Judaism – Page 3

Parshat Shelach Lecha

On June 21, at Ohel Yitzhak in Nahalat Shiva, Gil Zohar celebrated the 57th anniversary of his bar mitzvah. (photo Gil Zohar)

Man plans, God laughs, goes the Yiddish aphorism. For the last half year, I have been diligently learning the trope of Parshat Shelach Lecha (the Torah portion meaning Send for Yourself) to celebrate the 57th anniversary of my bar mitzvah, which I had when I was a boy in Toronto. My wife Randi and I had planned a kiddush at the historic Beit HaRav Kook synagogue near our home in downtown Jerusalem. We are members there, and enjoy the leadership of Rabbi Yitzhak Marmorstein, formerly of Vancouver’s Or Shalom. Alas, the war with Iran started. In accordance with the Home Front Command orders against large public assemblies, the shul closed. And so, we considered canceling the simchah.

While all but Jerusalem’s most essential businesses were locked down tight as a drum, the wartime defence regulations allowed synagogues near a bomb shelter to keep their doors open, with limited attendance. Hence, Ohel Yitzhak, the Sephardi synagogue in our courtyard in Nahalat Shiva, built in 1888, remained open. And so, we switched the venue from the former home and yeshivah of Abraham Isaac Kook (1865-1935) – the first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine – to the equally historic synagogue where Ben-Zion Meir Uziel (1880-1953) – Kook’s Sephardi counterpart, who served as nascent Israel’s chief Sephardi rabbi until his death – used to pray.

The illustrious Sephardi landmark, resembling a house of worship in a mellah in Morocco, is close to the Herbert Samuel Hotel, which opened its miklat (bomb shelter) to the public as well as hotel guests. So, on June 21, undeterred by the spectre of a ballistic missile salvo, I was called up to chant Maftir and read the Haftarah.

What’s it like when the air-raid sirens sound nightly and warplanes roar through the starry sky? Lori Nusbaum of Toronto, who came with her son, Ryan De Simone, for my second bar mitzvah, has been posting on Facebook:

“The 3rd night in Jerusalem and the 3rd siren alert went off; it was 4:35 a.m. Sleep is hard. You don’t want to be in a deep sleep and miss the [cellphone] notifications so you try to have ‘one eye open.’ There’s something strangely intimate about being in a smallish space with a bunch of strangers, some in bathrobes, carrying pillows and blankets, wearing slippers, with sleep still in their eyes. You aren’t sure if you should make eye contact or not. It’s nighttime, so conversation is not really happening. I think we all want to keep sleep in our brains, hope we can go back upstairs quickly and close our eyes for a peaceful rest of the night.”

Like many guests at the synagogue, Lori found my wartime bar mitzvah intensely emotional. “My somewhat unaffiliated son had an aliyah at one of the oldest shuls in Jerusalem,” she posted on Facebook. “Our friend, whose bar mitzvah we came to witness, literally took the tallit off his back to wrap around my son so he could go to the bimah. With tears in my eyes, so many emotions washed over me. Too many to describe adequately. This is what Israel is all about. The people who in the middle of a war come together, pray, help each other and celebrate life together. And give you the proverbial shirt off their back.”

The grim situation in which we find ourselves today parallels the Torah reading of Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13:1-15:41) and its equally pertinent Haftarah (Joshua 2:1-24).

Returning after 40 days of reconnoitring the Promised Land, the spies sent by Moses reported: “We went into the land to which you sent us, and it does flow with milk and honey! Here is its fruit [showing a huge cluster of grapes hanging from a stave, today the symbol of the Ministry of Tourism, proudly worn by every licensed tour guide]. But the people who live there are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large.”

Then, Calev ben Yefune shushed the crowd declaring, “We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it.”

Ten of his fellow spies (all except Joshua) disagreed – “We can’t attack those people; they are stronger than we are” – and they spread a slanderous report about the land they had probed. Misunderstanding the many funerals they had witnessed because of the plague God had sent so that the spies would go unnoticed, they said, “The land we explored devours its inhabitants. All the people we saw there are of great size. We saw the Nephilim there [the descendants of the giant Anak]. We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.”

Grasshoppers? They might as well have called the Jewish people cockroaches.

In the words of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks ztz”l, this dibbat ha’aretz (slanderous report about the Land of Israel) is the language of fear and demoralization. They are big, we are small. They are strong, we are weak. They do not fear us, but we fear them. We cannot prevail.

Was this, in fact, the case? As the Haftarah makes clear, the 10 scouts could not have been more mistaken. A generation later, Joshua bin Nun too sent two spies – the same Calev, and Pinchas ben Zimri. They slept on the roof of a house belonging to Rahav the prostitute, which formed part of the walls of Jericho. Hearing about the spies, the city’s king ordered his soldiers to arrest them, but Rahav hid them and misdirected the guards. What is more interesting is what she tells the spies of the feelings of Jericho’s residents when they heard that the Israelites were on their way:

“I know that the Lord has given this land to you and that a great fear of you has fallen on us, so that all who live in this country are melting in fear because of you. We have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea for you when you came out of Egypt, and what you did to Sihon and Og, the two kings of the Amorites east of the Jordan, whom you completely destroyed. When we heard of it, our hearts melted and everyone’s courage failed because of you, for the Lord your God is in heaven above and on the earth below.”

Like contemporary Gazans and Iranians, the people of Jericho were anything but giants – they were terrified of us. The spies of Moses’s day should have known this. They had already said in the song they sang at the Red Sea: “Nations heard and trembled; terror gripped Philistia’s inhabitants / The chiefs of Edom were dismayed / Moab’s leaders were seized with trembling / The people of Canaan melted away.”

How did 10 of the spies so misinterpret the situation? They misunderstood Moses’s instructions: “Alu zeh b’Negev v’alitem et ha-har” – ascend (alu) through the south, and ascend (va’alitem) the mountain. The word “ascend” (aliyah in Hebrew) also means to overcome. (When Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, “We shall overcome,” he was citing this verse.) The spies lacked the faith that the land would be theirs, despite God’s promises, and 39 years of wandering in the desert followed.

The Jewish people, in Israel and the diaspora, experienced a crisis of confidence in 1313 BCE following the Exodus from Egypt, on the eve of entering the Promised Land. Not so today. We have no such hesitations as the Israel Defence Forces battle the regime of the latter-day Haman in Iran and its Hamas, Hezbollah and Houthi proxies. Our response is to follow Moses’s instructions: “Alu.” Ascend. Overcome. Make aliyah.

To that end, I invite you to celebrate Parshat Shelach Lecha with me at Beit Ha Rav Kook (9 Rabbi Kook St.) on June 13, 2026. Next year, in peaceful Jerusalem.

Gil Zohar is a writer and tour guide in Jerusalem.

Seeing the divine in others

I recently participated in a conference panel on hope in a time of divisive politics. A friend in the Jewish community couldn’t do it, so she asked me to help instead. I won’t lie, I felt nervous.

I worried that I wouldn’t measure up to some of the speakers, who had big job titles, awards and experience. This was compounded by a few missteps that left me feeling embarrassed and humbled. First, my friend’s name was left on the conference program and mine wasn’t listed, even though organizers had ample time to update the panelists’ names. Second, social media amplified the panel on Facebook and Instagram, but listed my name with incorrect, made-up undergraduate degrees. I’d provided my graduate degrees in religious studies and education because I felt they were relevant. Somehow, five years of education went away due to clerical errors.

The weird part was that my brief talk, and my presence at the panel, was to elevate Jewish experience and Jewish hope in an approachable way. Two academics spoke, using big concepts and bigger words, while minimizing their personal approach to the issues. Then, an amazing African Canadian legal professional spoke of her family’s journey and deep roots in Canada – it was personal, compelling and important. I was up next.

I’d prepared my notes in advance. I spoke from them, but, first, I changed gears. The night before the panel, held at Winnipeg’s Canadian Museum for Human Rights, I encountered members of the Persian community, holding up their lion flags to represent the Iranian people and their opposition to the Islamic Republic. I stopped to tell a young woman holding the flag that our hearts were with her, and we were thinking of her, and hoping the people of Iran were safe. She seemed shocked. Surprised that I saw her, knew what she represented, and embraced this message against extremism and violence of the Islamic Republic of Iran. She asked where I was from, I smiled and only said, “Winnipeg.”

The day of the panel, I struggled with a parking meter. Then I crossed a street, sharing a warm smile with an Indigenous man on a bicycle who passed by. My heart thumped hard. Though I’ve done plenty of public events and teaching, I felt on edge. Maybe it was because I was one of the only representatives of the Jewish community in that multi-faith gathering. Maybe it was because I’d been checking on where the Iranian missiles were landing in Israel right before I came. I worried about repercussions following me into the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

Pretending to check if the microphone was on, I said, “Welcome. Thank you for coming …” and, looking at the crowd, I greeted everyone with a “Hello y’all!” After that informal start, I made sure to mention the Jewish concept of the world as a broken pot, in which the vessel’s shards, our souls, are in each of us. I talked about tikkun olam, repairing the world, and putting those shards back together, as an act of hope that we work towards, as an act of ongoing creation – a human and divine partnership. Throughout the morning, I took time to look at people, greet them and try to see G-d in each of them. I decided that the way to confront my feelings of embarrassment, and the erasure of my name and credentials, was to fully see others the way I would want to be treated.

At this conference, there were many references to reconciliation. An Anglican bishop who is also a residential school survivor spoke during our panel question period. When I recounted all this later to my family, we recognized an important theme.

As a professor, my husband often attends events with a land acknowledgement. Working with a group of Indigenous students last year, he asked them how they feel about the “workshopped” statement the university uses. They said it was often done by rote and perhaps lost its meaning as a result. They didn’t feel seen by it.

Almost immediately, I recalled that our congregation had changed its Prayer for Canada. The new one feels genuine to me. It includes aspects of a land acknowledgement by mentioning by name the first inhabitants of the land. It also includes the current Canadian political infrastructure. It’s a prayer to maintain our diversity, so that never again will Canada say, “None is too many,” in reference to the antisemitic exclusion of Jewish refugees fleeing Europe during the Second World War.

My husband will meet again this summer with a new group of Indigenous students. He’s considering a different discussion. What does it mean when society suggests that some people’s innate connection to the land must be acknowledged, but others don’t deserve a similar acknowledgement of their homeland? This issue isn’t “just” about Israel, either. What about the Kurds? What about the Druze? The dispossessed list is a long one.

When we moved to Winnipeg 16 years ago, celebrations for Canada Day included enormous festivals and bombastic firework displays. Over time, due to the pandemic and to a change in how we perceive the day, this has changed. Many Indigenous Canadians don’t celebrate Canada Day.

Having my name left out and hard-earned credentials jumbled was difficult, but it reminded me of how acknowledgement works. We can choose, as Canadians, to look up from our phones and really see one another. We all deserve to take up space and be here, recognized for our special contributions, in this land of plenty. We may not be able to control the huge geopolitical events around us, but we can see one another and pray for our loved ones and our neighbours, too, both here and elsewhere. Recognizing the divine, individual spark in each person is crucial.

I’m hoping for a family cookout at home this Canada Day. We might talk about how we connect to Canada, and how we fit in the Jewish diaspora and homeland. It’s a complicated equation, worth talking about during a war. We should also choose to see, greet and value all those we walk with on this land and in the world. Let’s recognize everyone’s names, identities – and souls – as meaningful, too.

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.

Deborah Wilde makes magic

Writer Deborah Wilde is more public now about the Jewish elements in her novels, which have always had a Jewish sensibility. (photo from Deborah Wilde)

East Vancouver author Deborah Wilde has been a writer since childhood, when she filled countless notebooks with her stories. Born and raised in Greater Vancouver, she also spent some years in Kitimat; hers was the only Jewish family in town. She read Isaac Bashevis Singer and watched Neil Simon movies. It was an upbringing she describes as being “rich in tradition.”

Wilde started her writing career in TV and film. “I loved it. I got to be in writers’ rooms, it was a real privilege,” she said. However, she added, screenwriters are “part of a machine: you’re hired to work on other people’s stories. I wanted to tell my stories.” These stories, as it turns out, are ones with strong Jewish representation and tough, sassy female protagonists.

With the movie industry being in what she describes as “a terrible state,” Wilde took the leap into young adult fiction. In writing the Nava Katz series, she was pleased to find that many of her screenwriting skills were transferable to this new genre. “Dialogue is my happy place,” she laughed. “I had a great time doing it.”

She knew that she had to have Jewish protagonists. “I was an avid reader as a kid but I only saw myself in Holocaust stories,” she explained. “Where was the Jewish girl falling down the rabbit hole or going through the cupboard into Narnia?”

In Wilde’s books, we meet a Jewish mom from Mumbai, and the love interest in her current series is a Mizrahi Jew. Diversity even within the Jewish community is vital, she said. “I want smart Jewish women who have adventures, who are the object of desire.”

Having embarked on her career in fiction, Wilde has reached her initial goal of publishing five books in three years. It took a lot of stamina and she learned that being an independent (or “indie”) young adult author was “not sustainable.” Setting her sights on an adult audience, she took inspiration from her “love of old Hollywood – it was the banter. And I’d always read romances,” she said, “so I wanted to include that as well.”

Wilde settled on first-person, urban fantasy. A relatively new but extremely popular genre, urban fantasy tales are set in the world we live in but with magical and supernatural elements. Ordinary or “mundane” activities are constantly disrupted by these troublemaking nasties, sometimes with deadly consequences.

And that is where we meet Jewish heroine Ashira Cohen, private investigator. Walking down a Vancouver street, Cohen comes across a “grimy convenience store selling long-distance phone cards and bongs.” A Vancouver scene we probably recognize, but she might also run into a bodyguard who’s been possessed by a demon or a delinquent teen with a talent for vanishing into thin air. Cohen is fast-talking, feisty and funny, but she’s also “someone you’d want to run into at Café 41,” said Wilde.

Meanwhile, Cohen’s finances are in a state, her love life is stagnant and she’s extraordinarily (and creatively) accident prone. The character is unsentimental, caustic and cynically bored. An interview with a young adult client gave her, she says, “all the details about their nauseatingly cute courtship and very little useful information.”

Wilde’s novels bring a big helping of zany chaos, a nod to the screwball comedies of the 1940s, staple viewing in the author’s childhood home. But, while the books conform to established genres – such as the “chosen one” trope, the terribly attractive and just as infuriating nemesis – they’re also full of little winks at the reader: neurotic elders, Jewish idioms, references to Jewish traditions.

Wilde’s talent lies in her ability to layer elements of regular life – like an eye-rolling teen whose statements sound like questions, or the intrusive badgering of Ash’s mother at a moment when tensions are already running high – over the frenzied dangers of the world inhabited by Cohen. The result is fiction that is absurd, surreal and peppered with rapid-fire dialogue reminiscent of the classic film His Girl Friday.

There is also a serious undercurrent. The author seasons her prose with references to history. For example, one of the magical characters, Meryem, is a Turkish magic refugee who has fled the “purges.”

Jewish representation is very important to Wilde. “There is so little fiction and television with strong, tough Jewish characters,” she said. The Jezebel narrative isn’t a Jewish story but, explained Wilde, “it has a Jewish sensibility – because that’s my own. It’s authentic to my experience.”

There has always been a Jewish flavour to Wilde’s writing, but it was more subtle; it could be found in the humour. “Readers would find the Jewish stuff eventually,” she said. “But now I’m talking about it in my ads, or even in certain interviews. I’m more public about it now.”

This is one of the aspects that makes Wilde’s work original. While Greek, Celtic, Roman and Norse tales have been all the rage for years, Jezebel’s Jewish folklore and mythology make it stand out. “I won’t write it if I don’t have something original to say,” said Wilde. And that’s where we find a magical organization called Nefesh, or, in Hebrew, “soul” or “life.”

Wilde is both a prolific writer and a businessperson. Talking about the switch to indie authorship, she describes it as “exhausting and a huge learning curve.” She is now both an author and her own publishing house. She has learned about search engine optimization, how to print and distribute books, the advantages of the different platforms and the wizardry required to publish ebooks online. But, despite all the technology that runs behind the scenes, Wilde finds that “word of mouth is still the best form of advertising – many people comment on my ads with things like, I just bought this book because of all the comments, so it had better be as funny as you all said!”

But she’s not alone in her work: her team now includes her husband (who designed the back end of her online store), an editor, cover designers and a slew of peers on whom she has depended for critical (but kind) feedback, moral support, professional insight and companionship.

Wilde sells her books directly to readers. She explained that, when you buy from Amazon, “you’re actually leasing the book.” Instead, she said, “When you buy digitally from an author, you actually own the book – it’s yours, not just a link you have access to while you have that device.”

Past and present intersect with Wilde’s writing. Most of her grandfather’s family was killed in the Warsaw Ghetto. Of those who survived, she said, “They ended up in a displaced persons’ camp in Germany. My mom was born prematurely in that camp, delivered by a former Nazi doctor.” So, stories about how Jews once lived in Russia, which invaded Poland in 1939 and fully occupied it at the end of the Second World War, “that was my childhood.”

Having been raised by her grandparents, Wilde said, “I know there is absolutely an aspect of me working through this generational trauma, baggage, but, at the same time, there’s also me working through the patriarchal aspect of Judaism.”

Shula Klinger is an author and journalist living in North Vancouver.

Dance as prayer and healing

Aliza Rothman is “passionate about bringing this kind of expressive dance and healing movement to others and into the world.” (photo from Aliza Rothman)

It’s a musical Shabbat at Or Shalom Synagogue. There are four musicians playing. The rabbi is singing and chanting prayers with the congregation and a woman is dancing. Her face glows.

Hasidic leaders like the Ba’al Shem Tov and Reb Nachman of Breslov emphasized the power of dance as prayer and healing – and Aliza Rothman is part of the Jewish Renewal movement that values these teachings. She sees dance as a form of expression and prayer.

“When I move, I feel better, more alive, more connected to myself, others, my body, my emotions, my life force. And I am passionate about bringing this kind of expressive dance and healing movement to others and into the world,” she told the Independent.

Rothman is an expressive arts therapist who has been teaching a Rosh Chodesh (New Moon) movement class at Or Shalom since she moved back to Vancouver in 2023. Dance is both her passion and her medicine.

After many years of classes and choreography, she found herself at a drum circle at a music festival. Moving to the beat, it became a kind of trance dance. Ever since, she has been drawn to free-form movement.

In her mid 20s, Rothman traveled to India and participated in dance meditations as well as trance dances. Her journey then brought her to live in Jerusalem, in 2000, where she attended a weekly class called the Boogie – a dedicated free dance space, a place to be yourself, to connect and be playful. She traveled around Israel to dance at music festivals.

Jewish Renewal and dance came together for Rothman “on a soul level” when she was in her 20s. She dreamed of becoming a dance therapist.

“I had just come back from India, where I spent a few years traveling and on a spiritual quest that involved dancing, art, yoga and other healing heart-opening practices,” she said. “When I returned, I remember dancing outside on my own, and Hebrew songs and prayers came to me as I moved…. Years later, they really merged, when I went back to Israel, and then when I started facilitating dance workshops in Berkeley, Calif.”

Rothman moved to Berkeley with her now husband – Rabbi Arik Labowitz, spiritual leader of Or Shalom – to get a master’s in counseling psychology and expressive arts therapy. She led Rosh Chodesh and Omer dance groups there for close to 20 years.

She is also an open floor movement teacher. She discovered the activity in the Bay Area soon after it had begun, founded by five teachers who studied under the late Gabrielle Roth.

“Open floor is a form of conscious dance – there are no steps to follow, there is no right or wrong way to move. We let the rhythm of the music move us. We teach, practise and embody core movement resources – it is a life practice.” explains Rothman on her website.

“We work with 10 core movement resources: pause, release, centre, spatial awareness, toward/away, contract/expand, vector, activate/settle, dissolve, as well as four hungers – solitude, connection, belonging and spirit. Open floor is movement therapy.”

Since returning to Vancouver from Berkeley, Rothman has established her own private practice.

“I work with individuals as a somatic/trauma/movement and expressive arts therapist,” she said. “I believe in the body’s wisdom and innate ability towards healing and wholeness. I encourage people to move with their range of feelings – dancing our grief, anger, joy.”

Dear G-d,
if only my heart would be
straight with You all the time,
I would be filled with joy.
And that joy would spread all the way
down to my feet,
and uplift them in dance.
Please, never let my feet falter,
release them from their heavy bonds,
and give me the strength
to dance, dance, dance.

– Rebbe Natan Sternhartz, student of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (Likutei Tefillot I:10)

Rothman grew up in the Jewish Renewal movement. Her parents were some of the first members of what is now Or Shalom but, back in the day, it was called “the Minyan,” led by Rabbi Daniel Siegel and his wife, Rabbi Hanna Tiferet Siegel.

“It rotated between all of our living rooms,” said Rothman.

Rothman’s parents are Myrna Rabinowitz, stepfather Barry Rabinowitz and father Leo Rothman. Myrna Rabinowitz is widely known in the Vancouver Jewish community as a singer, including as a member of the band Tzimmes.

“My mom had a lot of music playing in our house and, when I heard music, I danced,” said Rothman. “I danced all the time as a child – putting on shows, dancing in my yard, etc. I grew up with a soulful musical Jewish connection at home, a heart-centred, joyful Judaism, which I found more of when I moved to Berkeley.”

This month, Rothman is leading outdoor dance on Tuesday evenings in Queen Elizabeth Park. She will be teaching another Rosh Chodesh dance group beginning in the fall and hopes to begin some small dance-based expressive arts therapy groups in the fall, as well. She also teaches classes online. She can be reached at alizarothman.com.

Cassandra Freeman is a freelance journalist and improv comedy performer living in Vancouver.

Enjoy concert, help campers

Temple Sholom Senior Rabbi Dan Moskovitz and kids from the shul at Camp Kalsman. Proceeds from Omer Shaish’s My Broadway Shpiel performance on Aug. 21 go towards Temple Sholom’s campership program. (photo from Temple Sholom)

International singer and actor Omer Shaish brings My Broadway Shpiel to Vancouver on Aug. 21. Attendees can look forward to music from West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, Les Misérables and La Cage Aux Folles, as well as original music and some of Shaish’s personal favourites, including popular Hebrew songs. Proceeds from the concert go towards Temple Sholom’s campership program.

Shaish was born and raised in Israel and has performed at Habima National Theatre and Beit Lessin Theatre in Tel Aviv. In 2007, he moved to New York City and graduated from the American Musical and Dramatic Academy. With numerous theatre and vocalist credits to his name, Shaish has been touring the world with the classical vocal trio Kol Esperanza, as well as his self-produced show My Broadway Shpiel.

Each year, Temple Sholom, along with its Sisterhood and the Harlene Riback Camp Scholarship, offers a scholarship for up to $150 per child to its member families to help the congregation’s youth attend a Jewish day camp or sleepaway camp. This year, it distributed a total of $15,880 for 74 campers and its goal is to raise even more funds for next year’s campers.

Studies have shown that Jewish camping is key to helping Jewish children explore their Judaism and establish a long-term Jewish connection. Temple Sholom’s campership initiative began in 1975 and has been going strong ever since.

“It is the kehila kedosha, or sacred community, of our Sisterhood that rises to this challenge, among other community responsibilities and occasions. It just so happens that the beautiful concept of kehila kedosha is instilled in our children, our future leaders, at Jewish summer camp,” said Alisa Delisle, a Temple Sholom congregant and the mother of Camp Kalsman song leader Paloma Delisle.

“Jewish summer camp encourages children to discover their Jewish identity while fostering a sense of belonging in a community like no other. For most, this is the first experience to navigate personal care and the world of peers without a parent or guardian’s assistance. As a sacred community, campers learn to take care of one another, cultivate pride in their surroundings and appreciate the power of Shabbat. Through experiential learning, Jewishness at camp is incorporated into everything fun.”

Camp Kalsman and PJ Library also offer summer camp scholarships to the broader Jewish community.

For tickets to My Broadway Shpiel, visit tickettailor.com/events/templesholom/1702794.

– Courtesy Temple Sholom

Complexities of celebration

My family’s in the middle of a month of celebrations. June is always this way at our house, but it’s even more intense this time around.

In a “usual” June, we celebrate two family birthdays and a wedding anniversary; it’s also the end of school for our kids. This year, we started off with a bang. Our twins had their birthday on Erev Shavuot. In the morning, we joined the huge Pride Parade festivities. In the evening, our community, in Winnipeg, had a Tikkun Leil Shavuot (a traditional night of study at the beginning of the holiday) with hundreds participating from four congregations. While we ate dairy foods and celebrated, to our surprise, the whole room sang our kids a rousing version of Yom Huledet Sameach (Happy Birthday). It was something to remember – they were surrounded by smiles and learning.

Shavuot is celebrated in a lot of ways. It’s a first fruits and first wheat harvest holiday. It’s also the day that we celebrate the giving of the Torah and read the Book of Ruth. Some observe this holiday as a day of radical inclusion, when everyone, no matter your age or gender, should hear the Ten Commandments read.

Radical inclusion is something I think about a lot. This year, my nephew in Virginia, LJ, who has cerebral palsy and uses a power wheelchair and assisted communication device, celebrated Shavuot with his confirmation class at Temple Rodef Shalom, a Reform congregation near Washington, DC. He gave a speech at the service, carefully planned, about the intersection of his identities as a Jewish and disabled person and as an advocate for accessibility. He spoke eloquently about how Judaism teaches us to pursue justice, and how he works to help make that possible. LJ has given many speeches: on how others can learn about assisted communication, on how to teach math to those with visual disabilities, and on myriad other topics. At 16, LJ is already an accomplished advocate who rolls into rooms filled with adults and shows them new ways to help learners with disabilities.

During his recent speech, LJ mentioned how his religious school helpers have gone on to helping professions: speech pathology, special education, and more. It’s true that some see people with disabilities as having high needs, but all people have things to teach others and to give the world. LJ’s need for physical support results in a huge net positive. He positively affects the lives of many others around him.

At the Tikkun Leil Shavuot I attended, Rabbi Yosef Benarroch (who served in the 1990s as spiritual leader of Beth Hamidrash in Vancouver) gave the keynote. Benarroch is retiring from Congregation Adas Yeshurun-Herzlia here in Winnipeg and moving back to Israel to join his family. His address reminded us about all the ways in which we can help one another and perform acts of chesed (kindness) towards others. His summary of a day in the life of a congregational rabbi made me feel tired! However, it was filled with ways he was of service to others, while getting to do mitzvot (commandments) and sharing important moments in people’s lives.

I’d be the first to say that, sometimes, as a mom, helping meet others’ needs can be exhausting. There are years where I look ahead to June and think, “Wow, I’ll be making a lot of birthday cake – and how many holiday and celebratory meals?” Yet, hearing these two different perspectives, on Jewish advocacy and acts of kindness, really raised me up. It reminded me of how much there is to do in the world, and how lucky we are if we’re healthy, capable and able to do it.

Right now, in Manitoba, we’re coping with huge wildfires and many evacuees. As the bossy mom, I forced everyone to go through their closets so we could participate in the donation drives, because something like 17,000 people have been forced to flee their homes. One of my family members said, “We just donated stuff! We probably don’t have anything to offer!” Three bags of clothing (women’s, men’s and teens’) and blankets later, we were dropping off what we could find before Shavuot started. I reminded my 14-year-olds that this was their birthday mitzvah – the traditional extra commandment that they took on – and we celebrated it through the smoky morning.

If you’re like me, it can be a struggle to relax into a wholehearted celebration while holding so much in our hearts at once. Whether it’s the hostages in Gaza, the war, the wildfires, antisemitism worldwide or issues closer to home, it’s understandable if it’s difficult to be completely joyful. Yes, we are commanded to celebrate at certain times, but I am reminded of the traditions of Jewish weddings. At every Jewish wedding, we break a glass to remind ourselves of the loss of the Temple in Jerusalem. We hold a bittersweet feeling of grief and pain even at our most meaningful moments. This acknowledgement doesn’t keep us from continuing to hope, to celebrate, while including everyone.

Today, I’ve had the honour of visiting a longtime family friend in the hospital. I brought her snacks and flowers from our garden. She’s just undergone surgery after a fall. I was relieved to find her in good humour. I’ve gotten to cook a bit for her family, as well as mine, and found time to work, walk the dog and even pull up copious weeds. Every handful of invasive greenery removed showed me the flowering plants underneath. I celebrated the riotous colour of both the weeds and the irises.

There’s no guarantee that every moment will be happy or every summer a celebration. Still, we have so many opportunities to do kindnesses, perform mitzvahs and be there to advocate for one another. If Shavuot sticks with me long after it ends, it’s not because of cheesecake or even first fruits. During a month of family celebration this year, Shavout also offered the opportunity to celebrate our tradition, which offers us great gifts if we make the most of them: learning, Torah and radical inclusion, too.

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.

Writing & fixing holy scrolls

Scribe Marc Michaels concluded Kolot Mayim Reform Temple’s 2024/25 Kvell at the Well series with the talk Torah Tales: Adventures in Scribal Art. (photo from Marc Michaels)

On April 6, Marc Michaels spoke about his experiences as a Jewish scribe (sofer, in Hebrew) in the final webinar of the 2024/25 Kvell at the Well series. Titled Torah Tales: Adventures in Scribal Art, the event was organized by Victoria’s Kolot Mayim Reform Temple.

Based in London, Michaels has been writing Torah scrolls, Megillat Esther, ketubot and the scrolls inside mezuzot and tefillin for more 30 years. He is a Cambridge scholar, earning a PhD in Jewish manuscripts from University of Cambridge’s faculty of Asian and Middle Eastern studies.

A Jewish scribe writes and restores holy works using quills, parchment and special inks, all the while following a strict set of rules, explained Michaels. Indeed, there are many, many rules, which Michaels came back to through the course of the talk.

The scribal art, he said, goes far beyond calligraphy and requires a detailed knowledge of Jewish law and a relatively high level of religious observance.

Michaels provided a recipe for the special ink a scribe might use, which includes gum arabic, gallnuts (from oak trees), iron sulfate and water. The gallnuts are crushed to form tannic acid, mixed with the other ingredients and cooked on an open flame until a residue is left. The larger lumps of gallnuts are strained out and the mixture is left for six months to turn black and be used as ink.

For quills, Michaels believes that a swan’s quill is too soft and a goose quill too hard and prefers a turkey quill. “As Goldilocks would say, it is just right,” he said.

Quills, Michaels warned, must be adjusted in such a way to limit the risk of a scribe sneezing because, if that happens on parchment, it is impossible to remove. Scribes shifted to quills on the move to Europe, he said. Beforehand, they used reeds – which were used to write the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“We switched to quills because that’s what the Christians were using and they were getting a much finer, nicer point on their calligraphy,” he said.

A large part of a scribe’s job is repairing scrolls. Returning again to the rules, he said, “It only takes one letter to be wrong, and that means maybe the ink has come off or it’s broken or whatever, for the whole scroll to be pasul (invalid).”

If a scroll is deemed pasul, Michaels told the audience, then it must be placed in the ark with an indicator to show it’s invalid, such as arranging its belt outside of its mantel. Jewish law states that it must be repaired within 30 days, but, he said, it may take much longer.

Among the Torah scroll repair horrors presented by Michaels were gauze that joined seams together, stains from tape that had to be scraped out, and a patch that was sewn onto the scroll.

Typical repairs, he said, are not so extreme and mostly involve fading and broken letters, which require much overwriting. On occasion, whole columns no longer exist, having been completely rubbed away by time. Sometimes, members of a congregation might mark the scrolls with a pencil or ballpoint pen. In one slide Michaels displayed, someone had drawn a flower onto the scroll.

In his career, Michaels has also encountered incorrect spellings, deletions and Hebrew characters that were mistakenly joined together. Missing words, mixed-up letters and omitted characters from various Torah scrolls were shown to the Zoom crowd as well.

“And then you get wear and tear, dirt, holes, rips and things like that. You have to be very careful. You can patch a Torah, but you’re not allowed to do half patches,” he said.

What’s more, accidents can happen, especially when lifting the Torah during times when one side is much heavier than the other, ie., at the start and at the end of the yearly reading cycle. In one example, a Torah was torn through columns, thus the columns had to be removed and rewritten in the style of the original scribe.

Perhaps topping the list of Torah misadventures is the case Michaels came across of a young person studying for her bat mitzvah and the family dog chewed through a section of the Torah.

“It was literally the best excuse for not learning a bat mitzvah portion – the dog ate my portion,” Michaels joked.

“I had to do an emergency fix because there wasn’t enough time. I repaired it in the style of the original scroll, but only part of it, which you’re not normally supposed to do except in the case of an emergency – and this was a massive emergency. Because the parchment was much older than the shiny new parchment, I coated it with Yorkshire Tea. And it worked.”

A prolific author, designer and presenter, Michaels designed the prayer book for the Movement for Reform Judaism and has written numerous books and articles on scrolls, the Bible and art; he wrote the children’s book The Dot on the Ot. Michaels is currently working with Kolot Mayim to restore a Torah scroll.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Welcoming by example

Shifra Sharfstein and her husband, Shlomo, run Georgia Tech Chabad House with the help of their children. (photo from Shifra Sharfstein)

My parents invited countless people into their home over the decades and fed them on Shabbat and Passover. Little did we know that their acts of kindness would inspire one of their grandchildren to bring Shabbat dinners to hundreds of Jewish students at Georgia Tech in Atlanta each year.

Shifra Sharfstein grew up in Vancouver until she was in Grade 7, going to school at the local Chabad House and also learning about Judaism with her parents, Tzvi and Nomi Freeman, and grandparents, Joyce and Bernie Freeman.

“We went every Wednesday night for a special dinner,” Shifra recalled. “Grandma would spoil us with our favourites each week. She would read us a book and chat with us. She would listen to us talk and let us help make desserts in the kitchen. It was a space that was just all love, pure unconditional love.”

Shifra also gives credit to her grandfather, who supported my mom’s efforts to bring what seemed like the entire Jewish community into our house to feed them.

My mother grew up in India and her parents were from Iraq. Shifra remembers the Sephardi tomato soup with potatoes and meatballs, which took Mom a whole day to make.

“My cousin Ariella and me would talk all night about how much we loved that soup!” she said.

When Mom passed away, Shifra compiled a recipe book for family and friends called With Love from Joyce.

She remembers Mom’s international food.

“Baked Alaska coming out of the oven with cold ice cream inside always seemed like magic,” she said. (And then there was the cherry pie, which I can still taste.)

She remembers gathering together with her cousins before every Jewish holiday, making hundreds of hamantashen.

“I do the same with our college students, today,” she said.

Shifra runs Georgia Tech Chabad House with her husband Shlomo, and with the help of their eight children.

“I could go on forever talking about how much my grandmother and grandfather inspire me,” she said. “Whenever I’m in the kitchen for awhile, especially the week before Pesach, which is grandma’s yahrzeit, I feel her there with me. Sometimes, the powerful work we do is overwhelming, especially when we’re helping students deal with tragedy, and I close my eyes and see Grandma’s smile and feel the beautiful love she had channeled through me, her granddaughter.”

Recently, the couple threw a dinner for 500 Jewish students and dedicated it to the memory of Shifra’s grandparents. It was the first time so many people had dined there.

“Thank G-d we have lots of help and an amazing community of beautiful Georgia Tech students!” she said. “But we keep it all homemade at Chabad and I always incorporate Grandma’s flavours in it.”

Shifra said she also was inspired by the way her grandparents had so many guests who were welcomed like family.

“Grandma always said that what mattered was that we all got along,” Shifra explained. “She told us stories of Jews from different backgrounds and how what was most important is that we all came together, no matter our differences, with love … she truly loved every Jew with zero judgment. I think I absorbed that from her. She looked past the outside and saw that each person has a beautiful soul. She taught me how to do the same and I truly try to make that my focus every time I meet someone new.”

Shifra considers herself a feminist, running the Chabad House they live in and taking care of her children side by side with her husband. She is an accomplished speaker, as well.

“Knowledge is power,” she said. “I grew up being taught to always ask questions. My father and mother spent time learning with me as a young girl in Vancouver and the more I learnt and [the more] I asked, the more I realized how much I could accomplish.”

She added that she is inspired by the late Lubavitcher Rebbe’s teachings about women.

“As a Chabad leader, I know my Rebbe taught me that Jewish women in leadership have a unique power as nurturers who can change the world with love,” she said. “It’s the same message [now] and I intend to take it with me and change my part of the world with that feminine loving touch.”

Chabad Georgia Tech has seven Jewish classes each week, a weekly BBQ, social events, events where they counsel students and, of course, the highlight of their week is Shabbat, with anywhere between 80 and 130 students who come and then stay, chatting late into the night after dinner.

All this activity has had an impact. For example, there have been three weddings in the last 14 years and, right now, another couple is engaged to be married.

Shifra says their success is due, as well, to their dedicated team of students, who run many of the events. There are about 1,000 Jewish students on campus.

Cassandra Freeman is a freelance journalist and improv comedy performer living in Vancouver.

When crisis hits, we show up

As a member of the Jewish community, I’ve come to recognize a powerful truth: when crisis strikes, we show up. That’s who we are.

It’s not performative. It’s not for headlines. It’s rooted in Jewish values that demand action – to heal the world (tikkun olam), to care for the stranger (ve’ahavta et hager) and to take responsibility for one another (arevut hadadit).

So, when tragedy struck our Filipino neighbours at the Lapu Lapu festival in Vancouver, the Jewish community responded – as we always strive to do, with compassion. Our community mobilized within hours. Not just with condolences, but with coordinated, tangible action. A dedicated fund was quickly established for affected families. We partnered with Filipino BC, the United Way, the Archdiocese of Vancouver, the City of Vancouver and other local organizations to ensure a compassionate, coordinated response.

These aren’t symbolic gestures – they are meaningful efforts to help a community recover, rebuild and feel supported in its darkest moment. And it’s not the first time our community has responded like this – not even close.

We’ve shown solidarity with Indigenous communities through Truth and Reconciliation events, advocating for justice, supporting families of missing and murdered women, and bringing in speakers.

After the Quebec mosque shooting, we stood with our Muslim neighbours, condemning Islamophobia, and supported Syrian and Afghan refugees with sponsorship, fundraising, housing, and provided immigration help.

In response to George Floyd’s murder and rising anti-Asian hate, we participated in rallies, spoke out and called for systemic change in policing.

We’ve actively supported LGBTQ+ rights by participating in Vancouver’s Pride Parade and advocating for policies against discrimination.

In the wake of floods and wildfires, we provided aid, opened our homes and joined environmental campaigns for climate justice.

From Haiti to Ukraine, and East Africa to Nepal, our community has raised money and supported global aid efforts to provide humanitarian relief to those affected.

We don’t burn flags, we build bridges. We don’t chant hateful slogans, we extend hands in solidarity. We don’t destabilize, we stabilize, support and stand together. That is the spirit that lives within the Jewish community here in Vancouver. In moments of crisis, we don’t disappear – we show up.

That is the spirit embedded in Jewish life. These values are part of who we are. They guide us – especially in moments of pain and need. We act when it matters most.

That’s why I’m proud to be Jewish. Proud to be part of a people whose instinct is to act with compassion – no matter who is in need. Tzedakah, tikkun olam and arevut hadadit are not just words we recite. They are the path we walk. That’s who we are.

Lana Marks Pulver is board chair, Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver.

Ways to overcome negativity

In times of rising antisemitism and violence, fear is valid. When the world feels like it’s unraveling, anchoring yourself in a deeper sense of purpose can be healing. (screenshot)

Fear is not a weakness. It’s a deeply human response to a real or perceived threat. In times of rising antisemitism and violence, fear is valid. But we must not let it be the only voice in the room.

By acknowledging the fear – whether of violence, isolation or helplessness – we reduce its power. At the same time, we also make space for other emotions, such as courage, care and resilience, to emerge.

There are many things we can do to help us overcome the foreboding atmosphere of negativity and fear that is knocking at our door. Focusing on what we can do, gives us a sense of agency when we might otherwise feel helpless and alone.

There is the physical aspect of fear. It is important to be aware of what is happening as you notice you are feeling anxious, by staying present and being grounded. The brain often races into the future during fear: What if this happens to my community? My family? Me? This kind of “catastrophic thinking” pulls us out of the moment and floods our bodies with stress hormones.

It is important to know how to manage physical symptoms as they come up. Have you ever practised mindful breathing or meditation? Going to the beach and being aware of the beauty of our surroundings is a way to relax the constant noise that comes with stressful thinking. It is important to stay informed, but we often tend to keep scrolling for more information when there might not be anything else available. Learn how to say “dayeinu,” it is enough for today.

Build connection, not isolation

Fear thrives in silence. One of the most powerful antidotes to fear is community; connecting with people who understand your pain and can help hold it with you. It is important to build community to fight isolation. Ask yourself:

• Who in my life can I be vulnerable with?

• Is there a synagogue, support group or mental health resource I can lean on?

• Can I be that presence for someone else?

There is strength in the simple act of saying, “You’re not alone.” It may be that your reaching out to ask for help will in fact help someone else.

Not everyone will be on the front lines of activism – and that’s OK. But each of us has a role to play in healing the world, even in small ways:

• Check in on someone who may be afraid or isolated.

• Wear your Jewish identity with pride – a Magen David, a kippah – if it feels right to you.

• Educate others, kindly and clearly, when misinformation spreads.

• Support Jewish organizations and security efforts.

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers, “I will keep showing up.”

When the world feels like it’s unraveling, anchoring yourself in a deeper sense of purpose can be healing. Ask yourself where you can make an impact. Do you have a particular skill that may make a difference to individuals or an organization? Judaism has a rich tradition of resilience, moral clarity and hope. Pirkei Avot 2:5 reminds us that, “In a place where there are no leaders, strive to be that leader.” In other words, act with integrity, even when others do not. This is real courage and takes strength and commitment.

Judaism teaches us to choose hope

Our tradition teaches us to choose hope, again and again. Hope isn’t naïve. It’s an act of spiritual resistance. It’s choosing to believe, even with trembling hands, that goodness still exists and that we are its agents. When you are with friends and family, celebrate moments of kindness. Remind one another of stories, not only of loss, but of survival and joy.

Living Jewishly, publicly and proudly, in today’s world takes immense strength. You are not alone in your fear – nor in your resolve. Fear may visit, but it doesn’t get to move in and take over. Our world needs as many of us to be positive ambassadors as we need those fighting antisemitism on the front lines. As Mahatma Gandhi once expressed it, “be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Shelley Karrel is a registered clinical counsellor in Vancouver; you can reach her at karrelcounselling.com.