living. It gave me some practical tools to help stop my cycle of negativity. One such tool is the concept of “cognitive restructuring” or “reframing,” which was integral to me turning the corner. It’s a technique that helps people view situations from a different perspective and, when a person’s perspective changes, their thinking and behaviour often change as well. It helps one challenge the veracity of negative, often inaccurate, perspectives, and reframe their thinking. Based on cognitive behavioural therapy, the long and short of it is this – if you want to feel better, change your mind.

The essence of the book is simple yet profound. Since our thoughts and words influence how we feel and behave, each of us has the power to reshape our lives. Mindfulness and consciousness are huge parts of this process. If our thoughts are not helping us or moving us forward, then we need to change how we think. The catch is that it’s difficult to do and it’s an ongoing challenge.

An article I read recently – “Ten Hacks for Mental Control that Every Human Being Should Know” by Tzvi Freeman – was also helpful. It talks about negative thoughts and how to counteract them in a healthy way. (Read: from a Chassidic perspective.) Naturally, most of the references are to religious thought and practice. According to Freeman, the challenge is not just stopping ourselves from having negative thoughts, but finding wholesome thoughts and actions to replace the negative ones.

Relaxation techniques, like breathing meditation, and distractions such as paying attention to external stimuli, work well, too. Basically, getting outside your own head. While both approaches work, I personally think replacing unhealthy thoughts with healthy ones is the better alternative, since it not only redirects your mind, but also retrains it in a significant, consequential way.

If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that cultivating positivity requires superhuman vigilance and self-control. It demands that we learn to regulate, train and discipline ourselves in how we behave, how we speak and, most importantly, how we allow ourselves to think. And it’s key to living a more intentional, meaningful, happy life.

Am I walking the walk? All I can say is I’m trying. Day by day. Moment by moment. Every one of us is a flawed human being, but each of us has the potential to make our life better, more purposeful. My advice is to use whatever works for you. Just remember that there’s something to learn from everybody.

If all that fails … try prayer. I’m a huge fan. Surrendering to something greater than oneself isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of strength and faith. And it’s just a thought, but maybe don’t ask G-d to heal you. Maybe, instead, ask G-d to give you the emotional and physical strength and courage to heal yourself. Just saying.

Shelley Civkin aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

Symbolic treats for Purim

While hamantashen are one of the most known Ashkenazi treats, many other foods are associated with Purim. (photo by Rebecca Siegel)

In the Book of Esther, all we are told is that letters were sent to the Jews in the provinces, telling them to have days of feasting and gladness. Fourth-century scholar Rava interpreted this to mean a seudat Purim, a meal in the late afternoon, to differentiate Purim from other days.

There are no rituals attached to the seudah, and no special Kiddush is said, though some people make up a Purim Kiddush, which is nonsense or a parody on something in the Torah.

Kalonymos ben Kalonymos, a French writer, philosopher and translator who lived in the 13th and 14th centuries, wrote a parody of a talmudic tractate, called Masekhet Purim, citing 30 different dishes to eat on Purim. He included chestnuts, duck, venison, goose and pigeon.

One custom, particularly of Jews of Middle Eastern backgrounds but also of some Ashkenazim, is to serve dishes with chickpeas on Purim. Why is this done? They say, in order to remind us that, to keep kosher, Esther lived on vegetables, notably beans and peas.

Another custom, according to the late Gil Marks in the Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, is to eat turkey, because Europeans had thought the bird came from India and the Book of Esther says Ahasuerus ruled from India to Kush. The Hebrew word for India, the country, and turkey, the animal, is hodu. Another idea is that the turkey bird is very foolish, and so was Ahasuerus.

Some people also serve kreplach, the triangular-shaped, meat-filled, savoury pastry on Purim. They do so because the meat inside is prepared by chopping, which is a form of “beating,” akin to the stamping of feet on the floor to drown out Haman’s name.

In the 17th century, European Jews made a dish called megillah kroyt, consisting of sauerkraut, raisins and honey. A stringy dish, it symbolized the rope used to hang Haman.

In her book Quiches, Kugels and Couscous, on Jewish cooking in France, Joan Nathan writes that Jews of Alsace made Alsatian Chouroute, sauerkraut with sausage and corned beef, because the sausage hangs in butcher shops and reminds them of Haman. The Alsatians also call the corned beef “the Haman.”

At the actual seudah, Marks says that Ashkenazim often serve koyletsh, or keylitsh in Russian – a long, braided challah symbolizing the rope on which Haman was hanged. Other Ashkenazi dishes include kreplach in chicken soup, knishes, pirogen (filled, boiled, pasta dumplings), stuffed roast chicken or veal breast, stuffed cabbage, and tzimmes.

Some Sephardim serve breads or foulares (pastries filled with long-cooked eggs), sambusak (meat turnovers), stewed chicken, and rice with chickpeas or nuts.

According to Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, because the name of G-d is not mentioned in the Book of Esther, “the sense of the mysterious and hidden extends even to the food.” In other words, we cannot see the fillings inside and that alludes to “the many intrigues, secrets and surprises unfolding in the Purim story.”

The sweets served on Purim symbolize a good “lot” and a sweet future. In fact, Muslims refer to Purim as Id-al-Sukkar, the Sugar Holiday.

The most important aspect of many Purim pastries is their shape. Most Ashkenazi Jews only know of hamantashen, the name for which comes from the German mohn (meaning poppy seeds) and taschen (referring to pockets). Some say the pockets refer to Haman, who stuffed his pockets with bribe money.

The original name was mohntaschen, and the tradition of eating them may date back as far as the 12th century. Shmil Holland, the Israeli historian, caterer and cook, says, when Jews fled Germany for Eastern Europe in the late Middle Ages, they took the poppy seed pastry with them and added the Yiddish prefix “ha,” thus making it hamantash. The Midrash, however, says, while reflecting on his plan to get rid of the Jews, Haman realized the three Patriarchs would intercede. Thus, the pastry is triangular in shape.

Sybil Kaplan is a journalist, lecturer, book reviewer and food writer in Jerusalem. She created and leads the weekly English-language Shuk Walks in Machane Yehuda, she has compiled and edited nine kosher cookbooks, and is the author of Witness to History: Ten Years as a Woman Journalist in Israel.

Why groggers on Purim?

(photo from ajudaica.com)

One of the most popular customs for Purim is to drown out the name of the villain, Haman, with a noisemaker. In Hebrew, it is called a ra’ashan; in Yiddish, it is a grogger, which comes from the Polish word for rattle.

The origin of this custom comes from the Book of Exodus 17:4: “For I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under the Heavens.” Haman’s ancestors were Amalekites.

While the custom of using a noisemaker during the reading of the Megillah is more recent among Sephardi Jews, some form of grogger has been used primarily among Ashkenazi Jews since the Middle Ages.

There are records that children in ninth-century France and Germany used groggers on Purim. They took flat stones or wooden paddles on which Haman’s name was inscribed and beat them together when Haman’s name was mentioned in the reading of Megillat Ester. It was also popular to write Haman’s name on the soles of their shoes and then stamp their feet when his name was read, thus erasing his name.

Today, the traditional grogger looks like the Hebrew letter dalet, a horizontal piece made of wood or metal with a rotating cylinder or tongue attached to a vertical handle, which, when turned, makes noise.

One also finds groggers decorated with illustrations from the Book of Esther, plastic groggers with clapping hands, and designs in wood and metal. Schoolchildren often make their own containers of paper or metal and then fill them with beans, so that, when they are shaken, they make noise.

Whatever grogger you use for Purim, just make sure you do it loud and often, for, in each generation, a Haman has arisen to live among us!

Happy Purim 2020!!

Mystery photo … Feb. 28/20

Two unidentified people on the left with Gail and Michael James on the right holding a certificate at a Jewish National Fund event. (photo from JWB fonds, JMABC L.12042)

If you know someone in these photos, please help the JI fill the gaps of its predecessor’s (the Jewish Western Bulletin’s) collection at the Jewish Museum and Archives of B.C. by contacting archives@jewishmuseum.ca or 604-257-5199. To find out who has been identified in the photos, visit jewishmuseum.ca/blog.

Ketubot have a long history

An illustrated ketubah from Mala, India, 1938. (image from Deborah Rubin Fields)

Mazal tov! So, you or someone you know is getting married. Today, Jewish weddings may be big or small, formal or informal, traditional or not. No matter the style, the ketubah, or Jewish marriage contract, is the common denominator.

The ketubah is a short, but ancient document. In his book The Ketuba: Jewish Marriage Contracts through the Ages, David Davidovitch writes: “It may be assumed that … the ketubah was first introduced at the time of the Babylonian exile.” The ketubah “testifies to the obligations undertaken by the husband towards his wife in their joint life together. The principal function of the ketuba is … to serve as a document that safeguards the position of the woman after she has entered the marital state.”

In a traditional ketubah, the groom obligates himself to pay a base amount, and perhaps additional sums that are then written into the contract. He vows to work, honour, feed and support the bride. In added phrasing, he specifically agrees to provide clothing, food (thus providing food is mentioned twice in a traditional Orthodox ketubah) and conjugal rights. The groom’s spelled-out duties are the key to the contract. The wife’s responsibilities are not spelled out, yet details of her dowry are given.

The ketubah was written in Aramaic, for many years considered the legal language of Jewish texts, records and reports, plus the lingua franca of the Middle East. Even today, many Orthodox couples continue to use the Aramaic version. As a legal document, the ketubah requires witnessing by two individuals.

image - The ketubah of the writer’s maternal grandparents, from Warsaw, Poland, 1913 — The ketubah of the writer’s maternal grandparents, from Warsaw, Poland, 1913. *(image from Deborah Rubin Fields)*

That Jewish couples have used ketubot since ancient times does not mean, however, that all ketubot are the same. They have differed from place to place and from period to period. Probably the most blatant difference in ketubot is that some have been illustrated while some have not. According to Davidovitch, the Italian Jewish community produced the most beautiful documents. In illustrated ketubot, common motifs have included scenes from the Torah, cherubim, flowers, birds (sometimes exotic), fish (as signs of anticipated fertility), candelabra or menorot, gates, arches, columns and even emblems of particular countries. It is hard to say with certainty if, historically, unillustrated ketubot reflected the conservative nature of various Jewish communities or if only the rich could afford artists to decorate the contract.

Sometimes, these dissimilarities appeared within one country. For instance, between the 18th and 20th centuries, the ketubot of the Indian Jewish communities consisted of two distinct sections – the opening formula, or superscription, in the upper register and the contract itself beneath. The superscription was written in square Hebrew characters, whereas the contract itself was penned in a semi-cursive Hebrew script. The superscription began with an invocation to G-d, followed by blessings and good wishes to the newlyweds and ended with biblical verses relating to marriage and fertility. Yet, within various Indian communities, there were differences: for example, while a ketubah from Kolkata (Calcutta) was illustrated, a ketubah from Pune was not.

According to Prof. Shalom Sabar, “printed Jerusalem ketubot made their way to many countries in the east, and indirectly led to the decline of the tradition of written ketubot and hand-made illustrations. The printed ketubah (with or without decorations) slowly took the place of the hand-made ketubah throughout almost the entire Jewish world, and the ancient artistic tradition died…. During the 1970s, the decorated ketubah and motifs connected to Jerusalem [were] revived. In an era where many people were ‘searching for their roots’ and acquired a renewed interest in Jewish art in its various forms, many couples began ordering hand-decorated ketubot for their weddings.” (See the National Library of Israel, web.nli.org.il/sites/NLI/English/collections/jewish-collection/ketubbot/ketexhibit/Pages/Yemen-1925.aspx.)

Today, some couples opt to write their ketubah using egalitarian language. Their vows might reflect their responsibilities to each other, as well as responsibilities to the Jewish people and to the entire world. One example of this is the ketubah devised by Rabbi Prof. Rachel Adler. Her ketubah is called a Lovers’ Covenant. It contains biblical verses about covenant, calling marriage a covenant of distinction. Other couples focus on specific vows to be carried out in their shared life.

Other examples of changing times are ketubot for interfaith couples and for same-sex couples. Regarding same-sex couples, Lynda Fishman of Jessy Judaica Shop reports that “most couples choose a ketubah first and read through the text that is offered by the artist. Most couples prefer the same-sex text, although not all artist[s] offer a same-sex text … most do offer an egalitarian text, which can be gender-neutral.” Fishman always requests the couple “speak to their rabbi/officiant first before ordering. It’s very important for the officiant to approve the text first or to let us know if they would like any changes made.”

Masorti (Conservative) Rabbi Diana Villa and the late Rabbi Monique Susskind Goldberg worked extensively to try and prevent the problem of mesoravot get, Jewish women whose husbands have refused to grant a get, or Jewish writ of divorce; this situation occurs more in Israel than in other Jewish communities. In a detailed paper on the issue, they urged couples to sign a prenuptial agreement.

For those living in Israel, they further recommend using their Agreement for Mutual Respect. “The principle guiding financial agreement is that the husband guarantees at the time of the wedding to pay his wife a large sum of money in the future should she want a divorce and should he refuse to give her a get, even though their life together has ended. The purpose of the agreement is to have the husband give the get quickly in order to be rid of the heavy debt.”(See To Learn and to Teach [2007], the fourth booklet of a series published by the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies).

While prenuptial agreements are less common in the Orthodox world, the Orthodox organization Chupa Pratit requires couples to sign a halachic (according to Jewish law) prenup stipulating financial sanctions if one partner refuses to consent to a divorce, to prevent incidents of “chained” women, or men. (See chuppot.org.il/en.)

The National Library of Israel has an online collection of more than 4,200 ketubot from collections all over the world. Whatever direction you decide to go in when choosing yours, good luck with your preparations. And may your shared life be as hearty and as long-lived as the ketubah itself.

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