“We’re planning a family event in June.” That’s how I start nearly every contact with vendors while trying to arrange it. Sometimes, I say a “party with family and friends.” I avoid saying b’nai mitzvah. It’s just easier and safer.
One of my twins has a locker at junior high near a student who uses her body as a sign of protest. “Free Palestine” is written on her cheek. Other days, messages are emblazoned on a sweatshirt. My kid says she seems to stare at him, but I recommended he just stay away, don’t stare back, and don’t cause any kind of confrontation. “Do you know this person?” I ask him. “No,” he says, “she doesn’t know us.” What he meant is perhaps more obvious to us now – he doesn’t think she knows we are Jewish.
The transition from a bilingual Hebrew/English public elementary school to a junior high where Jewish kids are few and far between has been a big one. To my surprise, it went smoothly, but, over time, the ramifications have become clear. We knew our kids would figure out that we were, in fact, a small minority in Canadian culture. In elementary school, they would choose surprising moments to discuss Jewish things or use words in Hebrew with people at the dentist’s office or on public transportation. At first, our explanations about how people were different, with various religions and backgrounds were confusing. In their minds, they still believed everyone was Jewish.
On one hand, I loved that they didn’t have to learn to code-switch as early as I did. Code-switching is a way to describe how we switch between dialects, languages or personae in different settings. That is, a person might speak one language at home and another at work. In Jewish settings, one might use what linguists call “Jewish English,” English interspersed with Yiddish or Hebrew or other Jewish languages. At home, we might be encouraging someone to “daven at shul” with friends. We might shout “Dai, maspik!” (“Stop, enough!”) when someone misbehaves. In public, we might say “go to services” or “Behave yourself!”
Some people say that learning this kind of nuance takes maturity, but that doesn’t always ring true. I knew, by age 5 or 6 when my ethno-religious identity needed to be kept to myself. During times of extreme antisemitism, children were forced to keep this hidden, or even not told they were Jewish until old enough to manage the information. Giving my kids this extended time of safety felt like offering them a special oasis, a honeymoon that I missed.
Years ago, I worked with an editor and writer who shared with me that she had a Jewish background, although she was adamantly secular. I often felt the need to code-switch with her, as something made me feel like I was “too Jewish” for her comfort level. Since Oct.7, things have changed. She has become public in her Jewish identity, speaking out against antisemitism. Recently, she has been reading history and research for a book-length project. Today, she said, reflecting on an historic “golden age” for Jews in Polish history: “There is no safety in America now just because it’s been a golden age for my lifetime.” Yeah, I responded. I know.
Everyone copes differently. On social media and among friends, some dig into their Jewish identities. They’re consistently posting about their Jewish pride or activities and asking others to do so as well. One local friend who regularly attends synagogue told me that, if anything, this war has made her want to “do Jewish” even more, so she’s physically attending more services and gatherings than she had previously. Others decide to keep their kids home from school on days where there might be safety issues or have stopped attending anything at all connected with the Jewish community. They keep a low profile. Being loud and proud isn’t their way.
I have seen all these approaches (and many variations) from the Jewish people I know. And there are the minority Jewish viewpoints, too, on the political right and left. Those who claim more of an affinity with their progressive causes than with Jewish ones are often vocal on social media and at pro-Palestinian protests, either finding ways to disown their background or use their Judaism to explain their activism. Some particularly outspoken ones demonstrate, at least to me, that they don’t have a solid grounding in Jewish history and tradition, particularly as it relates to Israel, but instead embrace narratives around colonialism and apartheid instead.
Lately, I have been longing to ask where these “land back” Canadian Jewish activists live, if not in homes on occupied land taken from Indigenous communities. If homes here are on occupied ground, where do they believe it would be acceptable for Jews to live? I wonder how they mesh these theories with their everyday lives, or the archeological, historical and literary references to the Jewish past.
Living in grey areas of nuance is exhausting. There are so many references in Jewish texts to back this up. We have, after all, been struggling with these identity issues for millennia. We’re the ethnic group for whom the Greek word of “diaspora” was invented. Yet, this is one time where more evidence seems pointless. For those of us who feel this discord and disconnect, it’s not news. For others, who either manage to live wholly in the Jewish world or outside of it, these retellings of history aren’t useful. So many people have made their place, and it’s not in the margins of subtlety.
There’s no one response that suits. For me, I understand the value of having a rich interior and family life. The moment I’m absorbed in braiding challah and reciting the blessing blocks out some of this noise. Although I’m alone, it’s meaningful spending that small moment to send love and prayers for the hostages, the Jewish community and my family. I knit sweaters for ever-growing twins, anticipating their big birthday ahead this spring. I fall deep into intellectual arguments online, or into gazing at a pileated woodpecker whose rat-a-tat vibrates throughout the neighbourhood.
Finding one’s authentic self, the comfort zone where all the discord falls away, offers a brief respite. As we meet this complex moment in time, finding small outlets of escape can enable us to keep on going. Perhaps this is about good mental health or, as generations before us have explained, it’s nothing new. It’s about making a meaningful life in a diaspora, amid struggle.
Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.