Op-Ed – Page 43

A call to community seniors

Recently, I met an old friend. During our conversation over coffee, he asked if I was still involved with the Jewish Seniors Alliance of Greater Vancouver. “Of course,” I said. With a funny look on his face, he said, “You are putting a lot of time into this work.”

His remark and the look irritated me quite a bit, and I said, “Joe, you are probably 10 years younger than I am, you have your wife and children near you, you are a lucky man. You are also financially independent. It may be possible that you are not aware and possibly don’t care about what is happening around you – you are complacent.”

Let me bring Joe – and you – up to date.

There are several hundred elders in our community who are poor, lonely, marginalized or abused. JSA is making every possible effort to find these isolated individuals in order to help them.

In its outreach and advocacy programs, JSA is contributing to the well-being of countless elders with our educational programs. We reach out to these people through our two forums and four Empowerment Series sessions yearly; through our Senior Line magazine, which is published three times a year and contains current, relevant and well-research articles; and by means of our website, which not only informs but entertains.

And Joe, why should your indifferent attitude change? You are OK and you believe that JSA has nothing to offer you. But, there are hundreds of seniors giving of their time and wisdom to help other seniors. Something else you should know Joe – sooner or later, almost every senior needs help.

At our annual general meeting in September, JSA will be honoring a few individuals selected by their organizations for their extensive volunteer work for Vancouver’s seniors. And Joe, please note that JSA’s events are cost-free and are not fundraisers. Our outreach programs have a preventive focus, so that people like us remain functioning and enjoying a healthy life for as long as possible.

And Joe, if you think that this is all, let me tell you about our Peer Support Program, which JSA started almost four years ago.

Our two professionals have trained more than 100 senior volunteers to be peer counselors: to give emotional support, to conduct weekly visits at seniors’ homes and to make weekly phone calls. The peer counselor takes a 55-hour training course, and the callers and visitors take a 17.5-hour training course.

These trained volunteers come from every walk of life and different cultural backgrounds, and they speak many languages. They have a clean police record and they sign a confidentiality agreement. Their commitment to JSA is for at least one year. To date, we have more than 50 volunteers servicing more than 150 families.

JSA also provides referrals to seniors and their families, enabling them to access benefits and services offered by the municipal, provincial and federal governments. JSA’s bereavement support program helps seniors, either individually or in a group setting.

Last year, JSA trained 11 seniors to be ambassadors for creating awareness of senior abuse in homes and institutions. They talk to individuals or groups of seniors, and more than 300 seniors have benefited so far from this program.

Frankly, Joe, I shudder at the thought of what would happen if JSA were unable to provide these unique services in our community. We are in contact with 5,000 seniors, and we are doing our best to inform, educate and entertain them.

Seniors have the untapped power to help themselves politically. Unfortunately, this power is being wasted by either disinterest or failing to act. Only 650 to 700 seniors have chosen to be members of JSA, although it costs a mere $18 a year.

JSA must exist, grow and be able, with the support of the community, to provide these services. However, community involvement and financial support and interest are crucial. Without volunteers, nothing would be possible!

How about you Joe? You are not involved in anything right now – perhaps it is about time to start giving of yourself to our community?

Serge Haber is president emeritus of Jewish Seniors Alliance of Greater Vancouver. A version of this article was originally published in the June issue of the organization’s magazine, Senior Line.

A 22-year-old open wound

Every year on July 18, thousands of people gather to remember the victims of the AMIA bombing, and demand that justice prevails. (photo by Jaluj via commons.wikimedia.org)

After more than 20 years, an entire nation continues to search for answers and justice.

With an estimated population of 330,000, Argentina’s Jewish community is the largest in South America and, outside Israel, the sixth largest in the world. First arriving in Argentina in early days, Jews have continued to immigrate ever since. During its “golden era” (1900s to 1950s), an estimated 500,000 Jewish people lived there.

The vast majority of Jews in Argentina are Ashkenazi, from central and eastern Europe. From the start, this active, prosperous and engaged community has left its mark in local business, infrastructure, culture and politics. My family was part of this group; Argentina was the place we called home and where four generations of my family were born. AMIA (Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina or the Argentine Israelite Mutual Association) is the central support organization for all Jews in Argentina, tracing its roots back to 1894.

Everything changed the morning of July 18, 1994, at 9:53 a.m. While I was attending a history class, more than 600 pounds of explosives hidden in a vehicle were detonated in front of AMIA. The explosion was followed by a cloud of smoke and dust seen for miles. In seconds, along with the iconic Jewish organization in Argentina and everything surrounding it, the building housing all of Argentina’s rich Jewish history was, simply, gone. This tragedy was followed by panic, mayhem, sirens, ambulances, calls for help, deaths totaling 85 and hundreds more victims, severely injured and traumatized, transported to hospital.

At my school, phones started to ring. The principal rushed into our classroom to have a private word with our teacher, who then broke the news that AMIA in Buenos Aires was bombed. We were in shock. The same black dusty cloud that could be seen above AMIA descended upon the student body, the teachers and the administrative staff. Frantic activity ensued and, within a few hours, the school was deserted.

My first reaction was concern for my family and friends, many of whom worked at AMIA. I would soon learn that, although one miraculously survived under the rubble and a few others were spared, having not yet arrived at the time of the attack, three died in the explosion. I would learn of the tremendous cultural and historical loss of books, manuscripts, community records, art, pictures and more. I would learn of the disorientation felt by so many who could not comprehend the magnitude of the attack. And I would learn of the rage of those who survived their loved ones. To this day, I will never forget the conversations around the dinner table that revealed the pervasive feeling we were no longer safe.

Some of my friends were immediately withdrawn from the private Jewish school I attended and transferred to the public school system. I would learn of sentiments such as “Jews should be concentrated in one place and live together so innocent Argentines would not suffer.” Yet, in my mind, we were all Argentines.

Over the following years, as I transitioned from my teenage to adult years, I would learn of government cover-ups, of the miscarriage of justice, and of injustice done in the name of greed and corruption. I would also learn of Hezbollah, Iran and other terrorist elements suspected of involvement one way or another. And I would be constantly reminded of the pain of those left behind, and the impunity of the perpetrators, which reinforced the sense of insecurity that took over a proud and vibrant Jewish community.

In spontaneous reaction, hundreds showed up to the site where the AMIA building had stood. Many, my father was among them, were volunteering to assist in the rebuilding process. Those were dark days. The community needed to reorganize. Within a week of the attack at Pasteur 633, a community building a few blocks away began to function. As the temporary head office of AMIA, the Ayacucho 632 site became the place where families sought information about the victims of the attack and where AMIA resumed essential operations, especially those pertaining to social services and community relations.

The Ayacucho building also became the place in which I started my journey as a Jewish community volunteer and where I later decided to pursue a professional career serving the Jewish community.

Five years after the attack, on the original site, a new building was opened that symbolized the creative drive of a community willing to preserve the heritage of a cultural tradition that honors life and collective memory.

This July 18, as every year, the bombing was commemorated with a ceremony in front of the new, now heavily fortified, AMIA: This year’s ceremony marked 22 years since the attack, Argentina’s deadliest bombing ever.

The AMIA bombing was an assault on all society and one that has left deep political scars, not just upon Argentina’s Jewish community. It is a symbol of the entire Argentine state and a society still searching for the truth. And the truth – about a sophisticated terrorist act of mass murder that sent a brutal message of destruction and death – must come to light. The attack is a wound that remains open to this day.

I vow to neither remain silent nor rest until those guilty of these attacks are apprehended, and I hope that the Argentine government will make every effort to ensure that the terrorists responsible for this horrendous act are brought to justice.

Viviana, Cristian and Guillermo, I will never forget. Porque tenemos memoria, exigimos justicia. Because we have memory, we demand justice.

Nico Slobinsky is director, Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs, Pacific Region. He was born and raised in Argentina before immigrating to Israel and, later, to Canada.

Why are you attached to Israel?

I was recently invited to speak to an Ottawa-based Israeli-Palestinian relations group on the topic of Canadian Jews and Israel. Unfortunately, there is a dearth of public opinion data available on Canadian Jewish attitudes. We have some broad strokes on identity issues, though. In addition to Conservative Judaism – rather than Reform – being our largest denomination, Canadian Jews, compared to American Jews, are one generation closer to the Holocaust, are more likely to speak Hebrew, educate their kids Jewishly, and to have visited Israel. Most central to my talk though, was how Canadian Jewish institutions are responding to attempts to challenge Israel as a Jewish state, including the boycott movement.

A lively Q&A followed, but there was one question that stopped me in my tracks. What is it about Israel, a man asked, that makes you feel attached to it? He seemed genuinely curious and rather puzzled, so puzzled that he asked it twice.

Being in the field that I am in, I have a ready answer, but I know I am not typical. My own attachment to Israel centres primarily on a deep passion for Hebrew and Israeli culture. I lived in Israel for three separate years in my 20s, I speak only Hebrew to my kids, I alternate my Netflix watching with Israeli dramas and I am as likely to binge listen to “The Last Waltz” as to Kaveret’s final concert album. My daughter’s d’var Torah at her bat mitzvah was the only one I’ve heard reference Arik Einstein lyrics. Of course, the attention I devote to Israel is partly a function of my profession, but I chose my area of study based on a great sense of attachment to the country and a desire to understand how the Israeli-Palestinian region can become a more just and humane place.

But what of my fellow Canadian Jews? Those of my parents’ generation, who grew up in the shadow of the Holocaust, might view Israel as an insurance policy in the event of the unthinkable. Religious Jews might feel a profound spiritual connection to the land. But what of the many less religious Canadian Jews of my generation (and younger), those for whom Canada, with its absolute commitment to freedom, tolerance and multiculturalism is as safe a haven as any they could imagine; those for whom particular stones on particular bits of territory are not understood to hold sacred meaning, and for whom Hebrew or Israeli contemporary culture is not something that pulls them?

What does Israel mean to these Jews who are unlike my parents, unlike religious Zionists and unlike me?

I encourage my fellow Canadian Jews to articulate their attachments. Doing so with nuance and open hearts may help uncover new political arrangements. Maybe it would point to two states, maybe a confederation system where everyone has access to all the land but possesses citizenship in only one state (as Dahlia Scheindlin and Dov Waxman have proposed), and maybe even a single state where both languages and cultures are carefully preserved. We should ask what threat, exactly, does refugee return pose, rather than leave it as an imaginary bugaboo. Being explicit about our emotional ties – while being open to hearing the emotional experiences of others – may bring us closer to supporting creative peace efforts.

A postscript. A survey of the Canadian Jewish community is currently being circulated by Jewish Federations of Canada-United Israel Appeal, and British Columbians can respond online via svy.mk/20qCWb7. The survey is being conducted by David Elcott and Stuart Himmelfarb, both of New York University’s Wagner Graduate School of Public Service. As I recall, there is only one question on Israel, which asks whether the respondent feels “attached” to the country. Attachment is associated with many different perspectives, and says nothing about one’s commitment to human rights for those under Israel’s control, for example. I hope that we may soon see more in-depth survey research on Canadian Jewish attitudes towards Israel and its policies.

Mira Sucharov is an associate professor of political science at Carleton University. She is a columnist for Canadian Jewish News and contributes to Haaretz and the Jewish Daily Forward, among other publications. This article was originally published in the CJN.

B’nai Brith and IJV face off

The Jewish community is seeing mud being slung again. B’nai Brith Canada has come down hard on Independent Jewish Voices (IJV). The latest salvo, which came via email blast as the Jewish Independent was going to press, contended that IJV has taken part in Al-Quds Day events in Toronto. Before that, B’nai Brith claimed that IJV “promotes Holocaust denial.”

With regard to the latter accusation, B’nai Brith, also via email blast, called attention to IJV having posted an article by blogger Alan Hart about antisemitism and anti-Zionism, which had been republished on a website called Veterans Today. That website – Veterans Today – evidently engages in Holocaust denial.

A statement by IJV issued on June 8 takes responsibility for the error. “We thoughtlessly linked to Hart’s article on the Veterans Today site. We acknowledge that our oversight in this respect was lax: we didn’t verify the nature of the Veterans Today website.… For that, we apologize to our members and supporters for our carelessness. IJV has now removed that link.”

IJV campaigns coordinator Tyler Levitan told me by email that, “while we are guilty of a very small number of regrettable social media posts over the years – out of thousands of articles we’ve posted – that linked to decent articles reposted to indecent websites, this by no means makes us in B’nai Brith’s words, a ‘fig leaf for neo-Nazis and antisemitism’ [a quote which appeared in the Canadian Jewish News]. That’s pure slander. We are in no way connected to anything on the right, let alone the far-right.”

Levitan then came out swinging. “B’nai Brith, on the other hand, has had very close relations with far-right Christian fundamentalist groups and individuals, such as John Hagee, who promote homophobia and bigotry. Their CEO Michael Mostyn used to be the director of the neoconservative advocacy group Canadian Coalition for Democracies. Their connections to the far-right of the Canadian political scene are literal, not imaginary.”

In response, Mostyn told me by email, “I am proud of my prior work with the Canadian Coalition for Democracies, especially its advocacy on behalf of persecuted groups such as North Koreans, Middle East Christians and Baha’is in Iran.” Mostyn added that B’nai Brith Canada “does not have any current affiliation with John Hagee.”

Following IJV’s apology, B’nai Brith issued another community-wide communications statement attempting to further impugn IJV’s reputation. It didn’t help that elsewhere Hart has apparently issued conspiracy theories. This, too, Levitan responded to, saying in the email interview, “we certainly do not subscribe to his political views regarding 9/11.”

What seems to be going on here is a regrettable discursive war over Israel fought by other means. Dov Waxman’s recent book Trouble in the Tribe: The American Jewish Conflict Over Israel details the acrimony taking place on the topic of Israel across the American Jewish community. On this score, the Canadian Jewish landscape is little different.

Better than issue smear campaigns against those who don’t hew to the mainstream Jewish community perspective, the Jewish community should be debating the issues at stake. How to end Israel’s 49-year long occupation of another people? What kinds of security assurances does Israel need in order to bring that era to an end? What are Israel’s obligations under international law? How can the refugee issues be resolved in a just way? How can Israel institute full equality between its Jewish and non-Jewish citizens?

These are issues that would be very worthy of more discussion. That said, two lessons can be learned here. First, organizations should be careful about with whom they associate. If conspiracy theorists are going to undermine the message – and, to most ears, they will – organizations should find other ways to raise issues than relying on questionable sources. And, if cozying up to the far-right is going to help portray an organization as being out of touch with its constituency, then it, too, should be careful about with whom it rubs shoulders. If, on the other hand, these allies are understood by the organization to be representative of their values, then that is also an important opening for discussion so community audiences can decide with whom to cast their lot.

To this end, I would like to encourage IJV and B’nai Brith Canada to take their feud out of the realm of email blasts and counterpunches and into the realm of policy questions. Perhaps a public debate hosted by the two organizations over mutually-agreed-upon questions with regard to Israel and the Palestinians would be apt. I know that I, for one, would tune in.

Serving with the RAF in Egypt

The author and fellow servicemen at a moral leadership course in Fayid, Egypt, in 1951. (photo from Alan Tapper)

It was the spring of 1951 and I was serving in the British Royal Air Force in the Suez Canal Zone of Egypt. I was one the many hundreds of thousands of young British conscripts sent to Egypt to replace the local workers, who had been told by their government to leave their jobs servicing the British military there. While these men did menial jobs, the work provided them a subsistence wage, which they lost by leaving. Times were difficult.

photo - Alan Tapper served in the British Royal Air Force in 1950-51 — Alan Tapper served in the British Royal Air Force in 1950-51. *(photo from Alan Tapper)*

I worked for the air force intelligence unit. My job was to document all the incidents that took place in an area from Iraq to Egypt. There were a large number of shootings, disturbances in villages and casualties, both Egyptian and British.

Drug smuggling was also an issue. Habbaniya in Iraq was a British air force base at the time, and part of our command. The unit I was in also employed local Arabic-speaking trackers for intelligence work. Hashish was the drug of choice then and a tracker with the RAF once brought back some to our office for airmen to sample at the end of a cigarette.

I was based in Ismailia, in northern Egypt, on the edge of an airfield. I lived in a tented compound where the locals regularly fired volleys of bullets into the base. They were indiscriminate. Not a pleasant experience.

I also worked in the civilian labor office, where I discovered information on the large number of Jewish people from different countries living in Alexandria and Cairo. My job entailed monitoring all previous applications forms and that’s how I found out that there were many Jews in the region, both Ashkenazi and Sephardi, who had worked for the British forces during the Second World War.

Even though the nominal head of Egypt at that time was King Farouk, the British government had a colonial attitude and controlled the whole of the Suez Canal Zone from Port Said to Suez, with army and air force bases throughout the area. Britain knew the strategic importance of this waterway to countries of “the Empire.”

Fifty years later, the British government recognized the effort of the conscripts who served in Egypt by giving us a Suez Medal. They were going to charge us 50 pounds for the medal, but changed their minds after the uproar the idea caused. Regardless, I’m glad to have served, and I still have the medal. I wear it at Remembrance Day ceremonies.

I was in Egypt for 16 months. One of the most memorable parts of my time in the Suez Canal Zone was when I attended a moral leadership course organized by the Jewish chaplain to the British Armed Services in Fayid, Egypt, during Pesach 1951. It was attended by Jewish servicemen stationed in the area and special Pesach food was brought in for the seder and the festival. It was a wonderful experience to meet fellow Jews in – of all places at Passover – Egypt.

Alan Tapper is a local freelance writer. His work has been published in the Vancouver Sun, Province, Courier, National Post, among others, as well as the Jewish Western Bulletin, now the Jewish Independent, and online publications. His first story was published in the London Evening Star when he was 14.

Value in letter-writing

I used to be a father. I still am, and now I’m a grandfather, too. But it’s a load I can handle because the job description is just about identical. It calls for inspiration – of young minds and young hearts, especially of grandkids who live farther away and, therefore, consider themselves relatively safe from my constant inspirational messages.

Despite TV, video games, tablets and smartphones, and an environment humming with electronic messages, we Jews honor and cherish the printed word. We still are the People of the Book. Give us a pencil (or a pen) and a piece of paper, and we’ll find something to say.

So, I write a lot of letters to my grandkids. For still less than 50 cents – it goes up most years (no competition will do that) – you’re able to send a large number of words written on several pieces of paper. And, for a few more cents, a wise grandfather, besides advice and family gossip, can include a candy bar, a stick of gum, a newspaper clipping or a baseball card to lure the young mind into the civilized joy of correspondence. What teacher ever taught successfully without incentives? It’s a trick I learned years ago from the Cracker Jack people. They marketed candy with cheap, fragile toys. I market family pride.

I use wiles of all kinds to encourage my younger kin to rip open their envelopes with frantic enthusiasm. “Wonder what he sent this time? Maybe, if I write back today, he’ll send me another Hershey bar.”

Yes, Hershey bars are great. Nice and flat for mailing, but they have their disadvantages in July, unless you live in Nome and your granddaughter hangs out with her kids in Anchorage.

Kids love letters with or without sweet bonuses. They love their name in big, bold letters on the envelope. They love the ritual of sorting through the mail and throwing the discards on the floor before finding their letter.

And, like I say, I rarely write without including something that is either amusing, edible or ethically fortifying. My favorites are clippings from my local newspaper (human interest stories, we used to call them). So educational! They encourage kids to read and observe the world outside of home and school. If you pick your stories with care, you can package amusement and even morality in your envelopes. For example, I just mailed off to eight grandkids the story of a 65-year-old lady who wrote a confession to her high school principal – she cheated in a high school writing course 47 years ago!

My small audience loved it and marveled at her delayed, but full, confession. They had many questions: “Did she have to take the class over? Did she get a punishment? Did they send her a new report card? I assured them she was not punished and maybe – because of her honesty – they renamed the auditorium in her honor.

But my kids usually award the family Pulitzer Prize to the vignettes I call “Pet Saves Family”: the collie who pulled Jamie out of the river, the cocker spaniel who barked and alerted the family to their smoldering home and, of course, the whole category of dog-finds-missing-child stories. We humans, even after we’ve lost the glow of childhood, still have a soft spot for animal rescue stories. It goes back in history to the gabbling geese who saved Rome. A story probably told in a grandfather’s letter of 300 BCE.

We don’t always need burning homes and swollen rivers. Kids of the right age (say over 3 and under 10) love any animal story. Naturally. They love animals. There’s a kinship there of smallness, innocence, helplessness that we don’t relate to as much when we become older and taller, and more cynical.

Just this month, I mailed out a tearjerker that couldn’t fail to warm the juvenile heart. A two-column report of a three-legged dog – a mutt who had lost a race with a truck and forfeited one of his four limbs – who found a lost child. The sheriff and an army of searchers failed, noted the article, but the dog, with only 75% of its limbs, found the missing child.

The returns from my young readers have been overwhelmingly enthusiastic about this theme. “More!” they cry. They want more. But that’s not so easy. I’m at the mercy of the newspaper industry, which is attracted to war, corruption, crime and disease, rather than the uplifting genre of “pet finds child” or other positive news.

Besides the inspirational value, there’s a selfish payoff to my letter writing campaigns: I like the return mail. And, maybe decades from now, when I’m old and my pen trembles on the paper and my poor old grinders are loose and wobbly, my mail will be full of attentive notes sweetened with easy-to-eat Hershey bars. Bread on the waters, you know.

Ted Roberts is a freelance writer and humorist living in Huntsville, Ala.

The pitfalls of Jewish dating apps

It’s rare to find a Jew who hasn’t heard of JDate. Responsible for bringing countless members of the community together in matrimony, a whole generation of young people has grown up taking photos for upload to its hallowed webpages. But 20-something Jews, permanently attached to their cellphones as are most millennials, have many other options now for finding “the one.” Aside from actually meeting people face-to-face (G-d forbid), phone apps are being touted as the way forward.

The apps attempt to connect an array of Jewish singletons – if you both “like” each other, then you can chat. The market leaders, more established JSwipe and new kid on the block Jfiix, promise to connect you with “cool, young and mobile Jewish singles.” As someone who fits these criteria (it’s cool to label yourself cool, right?), I’m here to explain why I don’t believe they’ll achieve their aim. Having lived in London, Toronto and Vancouver, I’ll do this with the help of both personal insight and that of various Jewish young professionals in all three cities.

First, there’s the geography aspect – Jewish dating apps all aim to introduce you to other Jews. Thanks smartphones, but that’s not actually a problem we have. Anyone can tell you how Jews (and other ethnic groups) cluster together in most cities. Simply check out the suburb of Thornhill in Toronto or Golders Green in London if you don’t believe me. In Vancouver, with a Jewish community that a good friend comments is “half a block” wide, it’s not difficult to find members of the tribe. We do, after all, have a shared interest in hobbies such as eating and gossiping – where we find out that supposed strangers are often third or fourth cousins.

This closeness is usually a positive: even if you’re unfamiliar with the specific community or country, Jews, in my experience, excel at inclusivity and making newbies feel welcome. But when it comes to dating apps, it leads to a problem that’s twofold. If you do live in a Jewish area, chances are that you’ll already know other Jews from synagogue, Hebrew school, Birthright or friends of friends. In response to my questioning, a friend in London summed up the issue: “Jewish dating apps are great to keep your parents and grandparents happy, but you end up just swiping left to everyone, as you know them or they’re your best friend’s ex.” So, when you live in densely saturated Jewish areas, mobile apps are needless. And, when you don’t, they aren’t helpful either. One Vancouverite I spoke to, who goes to university in Halifax, remarked, “In my limited East Coast experience, there’s no one on Jewish dating apps. Everyone who shows up is from the States.” It’s little surprise that he set up a profile with Tinder, a similar app but one that’s open to all religions.

This leads me to the second problem with Jewish dating apps: the apps themselves. Certainly, critiques can be leveled at any and all such platforms. One Ontario-based law student refuses to download dating apps, full stop, arguing that people’s profiles are so “planned” and “calculated.” True, the information you put about yourself on dating apps is mostly limited to a line-long bio and several photos, and everyone tries to look their most cultured, well-traveled self in photos. Not only does everyone start to look like clone-like serial vacationers, but it means images, not personality, inevitably end up being the deciding factor in choosing dates.

Jewish apps have somewhat tried to sideline this prioritization of looks with “Jewish preference” tools. JSwipe, for instance, lets you select preferred options for being matched up: you can choose between kosher or not, as well as denominations from Orthodox to Reform to “willing to convert.” This is a pretty rudimentary way of sifting through Jewish singles when you compare it with the fact that people used to put some actual thought into matchmaking those who might work well as a couple. A graduate in Toronto lamented that “everyone’s stopped trying to set up other friends with mutual friends because swipe-based dating apps have become the new thing.” The new thing they are, but a new thing that’s being adopted reluctantly.

Why? I attribute this, in part, to an image problem. The apps aren’t appealingly designed and are more than a little cringe-worthy. Unlike other dating apps with more casual connotations (Tinder) or novel niches (Coffee Meets Bagel), Jewish ones are severely lacking the trendy factor. In my experience, this was because they didn’t seem fun or relaxed, and they certainly didn’t seem like they’d lead to the exciting adventure that dating surely should be. In short: they seemed to be full of people who felt like they “had to” find a Jew. And, depressingly enough, it was difficult to distinguish between whether this hint of dutiful desperation could be attributed to themselves, their parents or even their grandparents.

This is why, for many, the apps are a good idea in theory, but less so in practice. The focus on Judaism implies that if two people’s religious beliefs match up, then they’re clearly compatible. This neglects vital questions such as, “Is this person actually nice?” and “Do we have anything in common bar religion?” And I’d go so far as to say that sticking steadfastly to dating Jews means sticking to your comfort zone, as you’ll likely be from a similar background. But what are your 20s for if not to date people from other walks of life? At worst, dating vastly different people can highlight what you don’t want in a relationship. At best, you’ll gain life experience and learn a ton about different cultures. I say this as someone with a dating history that includes Christians and Muslims, but who, at the end of the day, would love to settle down with someone Jewish.

What doesn’t help in this regard is being warned before a first date with a non-Jew, “You can’t marry him” (thanks, Dad). Any young person will tell you that the more a rule is enforced, the more you want to rebel against it. It’s no different when it comes to dating. Ask pretty much any young Jew and they’ll attest to the pressure we feel from family and community to settle down with a Jewish spouse. It’s easy to joke about, but the joke’s on them when the pressure pushes us away. The burden is too much, too soon. But, Dad, and other parents, just because we experiment in our 20s doesn’t mean we don’t want a Jewish household. I’m sure I will have one eventually – well, we can pray, for my dad’s sake. And you know the guy in Halifax who traded a Jewish app for Tinder? He noted, “My bio has Hebrew in it, so I guess there’s a subconscious hope that it’ll attract Jews?”

Parents, have faith that we’ll come around and maybe, just maybe, we’ll do it without having to resort to mildly dire religion-specific dating apps.

Rebecca Shapiro is a freelance journalist, amateur photographer and blogger at thethoughtfultraveller.com. A recent politics graduate, she manages to maintain bases in London, Vancouver and Toronto, while focusing a disproportionate amount of time planning new adventures. She has been published in the Times (U.K.), Huffington Post (U.K.), That’s Shanghai (China) and ELLE Canada.

Time to change Hatikvah?

(photo by Zachi Evenor via commons.wikimedia.org)

With Liberal MP Mauril Bélanger’s private members’ bill seeking to change the lyrics of O Canada having advanced to its second reading, I am thinking about another anthem close to many readers’ hearts: Hatikvah. With Yom Ha’atzmaut having recently passed, the content of Hatikvah deserves some reconsideration.

Bélanger’s amendment would make the Canadian national anthem more gender-inclusive, changing “in all thy sons command” to “in all of us command.”

As reported by CBC News, Bélanger said, “As Canadians, we continually test our assumptions and, indeed, our symbols, for their suitability.” He continued: “Our anthem can reflect our roots and our growth.”

It’s a statement that is rife for comparing with the Israeli experience. Israel’s Jewish state-building origins have long been challenged by the country’s democratic requirements.

When it comes to inclusiveness, Bélanger knows of what he speaks. Over the last several months, Bélanger has been an especially unifying figure in the corridors of Canadian power, having been recently diagnosed with ALS. Not long ago, my own synagogue in Ottawa honored him in a highly moving ceremony that easily transcended whatever residue of partisan divisions may have remained after what was an unusually divisive Canadian election.

Despite being written in the highly gendered language of Hebrew, Hatikvah doesn’t suffer from gender exclusion (its gender inflections are mostly in the neutral “we” form). But there is a different gap in its inclusiveness: the 20% of Israeli citizens who are Arabs. Reports about swearing-in ceremonies of Knesset members or Israeli judges from time to time include a mention of an Arab or Palestinian honoree walking out or simply refusing to sing.

Writing in the Forward in 2012, Philologos (a pseudonym for Hillel Halkin) proposed changing Hatikvah’s lyrics to make them more inclusive. “It’s unacceptable to have an anthem that can’t be sung by 20% of a population,” he wrote. “Permitting [the minority] to stand mutely while others sing is no solution.”

Philologos’ fix is simple. Change Yehudi (Jewish) to Yisraeli (Israeli), and le’Tzion (to Zion) to l’artzeinu (to our land). Close the song with “in the city in which David … encamped.”

It’s an idea that is top of mind for Israel’s Arab MKs, such as Yousef Jabareen, who told me in a 2015 interview that he believes Hatikvah should be adapted “to accommodate both national groups.” He added, “The Arab minority are not just another minority. They are a native minority. They were there before the establishment of the state of Israel.”

When thinking about any type of policy change, it’s important to consider who stands to gain and who stands to lose. Given that a recent Pew poll found that 79% of Israeli Jews feel they “deserve preferential treatment,” it’s clear that Jewish Israelis are comfortable with their position of privilege – whether legislative or symbolic – in Israel. It stands to reason that any erosion in perceived privilege might be seen as a threat.

Israeli Jews may not embrace these sorts of changes. Neither, when it comes to changing O Canada, do some Conservative MPs, citing no need to bend to “political correctness,” as Larry Maguire said. Another MP, Kelly Block, said she does “not believe the anthem is sexist,” according to CBC News.

However, there is something powerful about allowing for expanded boundaries of inclusion. Further enfranchising those who feel excluded can help buttress the institutions that constitute the state, and the costs would be relatively low.

By their design, national anthems are meant to express the will of the polity. Those who wield power might want to think about the effects of the content of national symbols on those who don’t feel represented by them. When it comes to nation-building, casting a net that extends to the edges of the polity bears fruit for democratic functioning and civic identity.

Mira Sucharov is an associate professor of political science at Carleton University. She is a columnist for Canadian Jewish News and contributes to Haaretz and the Jewish Daily Forward, among other publications. This article was originally published in the CJN.

Community’s foundations

(photo by Cynthia Ramsay)

With the skyrocketing Vancouver real estate prices the talk of Canadian news media almost daily, less attention has been given to the fate of the many homes whose high property price-tags all but encourage demolition and rebuilds.

One Facebook group has been seeking to draw attention to the disappearing streetscape of Vancouver. With 10,000 followers, Vancouver Vanishes bills itself as “a lament for, and celebration of, the vanishing character homes in Vancouver.” Some houses – like one on West 15th, originally owned by an assistant salesman for the Canadian Pacific Railway – have already met their fate. Others are slated for demolition, with photos posted in the hopes that followers will register their protest with Vancouver City Council.

My late grandfather’s home – on Fremlin Street near West 54th Avenue – was recently torn down to make way for a generous new build. Purchased with my grandmother and their three daughters in the late 1950s, my grandfather lived in his mid-century vernacular bungalow for nearly six decades, until he died three years ago at age 97.

While it was spacious and modern by 1950s standards, my grandfather’s house probably wouldn’t have made it to the pages of Vancouver Vanishes. It was a standard bungalow with four modest bedrooms, generous entertaining spaces, a kitchen large enough to accommodate Passover and everyday dishes, and a spacious rec room with a wet bar for teenage dance parties hosted by my mom and aunts. With more room to spread out, it would have felt excitingly large to the three daughters and, soon, another girl they fostered, compared to the small character home on Quesnel Drive from which they had moved. But theirs wasn’t among the most celebrated Vancouver “heritage home” variety – the Storybook homes, or the Tudor, Georgian or Mission Revival structures.

Still, the Jewish community may want to pause to consider a special type of vanishing as more and more of these homes disappear. That is, the kind of community-building that took place within the four walls of my grandparents’ home, and in the homes of many other community leaders and activists of their generation.

In my grandparents’ home on Fremlin, there was organizing and affiliation with Schara Tzedeck Synagogue, then under the leadership of Rabbi Bernard Goldenberg and Rabbi Marvin Hier. As well, with three growing daughters, there were the activities of many youth groups: NCSY, Young Judea and Habonim. There was the founding and nurturing of Camp Miriam, where my grandmother was the first “camp mother.” There was much work to be done for Pioneer Women, for the Histadrut (Israel’s trade union association) and in the preparation of a weekly radio show my grandparents hosted on Jewish and Israeli themes. In between the many hours devoted to volunteer work, there were their small businesses to run – Clifford’s Jewellers in Kitsilano, and their real estate ventures.

Plus, there were Sunday waffle brunches for the large extended Margolis family – whose members had found their way to Vancouver starting in the 1940s after arriving in Winnipeg from Kiev two decades earlier – and visitors from Russia and Israel.

With their three daughters spread across Vancouver Talmud Torah, Kitsilano, Churchill and Eric Hamber secondary schools, there was a home library to nurture, classical music records to collect, family photos to display and a garden to tend: irises, tiger lilies, azaleas, rhododendrons, peonies and hydrangeas, and fruit trees – apple, pear and cherry.

By the time I was around, spending one memorable summer in the orange bedroom in the late 1970s, there were memories for me to make – like suffering my first wasp sting on the back patio – and hobbies for me to discover: there was a teach-yourself-to-type book and a learn-to-speak Spanish book to read, all while I took up tennis in the shadow of my grandmother’s formidable court skills. By Grade 8, having moved to Vancouver with my parents from Winnipeg, there were weekly dinners prepared for me by my grandfather between my school day at Eric Hamber and my Judaic studies classes at Congregation Beth Israel and at the home of Rabbi Daniel Siegel.

What is lost when a mid-century Vancouver bungalow is demolished? Wood siding, stucco, a large picture window, a tiled porch and a garden lovingly tended. But for communities, there is so much more: memories forged of childrearing, philanthropy and leadership. Luckily for Vancouver’s Jewish community, while the building materials of these homes may be gone, the scaffolding of a vibrant community – generations later – remains.

Recalling the Six Day War

Jerusalem Day celebrations in Israel (photo by Ashernet)

This Jerusalem Day – 28 Iyar (June 5) – marks 49 years since the city split in two by Jordanian occupation became reunited. Nowadays, the names of battle sites are just part of our everyday language – French Hill, Ammunition Hill, Government House – but back in 1967, these were the places where armies were pitted against each other in battle.

We didn’t have Ramat Eshkol then; the hilltops of Gilo were barren and windswept. The Israeli army fought to win territory to the north and the south, until only the walled Old City was still in Jordanian hands.

The war, not of our making, was sparked on April 7, 1967, when the Syrians opened fire on Israeli tractors working near Kibbutz Ha’On, east of the Kinneret. The Israel Defence Forces returned fire, so the Syrians began shelling settlements. Israel Air Force jets were sent to destroy Syria’s artillery batteries. Then Syrian MiGs were sent to intercept them, resulting in dogfights above Kibbutz Shamir. Eventually, six Syrian planes were downed and Syria demanded that Egypt issue a response, which posed a dilemma for president Gamal Abdel Nasser. To prod him, Syria said Israel was amassing forces on the northern border, which was untrue, but Nasser sent massive forces to Sinai on May 14 and 15.

Israel had to call up its reserves, as all United Nations troops had left the Sinai and Gaza. Volunteers swarmed to help with transportation, distributing food and preparing bomb shelters, helping in factories and kibbutzim. Thousands of our soldiers were deployed along the Egyptian border waiting for cabinet to make a decision.

There were frequent meetings between prime minister Levi Eshkol and chief-of-staff Yitzhak Rabin, who said that the IDF was strong and could repel any Arab attack. There were messages from U.S. president Lyndon Johnson calling – as is always the case! – for Israel to show restraint. Egypt also was asked not to escalate the situation.

Eshkol announced that Israel did not seek war, but to no avail. The Egyptians closed the Tiran Straits. On June 5, the war began. Two hundred IAF jets destroyed the entire air forces of Egypt, Syria and Jordan: 374 planes were destroyed on the ground and the rest in dogfights. Israel had complete aerial supremacy during the six days of battle.

On the ground, the IDF entered Sinai in three columns. Jordan started shelling Jerusalem, firing day and night, resulting in many casualties, while Syrian jets raided Haifa Bay and northern settlements.

On June 6, our paratroopers surrounded the Old City and, at 10 a.m. on June 7, they broke through the Lions’ Gate, liberating the Western Wall and the Temple Mount. Lt.-Gen. Motta Gur stood near the Wall, and announced on the radio: “The Temple Mount is in our hands!”

After hours of fierce battles, the paratroopers burst into tears. According to Mordechai Rechschafner, a volunteer from Australia, “There was no sense of jubilation. We had lost too many friends. We had paid for our victory with blood and sacrifice.” When Maj.-Gen. Shlomo Goren, the chief military rabbi, arrived at the Kotel, he blew the shofar and said a prayer: “This is the day we have been yearning for. Let us rejoice in it!”

The Six Day War ended two days later, after the Israel Navy conquered the Tiran Straits and seized Egyptian army bases and airfields in Sinai, and Israel captured the Syrian fortified posts. When the Golan Heights was conquered, the war ended.

There was both great euphoria and terrible sadness. Jerusalem was the focus of the greatest celebration, but a great toll had been exacted. All day the radio played Naomi Shemer’s “Jerusalem of Gold” – it became a victory anthem.

It was three years later that I arrived with my husband and four children in Jerusalem. Forty-six years have passed, and my love for the city has deepened every day. There have been hard times and there was heartache when each of our children served in the army. When our son was a paratrooper in Lebanon, we questioned whether we had made the right decision in bringing them from the safety of their birthplace Australia. Now, most of their children have served in the army or are soon to be inducted, but none of them has ever felt we made a wrong decision. They grew up in Jerusalem and know as we do that it is special. Our feet walk over the stones that King David danced on. We pray at the Western Wall where the Holy Presence, the Shekhinah, still lingers. We travel roads on which kings, soldiers, priests and other holy men have traveled for thousands of years, century after century. Every day, we bathe in the unique quality of golden light that artists have striven to capture.

Each neighborhood in Jerusalem is different. Quiet alleyways that meander, bustling markets filled with the color and spicy smells of the Middle East, walled courtyards softened with a glimpse of greenery. Holy sites where prayers are whispered and blessings invoked. Quiet hills silhouetted with pine trees. Graveyards for the old and military cemeteries for the young. Parks where children laugh and dimpled babies are wheeled in prams. So ancient, and yet also a modern metropolis where people work, play, shop, drive, argue and love.

This Jerusalem Day, as I have for more than four decades, I will thank G-d for the privilege of living here and pray for the peace of Jerusalem forevermore.

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She can be contacted at dwaysman@gmail.com or via her blog, dvorawaysman.com.