Niv

If your air conditioner is broken on a Wednesday between 1:30 p.m. and 3:30 p.m., “the best place to be,” joked Eva Karpati, is at the National Council of Jewish Women Canada’s (NCJWC) office in North York, Toronto. For those two hours, while you may be cooling off, your heart will be warmed with community as you and a bevy of women, quilt, perhaps gossip, and hear at least one woman brag about a grandchild.

The Toronto Jewish Quilting Project first met 21 years ago on a blistering cold December night at Barbara Frum Library. Any season, it seems, is one fit for quilting when you’re surrounded by new and old friends creating for good. That evening, 25 women gathered to make quilts for those touched by cancer. The Angel Quilts, as they would go on to be called, have offered comfort to over 500 people.

Prior to this first meeting, Karpati, the TJQP’s founder, had, unfortunately, experienced her own cancer journey. Diagnosed November 2001, she went through a year of chemotherapy and radiation. At the end of her treatment, as a form of therapy, she started taking quilting lessons at Wellspring. Making tangible art proved to be a form of meditation. In addition to learning how to quilt, Karpati wanted to gift one to a young Jewish woman in her support group. At the time, there wasn’t a resource in Toronto that donated quilts to those affected by cancer, and so she had to request one from Ottawa. 

Three years after that fateful December night, and many other days and nights when Karpati hauled mounds of fabrics in and out of her car, her initiative was adopted by the NCJWC Toronto chapter.

And when I met Karpati in that aired condition office on July 2, along with the other women in the group, the same fire that must have helped fuel those hauls, was effervescent. She bustled around the room we were in. You do not need to know how to sew, you do not need to be Jewish, nor do you need to be a survivor of cancer to attend, she told me. You just, I realized, have to want to be there. With one quilter remarking: “Everybody is from everywhere. Everyone has their own history. No one judges, or snips.”

As Karpati moved around the large room, where there were more than a dozen women gathered, she lit up when speaking about their work and the community she helped build. The women, in most cases, do not know who will be the one to find warmth in the fabric their hands have sewed. The process is by referral, someone who knows someone will request the quilt but the organization does not give the recipient the quilt directly. Instead, they’ll often give it to the person who initially contacted them. Though most are in the city, recipients can be of any faith or gender. It is simply for someone going through treatment.

It takes around two months to finish a quilt, and different quilts are being made at the same time. I asked the terrible question to one quilter on if she had a favourite quilt. To which she responded: “They’re all special. In the end they’re all beautiful.”

However, there are favourite stories.

Karpati’s is about the first quilt the TJQP made and donated. It was to her friend, and now fellow quilter, Susie.

In 2004, Susie got leukemia and was living in London, Ontario. She had known Karpati when they had worked at the JCC in Toronto as fitness instructors but had lost touch over the years. When Susie moved back to Toronto to recover at her sister’s, Susie shared with me, a knock came at the door and it was Karpati with a “beautiful quilt. I loved it.”

When Susie moved into her own place, she decided to hang up her quilt on the wall. “We want all our quilts to become,” Karpati remarked, “a memento of a journey that the recipient has gone on” and now, Susie’s quilt is “a piece of art.” It has been five years since Susie started quilting with the other women, and making pieces of art for folks who are in the same place she once was. “I still don’t know everybody’s names and I’m terrible at sewing,” but, Susie adds, “It’s nice to know I’m part of this too. After having gotten one myself, now I can give back.”

In addition to quilters offering their time, the TJQP has received donations from Fabricland and even from an acquaintance of longtime quilter Mary’s daughter’s Sunday school teacher’s husband, Bob.

Mary had a lovely Jewish friend, Sheila Fruitman, who she played bridge with. Fruitman would always talk about attending Karpati’s quilting sessions. One day, Mary asked if she could come with, and for the past 10 years she hasn’t stopped. Which is where Bob comes in. His wife, Janet, was a talented quilter and after she passed away, Bob offered them her materials. There was one container of beautiful quilting blocks that had been machine sewn. When Aliza, another quilter, saw these blocks she took them home and put them together to make a beautiful quilt top. “Whoever has the quilt” said Mary, “has something started by a woman who passed away. It’s a tribute to this person. Bob was so pleased to see this quilt that was in honour of his wife.”

In faith-based charitable organizations, it is assumed everyone prays to the same God, which I gather is why Mary, when I first approached her, told me she wasn’t Jewish. But isn’t it wonderful to see that within the Jewish community we still gather with people from different religions, and in some respects feel like family to one another. In fact, that’s how Mary describes it: “it’s like a family.” And family comes in all shapes, sizes, and practices.

From floral quilts, to a Wizard of Oz quilt, to a heart quilt, to a lantern quilt, to a jewel quilt, to the layers of blocks and tops that have been hand and machine-sewed, each stitch was made with purpose over tea and sweets and laughter, and likely tears. When I visited the NCJWC office that day, a mix-and-match quilt was being crafted. “It represents the group when we all come together. It’s not a set pattern.” But, I myself will add, that’s what makes it work.

Eva Karpati, Susie, Mary, and all the other women I spoke to that day made me feel instantly welcomed. If you have the opportunity to quilt your way through life, or just through two hours of a Wednesday of your life, with friends who feel like family in an air-conditioned room, giving the reprieve of comfort to those in need—well, The Toronto Jewish Quilting Project truly does sound like one of the best places you can be.

Since 1983 the National Council for Jewish Women of Canada, Toronto (NCJWC-Toronto) has tried to ensure that the vulnerable in our community can celebrate Passover with a food-filled Seder. With help from social agencies, food banks, volunteers, students, and donors, their Passover Food Drive has served over 75,000 food boxes to residents in the Greater Toronto Area.

The NCJWC-Toronto is a storied organization with 128 years of service and counting. Their programs support Jewish women diagnosed with cancer, victims of human trafficking, and, as established through their food drive, food insecurity.

This year marks the first time the organization will be partnering with Reena for their Passover initiative. Robin Gofine, NCJWC-Toronto’s executive director, noted that the partnership came out of necessity because they needed more space to accommodate boxes due to high demand. Additionally, Reena’s ethos aligns with theirs.

Reena “provides housing, programs and employment services for individuals with Autism and other developmental disabilities, mental health challenges, and other diverse health needs.” They, like NCJWC-Toronto, want to “get the job done,” Gofine emphasized, “and serve the vulnerable.”

The contents of the boxes are nutritionally balanced and selected with thought and care to provide Seder essentials: matzah, matzah meal, candles, oil, jam, chicken soup mix, gefilte fish, and something sweet.

Preparations for this year’s drive began in November, and the packing of boxes lasted from March 23 until April 1. Gofine is the only member of staff. The whole drive, she shared with me over Zoom, is organized and implemented by volunteers. Volunteers supervise the shipments, pack boxes, and will be the ones delivering the boxes on April 6.

I spoke with Gofine and NCJWC-Toronto’s chair, Shelly Freedman, to listen to their remarks on community togetherness during this time of year, the power of volunteerism, and what the future of the NCJWC-Toronto holds.

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How have things changed because of and since the pandemic for the food drive?

SF: Before COVID-19, on the day we would do deliveries out of our old building there would be cars lined up around the street just waiting to get boxes and a school bus full of kids who were going to help. But after COVID-19, a lot of those people are much older, and a lot of people who had been volunteering for years are now at an age where the boxes are heavy. They do weigh about 23 pounds.

RG: Last year we needed more help with deliveries, and so I approached someone with a large following on a WhatsApp group. I told him we needed help and 50 cars showed up and they finished the job.

SF: All these people were younger. They were 40 year olds and they brought their kids because they were tuned into this guy.

RG: Even though this is a legacy organization that’s been around for 128 years and the Passover food drive is 42 years old, we are evolving as an organization, and we are learning new methodologies and taking advantage of the benefits of social media. We want to encourage the young people and newcomers in our community to feel a sense of responsibility for caring for other Jewish people, which I think is always important, and it's particularly important at this time.

With the cost of food and living increasing, has the amount of boxes you deliver increased too?

SF: We were doing about 1,800 boxes before COVID-19. Last year, after the war, we got a lot of people, a lot of Israelis, on our list who’d come to avoid the war and JIAS sent them to us. 

How many boxes do you estimate will be delivered this year?

RG: Around 2,300, but people always come up out of the woodwork. Normally, the bulk of the referrals come from social service agencies, but when people call us and say, I need help, we ask them to have an email sent to us by a rabbi, somebody who knows their situation, or a social service organization that they may be affiliated with.

Reena joins you as a partner this year. What are some of the ways they will be involved in the process?

RG: We encourage volunteers to write a personal note and include it in the box, so that when people receive the box, they also get a card with a note.

SF: A lot of times the kids do that, and they just sign their name in their scribble and then the recipients put them on their fridge. This year, we gave a lot of the cards to Reena people, and they’re colouring them in for us. They’re also helping us make candles. So because the holiday spans a week and there’s all the Yom Tovim, we supply them with little tea lights in a bag with a bracha to light the candles for all the nights. We have two or three student groups, a group of volunteers from the council, our L'Chaim group, and we also have Reena doing some as well. They're also going to be doing some packing and helping us with setup and other things. There's a lot of participation by Reena people, which is new for us, but we're looking forward to it.

RG: Moishe House is also a new partner this year, and they’re also going to be helping us out with the packing. They’re coming out with a large group. It really is a true community-wide endeavour.

Have there been surprising moments over the years that have demonstrated to you the impact of this initiative?

RG: Three years ago, my first year here, I got a request to deliver a box in the Jane-Finch corridor. It was in a hostel, and it was for a young woman who called us and said, My parents have kicked me out of our house, and I was found on the street, and now I'm in this hostel. I don't have any food for Passover. Can you help me? So we brought her a box of food. The girl was probably in her teens and she had no support, but somehow she was put in touch with us.

What do you envision you’ll be needing, whether it’s for the NCJWC-Toronto or just for the Passover Food Drive, in the years to come.

SF: There will always be the need for Passover food. I can’t see something like that changing. As far as what the organization needs, like any organization today, it needs new, fresh ideas and fresh blood and younger people willing to take time to do it, which I understand, in their lives and in our lives, is difficult. There’s been a bit of a resurgence of retired women, and they have fantastic experience in the workforce, but we are trying to initiate younger groups and to make them aware of us.

RG: Ensuring we pass this project to the next generation and that the next generation will take responsibility to make sure the needs of our community continue to be looked after. Ongoing financial support, because this project cannot happen without that. I’m also interested in looking at, more broadly, the issue of food insecurity for this organization and what are the opportunities beyond Passover that are effective in addressing food insecurity. What else can we do in this area to address community needs? And how can we do that, and what’s worked here that we can apply to address needs and fill gaps in community beyond Passover.

What does it mean to you to be doing work like this at the NCJWC-Toronto and to give back to the community during Passover?

SF: Different volunteers over the years have been doing this. A lot of people in council are very familiar with this project and they come back every year and help out. For me, it’s a real sense of satisfaction that all these people can share in the Seders, can all have the opportunity for the mitzvot, and that the recipients’ Passover isn't limited by their financial situation because they’ll have everything they need for a Seder.

RG: When I sit down at the Seder and I read, All who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are in need, let them come celebrate Passover with us, I have this moment of: look what we just did. So for me, it breathes real meaning into the purpose of the holiday. And also, as the professional lead in a Jewish women’s organization, I'm in awe of the power of these women, this legacy of women from Shelly backward, who take on this responsibility with grace and passion, and don’t get ruffled. Every challenge that comes their way they get the job done. As a Jewish woman, I feel privileged as a professional to have the opportunity to support their work. 

SF: This organization has been built by wonderful, intelligent, resourceful women for decades.

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This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Happy spring, Niv readers! With Passover coming up next weekend and warmer weather approaching, hopefully it’s the beginning of a season of positivity for all of you. Let’s get into the upcoming events in Toronto over the next few months.

FILM

Toronto Jewish Film Festival

The forthcoming festival will take place from Thursday, June 5 to Sunday, June 15, 2025, so stay tuned for announcements about this year’s programming, which should come in early May. Snag your Flex Pass before May 11 to get a discount.

In the meantime, you can attend National Canadian Film Day on Wednesday, April 16. Film festivals and organizations participate in this event annually, screening films for free across the country. The Toronto Jewish Film Festival is screening the newly restored classic Sunshine at 6:30 p.m. at Cineplex Cinemas Varsity and VIP. Please note that while tickets are free, registration is required. Oscar-winning director István Szabó’s Sunshine takes place in the mid-19^th century onwards, telling the story of three generations of the Jewish-Hungarian Sonnenschein family. Ralph Fiennes plays the protagonist, supported by a large ensemble cast with Rachel Weisz, John Neville, and Jennifer Ehle. Beware: this is a three-hour epic.

Hollywood Exiles

If you’re anything like me and have a love for film soundtracks, then this event will likely be of interest. Miklós Rózsa was a Jewish Hungarian-American composer who moved from Hungary to Paris to London and finally to Hollywood amidst the Second World War, eventually finding a path for himself scoring movies. Koffler Arts is presenting Hollywood Exiles with the ARC ensemble (Artists of The Royal Conservatory), who will perform his music at Mazzoleni Hall, at TELUS Centre for Performance and Learning (The Royal Conservatory). Purchase tickets for $40 here. 

The Miles Nadal JCC is also hosting a screening of Alain Resnais’s 1977 film Providence, which Rózsa scored. Toronto Metropolitan University professor Dr. Owen Lyons (School of Image Arts) will introduce Rózsa and the film. Register for tickets here.
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JEWISH HISTORY & LEARNING

Threads of Spadina: Our Interwoven Stories

Toronto has a rich Jewish past and Spadina is perhaps the best street to explore this history. On Sunday April 27, you can explore the neighbourhood’s rich tapestry of characters and locations. This morning walk will reveal a whole new world to you, guiding you around a neighbourhood where seamstresses, tailors, bagel shops and pushcarts used to dominate; allowing a peek back in time to when Spadina was the heart of Toronto’s Jewish community.

Judaism 101

Feel like you need a refresher on your Judaism? This class runs on Thursdays from May 1 until June 19, and is welcome to Jews and non-Jews. The eight-week course takes place on Zoom and will cover everything from Shabbat to synagogue to spirituality. If you have any questions, please contact LaurenS@mnjcc.org.

Lishma‍

Lishma is a community of learners mostly in their 20s and 30s who enjoy delving into Jewish wisdom and scholarship. Regardless of your knowledge level or background, you are welcome to join. Each semester has three classes running side by side, and this spring, one of the lecture series is titled Riding the Chariot: Psychedelic Jewish Mysticism and the Fringes of Consciousness, which will run on Wednesdays from April 23 to May 28, 7–9 p.m. The name alone is enough to intrigue me!

Holocaust Remembrance

On now at the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) is AUSCHWITZ. Not long ago. Not far away. The exhibit costs $13 in addition to the ROM entry fee (though it is free for ROM members). Use the code MNJCC at checkout for 15 percent off your ticket fee.

This exhibit arrived just prior to the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz (January 27, 2025) and it will leave Toronto in September 2025. Incredibly comprehensive, featuring survivor testimonials, historical documentation, first-hand accounts by emancipating forces, and more than 500 original objects, this exhibit contains distressing content and is not recommended for children under the age of 12. However, care has been taken to ensure that there are no gratuitous depictions of violence. 

Alternatively, you can gain a deeper understanding with a private guided tour in partnership with the Toronto Holocaust Museum (THM).

THM is also hosting a community commemoration on April 23 with a number of local Jewish organizations. This will mark Yom Hashoah V’Hagvurah, the eve of Holocaust Remembrance Day. As part of the commemoration, THM will look back on the 80 years that have passed since the Holocaust, contemplating how survivors and their descendants honour the memories of the families who were taken.

Jewish& is also partnering with THM for a special event honouring interfaith, multi-faith, and multi-heritage individuals and families on May 7. Rabbi Denise Handlarski (Toronto Rabbi and author of The A–Z of Intermarriage) will guide a discussion on history that honours different perspectives.This will be a welcoming and open space for individuals in interfaith relationships, assisting Jewish individuals grappling with painful topics on their own, and their partners, who may be unsure of how to broach these issues.‍

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MUSIC‍

Jewish Music Week‍

This annual event is coming up quickly! From May 18 until May 25, you will be able to hear Klezmer, Cantorial, Israeli, Sephardic, Yiddish, Holocaust, Middle Eastern, Jewish Broadway, Jewish Opera, Jewish Classical, Jewish Jazz, Jewish Country, and more. I didn’t even know some of those genres, like Jewish Country music, existed; but I’m certainly interested. This year marks 13 years of the festival—their Bar Mitzvah Year! Program guides come out after Passover, so join the mailing list to make sure you don’t miss them. If you want to get a sense of the festival, you can check out last year’s program here.‍

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COMEDY AND LIVE EVENTS‍

From June 7 until June 15, the Harold Green Jewish Theatre is presenting Estelle Singerman: Summer Night, With Unicorn. If the title sounds mysterious and mystical, that’s because it is; this play is about the relationship between an eccentric older woman (Estelle) and an emotionally absent middle-aged man (Warren). Because she is so reclusive, Estelle is worried that no one will say Kaddish for her when she passes, and has thus decided that Warren will take on the job. Surrealist, with magical realism reminiscent of Hasidic folktales, this play features a journey of life and death, faith and peace. Written by David Rush and directed by David Ferry, you can purchase tickets here. ‍

Have you ever heard a better title for a comedy series than Laugh my Tuchus Off? These shows will spotlight some of the comedy circuit’s rising Jewish stars, as well as a number of veterans in the industry. Curb your Enthusiasm actor Iris Bahr, Canadian legend Colin Mochrie, and Tik Tok viral sensations Eitan Levine and Raanan Hershberg are just a few of the comedians you can see.  ‍

‍SPOTLIGHT ON: NIV COFOUNDER ORLY ZEBAK‍

Most importantly is a Friday evening featuring one of your favourite Niv cofounders, Orly Zebak! Orly has been taking part in stand-up comedy for the past few months, and on Friday, April 18 at Free Times Café, you can see her perform live. You can expect laughs, good vibes, and delicious food and drinks. The evening features some great comics from across Toronto, including headliner Monica Gross.‍

Orly did not sponsor this post. ‍

‍AND LASTLY

I think this next event counts as Passover-adjacent because it has to do with cooking! And for an Arts & Kvetch sorely missing Passover content, that needs to count for something. The Prosserman JCC is presenting Eden Eats: An Exclusive Culinary Experience on May 12, where Eden Grinshpan will discuss Middle Eastern and Mediterranean-inspired meals. Be sure to check out her new cookbook Tahini Baby. It will be too late to put the dishes into practice for Passover, but there’s always next year’s High Holidays!  

Koffler Arts’ current exhibition was created by Toronto-born and Brooklyn-based artist Elana Herzog and curated by artist Jessica Stockholder. The installation was made using wallpaper designed by the artist, with paint, textiles, and metal staples. These materials, gathered through years of collecting and thrifting, are reassembled and transformed through Herzog’s work. Herzog’s exhibition surveys her 35 year career, and reflects themes that interest her, including sustainability, history, tradition, individualism, and sensuality.

You can view the solo exhibition until Sunday, May 11.

If you are trying to figure out what day to catch the exhibition on, I recommend Sunday, April 27, as Kurdish-born multi-disciplinary artist Roda Medhat will be giving a gallery talk on the exhibition and Herzog’s career as a whole.

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I feel as though I need to mention pickleball at least once in every article I write, so here is the requisite acknowledgement. If you still haven’t managed to pick up the sport, despite its popularity, perhaps you would like to join the MNJCC’s Intro to Pickleball Clinic. This beginners workshop runs every couple of weeks, and will help you with skill building, basic rules, and scoring. You’ll also get to practice in friendly matches, and instructors will show you fundamental techniques and footwork. If you get hooked on the sport (as everyone else has, apparently), you can also take part in the MNJCC’s Intro to Pickleball Course, as the next one starts on May 10.

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Happy Passover to all!

Cari Kozierok has always done impactful work in the Jewish community, and beyond. For many years she was an executive director at two synagogues in Toronto, often organizing prominent speakers to come and talk to congregants about pressing issues in our society. But she increasingly felt that the work wasn’t as impactful as it could be. That’s why seven years ago she joined Ve’ahavta, a Jewish humanitarian organization dedicated to promoting positive change in the lives of people of all faiths and backgrounds who have been marginalized by poverty and hardship. 

The organization has various programs to offer some relief for those experiencing homelessness. Their Mobile Jewish Response to Homelessness is an outreach van program that provides immediate assistance by visiting several locations, which include encampments, in downtown Toronto and Scarborough every night to deliver essential supplies such as food, sleeping bags, harm reduction kits and clothing. Staff also provide referrals to access housing, mental health and addiction treatment, and other resources. Another key part of the organization are the pre-employment programs to match people with jobs and work experience, allowing them to live independent lives full of dignity, Kozierok told me.

I spoke with Kozierok over the phone to discuss how Ve’ahavta faces the growing challenge of homelessness in Toronto, how Jewish values are put into action, and what motivates her to keep showing up every day in a field of work that is relentless and often, thankless. 

If you feel inclined to give during the holiday season consider donating here.

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What attracted you to Ve’ahavta? 

Ve’ahavta stood out as one of the rare spaces in the Jewish world that focuses on putting Judaism into tangible action. 

Is the organization focused on homelessness amongst the Jewish population or is the help far-reaching? 

Our mandate is that we are a uniquely Jewish organization designed to serve all faiths and backgrounds. We’re not like other Jewish organizations that evolved to serve the greater population due to government and corporate funding requirements such as JVS Toronto and Jewish Immigrant Aid Services (JIAS). We were always conceived as a Jewish organization serving all faiths and backgrounds; stemming from the Torah edict, you shall love your neighbour and stranger as you love yourself, as you were once strangers too. It’s really digging into empathy as a commandment of the Torah because we know what it feels like to be lost and alone [as a people] so we care for those among us by providing services for all people.  

We also have Jewish members of our community donate or volunteer, so they can action these deeply held Jewish values. I say it’s “doing Judaism” rather than just “talking Judaism.”

Homelessness has gotten worse post-pandemic—how are resources strained? What are your biggest concerns? 

Prior to the pandemic, the country had begun to let in quite a large number of refugees and in 2019 that put a significant strain on available limited resources to the traditional Canadian homeless population. And then we had the pandemic where people left shelters in droves and lived in encampments all over the city and had no services available. It was a dire situation with a bunch of efforts made to rapidly house folks and be innovative, like converting hotels and repurposing apartment buildings [to create more housing for the homeless].

Then in the post-COVID world when the country let in newcomers again, we entered into this refugee crisis where, if you remember last year, churches were taking in refugees [because they had nowhere else to go]. Today we see a huge increase in need and demand for services from both our mobile outreach van, which services people currently experiencing homelessness, and our pre-employment programs where we’ve had 2,100 people apply for 300 program spaces. The demand is crazy and around 70 per cent of folks in those programs are refugees.

When facing such a significant need with limited resources, how do you see the future of this type of work?

I wish I had something lovely to say to you, but it’s dreary, it’s not a great outlook. During the pandemic, I thought, “Wow, the pandemic may be the best thing to ever happen to the homeless population” because many people seemed to think about the people that don’t have a home to quarantine in, and it raised the level of awareness. Politicians and policy-makers pledged money from the federal government for rapid housing and modular housing projects. I thought maybe it was a turning point. But, here we are. Services are being retracted and those rapid housing projects haven’t taken off and all the money hasn’t been spent because there is so much red tape in building projects. Encampments are growing and shelters are full. We call shelters every night and we can’t get people into beds. When the shelter tells us to call in a couple of hours that means that person is sleeping outdoors tonight. 

In the seven years of doing this work, is this the worst you’ve ever seen the homelessness crisis? 

I guess I would have to say it’s the worst because the numbers just keep going up. What’s compounding it is the issue of a tainted drug supply—drug dealers that prey on the homeless population to create addicts and slaves [to the dealers] to feed a habit. We have a toxic drug supply where people don’t know what they’re taking so they’re overdosing and dying on the streets. On top of that, Premier Doug Ford is closing safe consumption sites that help keep some of those people alive. It’s not a good situation. 

It seems like it’s a hard field of work to find hope in.

We focus so much of our growth plans on our pre-employment programs where we’re seeing a lot of success. We see what role we can play to prevent homelessness by getting people off social assistance and earning their own money. As a Jewish organization, it’s a Jewish value that dignity comes from the ability to provide for yourself. People often say you can’t survive on a minimum wage job in Toronto, but social assistance is a sentence into a deep and hopeless poverty cycle that people can’t break out of. Ontario Works, which is our welfare program, has people bringing home less than $9,000 a year to live on in Toronto. The poverty rate is $24,000 and minimum wage is $35,000, so they’re living above the poverty line; it’s by no means sitting in the lap of luxury but it’s not $9,000 a year. 

We’ve just managed to secure 660 spots in our pre-employment programs over the next three years, up from 300 spots. It’s ambitious but we were at 50 spots in 2018 and up to 300 by 2024, so I feel confident we can do it. But it’s always about the money, we need the money to grow and that’s the challenge for us.  

Are there any success stories from the pre-employment programs that stick out to you? 

There are so many, but there was a woman who graduated from one of our programs in 2021. When she came to Canada she had survived domestic abuse and difficult situations, and was living with her three children in a hotel room during the pandemic. She applied for our program and couldn’t believe she got in. She said it completely changed her life. She got a job, lives in a house, and wants to go back to school to become a psychologist. Because of this program she became an empowered woman. I love her story because it highlights the effectiveness of the program. People are applying in droves and we can’t accommodate all of them. It reminds us about the need for us to grow because if she never got into the program she’d still be sitting, trapped in that hotel room with no path forward.

How do you stay motivated in this line of work? Because it’s incredibly draining and exhausting when facing so many obstacles. 

It all comes back down to our why and what is our purpose here. Rabbi Tarfon says it’s not our job to complete the work but we can’t quit doing it either, we don’t have to complete and fix the whole world but we also can’t stop doing this work. This is the why, of why we do it. My hope is one day Ve’ahavta is obsolete, but until that time, I’m driven by the ultimate goal in Jewish charity, which is to help people live an independent life and to take dignity and pride in themselves. This is the ultimate goal and we must keep growing the organization to provide this to as many people as possible. 

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

Happy December, everyone! With the first night of Hanukkah landing right on Christmas Day, and running through New Year’s Eve, it’s sure to be an extra festive holiday season. The last time this occurred was in 2005!

First up, an event with a memorable title—From Dysfunctional Families to Dirty Knickers: A Herstory of Jewish Women’s Comics. Writer and graphic novelist Dr. Sarah Lightman will give a lecture discussing the careers of Jewish women comic artists. Dr. Lightman’s work sheds a spotlight on women cartoonists and illustrators whose works have often been overlooked. Join the conversation on Zoom simulcast, or register to receive the recordings. The cost to attend is $10.

This event doesn’t take place until March, so you have time to prepare and read Dr. Lightman’s graphic novels in advance. You can also stop by the Miles Nadal JCC gallery in March to view the visual art exhibit In Mint Condition: Jewish Women In Comics, in honour of International Women’s Day.

HANUKKAH

On Sunday, December 22, celebrate the festival of lights with a family-friendly event at the Prosserman JCC. At Chanukah House, you can look forward to arts and crafts, making your own gelt, photo opportunities, entertainment, a dreidel competition, candle lighting, sufganiyot decorating, and a full-on latke bar. What more could you want at a Hanukkah event? Purchase your tickets here, at $14.06 per person or $43.85 for a group of four.

This time of year is dark, dreary, and depressing, so illuminate your Hanukkah with light and laughter at Jewish Comedy Festival’s Menorah Madness. On the second night of Hanukkah (December 26), make your way to Comedy Bar West for an evening of Jewish hilarity. This event will feature all of Toronto’s finest up-and-coming Jewish comedians, including Brandon Zakkai, Matt Render, Brooklyn Mike, Jaime Glassman, Ronen Geisler, Mozie Elmaleh, and Max Guttmann. Purchase your tickets now while the early bird sale is still on.

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SYNAGOGUE SCOUTS

If you’re on the hunt for a hall of worship that feels right for you and your family, register for Synagogue Scouts. From now until the end of March, the Jewish& group at the MNJCC will be scouting out synagogues throughout Toronto and bringing you behind the scenes. Find out what each congregation can offer and how they are welcoming diverse and interfaith people into their spaces. Check out this handy schedule below, and attend whichever meetups are of interest to you! Register for the sessions here.

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MUSIC

This holiday season, join cantorial student Shira Bodnar as they lead a Hanukkah song workshop with Jewish& on Sunday December 22. Music is an integral part of many aspects of Jewish life, and these songs will be well known to some, and brand new to others. Whatever your familiarity level is with Hanukkah music, this is the perfect opportunity to discover more about each piece. The cost to join is $10. Sign up here.

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Care to pick up that musical instrument that you put down all those years ago? The Miles Nadal is hosting multiple musical ensembles that you can participate in.

On Wednesday evenings from January to March, if you play violin, viola or cello, you can reconnect with your musical skills and fellow musicians by signing up for the Adult String Ensemble. This group has performance opportunities and you must be able to play at minimum a Royal Conservatory of Music Grade 3 level. I myself joined a local orchestra after not playing my violin for many years, and I’ve found it really rewarding. 

If that’s not up your alley, perhaps a Klezmer Ensemble? With this group, you can develop both your musical playing expertise and arranging skills, all while learning more about Klezmer musical traditions. Individuals are welcome to join regardless of musical background. These meetings also run on Tuesdays from January to March.

If you are new to either ensemble, make sure to contact Gretchen at GretchenA@mnjcc.org before registering. The cost to join for the semester is $190 per group.

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FILM

Cinephiles, assemble! Popular Toronto film critic Adam Nayman is about to make your Monday afternoons more exciting with his series on Jewish directors. The course will explore the works of Fritz Lang, Otto Preminger, Barbra Streisand, Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker, and Todd Haynes. The program costs $60 and runs weekly from Monday, January 13 to February 10. Drop-ins are also welcome ($16 per class). Over the course of these lectures, Nayman will discuss Jewish-American filmmakers whose work defined much of recent cinema, using film and archival materials, and biographical texts. Learn about five key filmmakers and dive into the social and artistic aspects of their work, and how their Judaism was expressed within their films. This series is presented in partnership with the Toronto Film Society.

Attendees are welcome to join in-person, on Zoom simulcast, or can register to receive the recordings.

Perhaps lectures about film aren’t as good as watching the real thing—in that case, check out the film The Conspiracy, screening on Thursday January 23 at the Al Green Theatre.  In this documentary, writer and director Maxim Pozdorovkin investigates 250 years of anti-Jewish hate, how it started, and how times of uncertainty give rise to anxieties in marginalized populations. This film screening is being held in honour of International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

If you are unable to attend this screening in person, you can register to receive the streaming link. The cost is $10.

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‍PODCASTS

I’m a big audio person—almost half of the books I read are in audiobook format, and I subscribe to about a dozen podcasts. Recently, some of the podcasters I listen to have stopped producing new episodes, so I’ve been seeking out new content. I’ve found two Jewish podcasts that I enjoy, The Dybbukast and Jewish Heretics.

The Dybbukast was created by theatre dybbuk, an unconventional theatre company whose projects blend various artistic mediums. The company explores the rich world of Jewish history, and the resulting works feature performance, dance, poetry, and music. Each one of theatre dybbuk’s residencies bring arts and educational engagement to communities throughout North America, and they recently held one in Toronto, in partnership with Kultura and the Prosserman JCC (Niv was a promotional partner!).

Theatre dybbuk started their podcast in 2020, and the episodes dive into the question of what artistic texts can divulge about the times in which they were written, and what they reveal about contemporary society. The Dybbukast includes performed readings, as well as interviews with artists and scholars. You can listen to episodes on their website, YouTube, or any podcast app.

My second recommendation is the Jewish Heretics podcast, created by the Winchevsky Centre, or United Jewish People’s Order (UJPO), a Toronto-based secular Jewish centre that has a focus on social justice. A new episode comes out every month or two, so it’s a low commitment subscription, and there are interviews with fascinating people, including scholars, artists, and activists. You can listen to their podcast on Apple podcasts, Spotify, or on YouTube.

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If I haven’t offered you enough suggestions to fill your free time this winter, here’s a handy spreadsheet of all of the upcoming Hanukkah events hosted by local synagogues and Jewish centres. The list includes Hanukkah parties, potlucks, song workshops, and more.

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For the readers out there, holiday romance novels have become more and more popular, and we’re finally seeing some Hanukkah-themed additions to the genre. I can’t vouch for these personally as I haven’t read them, but if The Matzah Ball sounds like your cup of tea, here is a whole list of books that are similar!

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Have a happy Hanukkah, holiday season, and happy New Year!

Growing up, I hated honey. 

It was too sweet and too gooey. 

Whenever the New Year rolled around my Hebrew school teachers would dip apple slices into honey and serve them to all the kids. I would just stare at the strands of honey running off the apple. It looked too similar to the snot that would run down my classmates' noses when the weather was cold. 

So, I always opted out of eating honey; to my teachers I’d say, “just apple please.” 

I would sit around during the holiday wishing for all the food we’d consume during Hanukkah instead. Chocolate gelt, latkes, and sufganiyot were unbeatable. 

On top of it, the story of the Maccabees was also a clear favourite—Jews overcoming insurmountable odds and being victorious? It was the hero story we loved to learn.  

But Rosh Hashanah was different. I didn’t understand the stories, and I didn’t understand the food. 

In fact, I found the Torah reading during this time of year deeply troubling and horribly barbaric.

We had to learn that Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac to show his absolute devotion to God? And it was all a test by God to see how devoted Abraham was? I couldn’t believe it! How cruel. I would just sit in synagogue and imagine my parents willfully giving me up, as if I was nothing but a sacrificial lamb. 

It’s safe to say Rosh Hashanah wasn’t my favourite holiday.

As the years passed, I grew to love other holidays besides Hanukkah. Passover has now claimed the top spot. 

And then one day, in my teenage years, when I was celebrating Rosh Hashanah at my family's close friends’, I took a leap of faith and dipped my apple slice into the honey. To my aged eyes the texture of the honey no longer looked like snot but rather a warm amber jewel. 

That first bite was delicious—the hit of the rich, golden, syrup-like honey and then the crunch of the tart McIntosh apple was a match made in heaven. I couldn’t believe what I had missed out on for so many years. 

And with my taste buds finally maturing, so did my understanding of the Torah.

I can definitively say that I would never sacrifice my child to prove my devotion to God but Abraham’s story makes us reflect on what values we devote ourselves to. If not of faith, then maybe it’s devotion to family, to community, to humanity. 

And it’s this teaching that is incredibly universal and forever relevant. 

When I sit in synagogue this year and reflect on my goals for the 365 days ahead, I will always hold steadfast to the lessons of Abraham—to devote ourselves to something is a sacrifice and a price worth paying when the cause is worthy, even if that means one has to eat honey every now and then. 

I now look forward to this time of reflection when Rosh Hashanah comes along, and that first sweet bite of that ever-delicious honey and apple. 

I was at Pearson Airport, in my hometown, Toronto, on August 1 waiting to get on a flight to Atlanta, Georgia, the layover-stop before my final destination to Tallahassee, Florida. It was six-something in the morning and I was trying to decide what I should eat, or rather store in my bag until I arrived in Atlanta. There was a Starbucks by my gate but I never purchased a sandwich at Starbucks before and thought why would I now? The line was too long, and Starbucks, well, it’s expensive even outside of the airport. The restaurant perhaps would be the next best option.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t eat at the restaurant because it only seemed to serve burgers and I can’t eat my meals out of order. I have to start the day with foods that are considered breakfast appropriate: fried eggs, cereal, lox, cream cheese, scrambled eggs, manouche, grilled cheese, poached eggs. Wings for breakfast? I shiver at the thought.

I next visited the pre-packed section looking for something that was vegetarian. I am wary of airport food due to the possibility my sensitive stomach might cause me strife when I should instead be enjoying dedicated TV time. When I am on a plane, I just want to watch a screen with actors riding horses. But in this section, everything seemed to have bacon in it or the other style of pig known as ham. I do not keep kosher, but I don’t eat pork, only the rare treat of a bacon strip (resulting in immediate guilt). 

And with nothing in front of me that made me feel like I was going to experience indigestion, I looked at the kosher section. Perhaps I’d find holy relief there. No. Instead I found an unappealing rye-bread sandwich, with some sort of meat in it, for nearly $20. And this sandwich did not look gourmet. It looked like the kind of sandwich you make when you are late to work or for a partner who has disappointed you and doesn’t know how to cook for themselves. It was an incredibly sad, expensive sandwich. I stood there and felt my face turn red, anger bubbling up inside me. The feeling was unexpected, after all, I was just figuring out what to eat at the airport. But I wasn’t angry for myself. I could go to Starbucks and stand in line for 10 to 15 minutes to order an egg sandwich with pesto on it for $6 (which is exactly what I did). 

But what about the people who cannot. It made me think of family members and friends of mine who keep kosher and how their everyday life could be impacted by cost. What if they cannot afford to purchase a disappointing kosher sandwich that costs even more than a Rare Beauty Mini Soft Liquid Blush. I understand airport food is more expensive because they take advantage of the lack of options for flyers. But the price of this sandwich was so unbelievable to me. For about $10 more you could have gotten the news-making Loblaws chicken breast for $37.

I often think about how much more appealing buying kosher products might be if they were priced at exactly the same value as non-kosher items. Perhaps some folks would make the switch, I like eating meat knowing it was killed humanely, who wouldn’t. But for the people who are kashrut observers, there must be a way to have them experience an airport sandwich for $6. I was able to find my best option and they should be afforded the same privilege to do the same.

Every year I feel conflicted on the morning of Erev Pesach. My Abba, a firstborn, usually goes to minyan at shul to attend a siyyum to obviate the obligation to fast as part of Taanit Bechorot, the Fast of the Firstborns. The fast commemorates that while Egyptian firstborns were killed in the final plague, Israelite firstborns were saved. But as a girl, my community growing up never pushed for me to attend a siyyum; I didn’t hear conversation about if women needed to fast. 

Even now, as I don’t fast on minor fast days for health reasons, I have continued to feel guilt about never making it to a siyyum on the busy day preceding the first Seder. Even after I embraced gender-egalitarian mitzvah-observance, I have found myself unable to change this routine. This is related to a broader ambivalence I hold about Makkat Bechorot (the plague of the firstborn): Did it include women? What are the stakes to assuming only Egyptian men versus all Egyptian firstborns were killed? Does egalitarianism necessitate assuming more death? Rabbi Dr. Gail Labovitz, in a thoughtful and comprehensive dvar Torah addressing just this question, asks:

Do I really want to insert women victims into the suffering of Egypt, so that I can feel equal in my experience of redemption or my sense of being consecrated to God alongside my husband and other first-born men? 

In exploring this question, Labovitz quotes the Shulchan Aruch and Rema on the subject:

הבכורות מתענין בערב פסח בין בכור מאב בין בכור מאם ויש מי שאומר שאפילו נקבה בכורה מתענה: (ואין המנהג כן)

Firstborns fast on Erev Pesach, whether they are the firstborn of their mother or the firstborn of the father; and there are those who say that even a firstborn woman should fast. (Rema: And the custom is not thus.) (OH 470:1)

As Labovitz puts it, this text “encodes the tension” between two conflicting ideas. The Mishnah Berurah here, explicating the Rema’s statement that it is not the custom for firstborn women to fast, says that:

“שהתורה לא נתנה קדושת בכורות לנקבה לשום דבר” 

“The Torah does not give the sanctity of the firstborn to women in any respect.” Just as women are not considered firstborns for any other ritual purpose, they do not have the requirement to fast as firstborns. However, in explaining the opinion that women should fast, the Mishnah Berurah writes that:

“שמכת בכורות היתה גם עליהן כדאיתא במדרש”

“since the Plague of the Firstborn also happened to them, as is explained in the midrash,” women should fast.

The Mishnah Berurah is referencing a rich midrashic tradition here. In many locations, the Rabbis attempted to expand the population who was struck down by the last plague, including women. Shemot Rabbah 18 is one place where this midrash appears. 

הַנְּקֵבוֹת הַבְּכוֹרוֹת אַף הֵן מֵתוֹת, חוּץ מִבִּתְיָה בַּת פַּרְעֹה, שֶׁנִּמְצָא לָהּ פְּרַקְלִיט טוֹב, זֶה משֶׁה, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (שמות ב, ב): וַתֵּרֶא אֹתוֹ כִּי טוֹב הוּא.

The firstborn females also died, except for Batya the daughter of Pharaoh, who found she had a good (tov) advocate: this is Moshe, as it is said, “and she saw that he was good (tov).”

While according to this narrative, the scope of death is dramatically widened, there is a person who is saved from it: Batya, who rescued Moshe from the Nile and raised him. Because of this relationship, this midrash teaches, she was saved. The Bach (Rabbi Yoel Sirkis), a commentator on the Tur, cites the Agudah, saying that:

אף נקבה בכורה תתענה, וראיה מבתיה בת פרעה דאהני לה זכות משה

Even female firstborns should fast, and there is a proof from Batya the daughter of Pharaoh, who had for herself the merit of Moshe.

Here, the midrashic addition of Batya’s rescue becomes the centre of the proof suggesting that women should fast. It is the salvation of one particular woman that suggests that all others died; and then, in reverse, that all Jewish women were saved. 

In a stunning Senior Sermon, my friend Rabbi Mary Brett Koplen draws our attention to a woman who in many ways is the opposite of Batya, the Egyptian princess. She points out that in the verses about the Plague of the Firstborn, the Torah makes visible a figure we would otherwise not have noticed.

וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה כֹּה אָמַר ה כַּחֲצֹת הַלַּיְלָה אֲנִי יוֹצֵא בְּתוֹךְ מִצְרָיִם׃ וּמֵת כׇּל־בְּכוֹר בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִבְּכוֹר פַּרְעֹה הַיֹּשֵׁב עַל־כִּסְאוֹ עַד בְּכוֹר הַשִּׁפְחָה אֲשֶׁר אַחַר הָרֵחָיִם וְכֹל בְּכוֹר בְּהֵמָה׃

Moses said, “Thus says the LORD: Toward midnight I will go forth among the Egyptians, and every first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh who sits on his throne to the first-born of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; and all the first-born of the cattle.”

Koplen moves our focus to the enslaved Egyptian woman “who is behind the millstones.” She points out that this woman, like the Israelites, was marginalized and enslaved in Egypt.

If we ever thought we were the only slaves in Egypt, if we ever thought we were the only people who have ever suffered unjustly, Exodus 11:5 comes to teach us, gently, we were wrong. This Egyptian mother who wakes to find her firstborn dead is perhaps the person in Egypt that the Children of Israel would have related to most closely. She is our co-slave. Set to the same menial tasks one workstation away, we would have talked with her—told stories of our growing children, walked the same way home at the end of the day. Even though we relate to her, our empathy does not protect her. In this moment, God is saving us. God is not saving her.

Even as we ourselves were redeemed, this woman and her pain went unaddressed, unanswered. 

When I think about the kind of egalitarianism I want, I don’t want an egalitarianism that places me only alongside men and the most powerful and exceptional of women. I don’t want to share only in the experiences of those who knew with certainty they would be saved by God. I don’t want my liberation to necessitate imagining more death into the story of the Exodus than is already there. 

I want a feminist egalitarianism where I can be with women who cry out in pain, where there are no steps that those who are vulnerable must take to earn their fullest lives. I want an egalitarianism that pushes me toward solidarity with the woman behind the millstone. I want an egalitarianism that craves less pain rather than more.

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This piece originally appeared as "Bo: Firstborns" on Rabbi Avigayil Halpern's Substack Approaching.

I distinctly remember choosing my Hebrew name. 

Unusual, as baby namings always happen when you’re a newborn but I was the third child in my family—the last born—and as a result some rituals and expected milestones fell to the wayside. I only learned to ride a bike when I was 15. 

I was five years old; watching The Prince of Egypt in the basement of my childhood home—the movie was my favourite (who am I kidding, I still love that movie and watch it every time Passover rolls around)—when my mom walked down the stairs and asked me what I wanted my Hebrew name to be. 

I told her I wasn’t sure. 

“What would you like it to be?” she responded. She needed to know for my enrollment in Hebrew school. 

I couldn’t believe I was allowed to choose my own Hebrew name. I stared back at the TV, and looked at the cartoon characters I loved so much. I instinctively said, “Tzipporah.” She's Moses’s wife and I thought she was beautiful and strong.

“Tzipporah,” my mom repeated. She nodded with confirmation that it was a great choice. 

The name coincidentally fits in with the Hebrew names of my parents—my mother’s is Yocheved, Moses’s mother, and my father’s is Aaron, Moses’s brother. We were the ancient family incarnate! But in all seriousness, it felt serendipitous.  

Apart from what was featured in The Prince of Egypt, I didn’t know much about Tzipporah. I loved how in the film she was strong-willed and pushed Moses to be the leader he was meant to be. While she was at his side, she didn’t feel subservient to him. I saw her as Moses’s guiding light, walking in step with God; helping Moses navigate uncertain terrain. 

When digging deeper into Tzipporah’s story, she’s mentioned sparingly in the Book of Exodus, but when she is mentioned her bravery shines. She’s the daughter of Jethro, the prince and priest of Midian and is not of Jewish ancestry—nevertheless, she helped Moses continue Jewish lineage. 

While the movie takes liberties with Tzipporah’s story, I believe it captures her spirit. 

In the Midrash, when Moses arrives in Midian and tells Jethro he’s fleeing from Pharaoh, he is thrown into a pit and left to die of starvation. But Tzipporah sympathizes with Moses and brings him food for 10 years. Finally, when he is released, he asks for Tzipporah’s hand in marriage, for she showed tremendous kindness in keeping him alive. 

Another Midrash reading says that when Moses first arrives in Jethro’s home, Tzipporah immediately feels a deep love for him and asks her father if she could marry Moses. 

There is another story where Tzipporah saves Moses again. When Moses, his wife and children leave Midian for Egypt, one night while they are staying at an inn, an angel of God comes to kill Moses as he had not circumcised their newborn son. Quickly, Tzipporah performs the circumcision and Moses is saved. 

These ancient stories show a woman full of courage. It’s no surprise that my younger self was drawn to her—I’ve always loved learning about independent and fearless women in history, making their mark in a male-dominated world. I was most interested in school material that focused on feminism, and always loved learning about the female biblical characters in Hebrew studies. 

Tzipporah’s name in Hebrew translates to bird—an image of freedom and hope. How fitting in the story of Exodus and how fitting in my own life, to be guided and encouraged by this ancient name to continue in the fight for causes that I hold dear in my own life. To fight for a better understanding of what it means to be Jewish, and to fight for gender equality and dignity for all people. In a world that endlessly wishes to divide us, it’s more important than ever to call on these core values that are also inherently Jewish values. As we sit down with loved ones for the Seder this year, let us reflect on how we as Jews can seek a more inclusive and compassionate world. These are ancient teachings that we must uphold, and I thank Tzipporah for showing me the way.

During a cold night in New York City in December 2024, on Motzei Shabbat, I was rushing from downtown to attend a call for shmira (guarding of the deceased body). It is my first call of tahara (ritual washing), within weeks of completing training at Hebrew Union College to join the first-ever Reform Community Chevra Kadisha of New York City—a group of community volunteers that prepares Jewish bodies for burial.

I wanted to immerse myself as a nonbinary, Queer Jew into an ancient tradition while serving in a welcoming denomination. Historically, in other denominations, such as Orthodoxy, I would be erased, deadnamed, and misgendered if I was the deceased, and be excluded from receiving the ritual practice of tahara. Typically, when reciting prayer or psalms scribed centuries ago, I don’t feel connected spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, because the words aren’t mine, they’re written by cisgender men who wouldn’t have made room for my spiritual voice. That’s why I want to insert myself and my authentic voice into these rituals to make them more inclusive.

My chevra kadisha asks for a $180 donation to support its efforts, as well as buying ritual supplies, but doesn’t turn anyone away if they can’t afford it—which is fair compared to other denominations that have hefty fees. Most orthodox shmira personnel receive payment, whereas we are volunteers.

Before I headed into the Plaza Jewish Community Chapel (PJCC) in the Upper West Side—having just wolfed down a soup and grilled cheese sandwich before wading through the crowded train to get to my destination—I took a deep breath, and gave myself a hug for all I was about to experience. 

Joshua, the friendly funeral director, greeted and showed me through the side door, as the main entrance was closed for Shabbat. Despite my fear of being profiled as a Jew of Colour, who dresses alternatively, I was graciously welcomed by volunteers and staff at PJCC. I was sporting sweatpants and an oversized sweater with sleeves that extended over my hands. 

I made my way downstairs to where the bodies were preserved. Some were in caskets, others in coffins, and some in the fridge. It felt surreal to perform shmira for an unknown, elderly Jewish woman. All I knew was that I had an obligation to serve, to perform a generational Jewish rite of passage by paying tribute and sitting with the deceased’s body while their neshama (soul) ascended to heaven. Although I wished to have a biography, Hebrew name, and related details about the deceased from my chevra kadisha, it wasn’t necessary for me to do the mitzvah of tahara—I felt that I had to do this ritual at least once in my lifetime, to respect the cycles of life. I hope that when I pass I’ll be buried and turned into a tree that’s decorated, so generations from now, people can point and smile in admiration, saying, “that’s the Je’Jae tree.” 

After finding my seat in the chapel basement, I realized I didn’t know the proper prayers or tehillim (psalms) to recite to honour the dead. I tried for the first few minutes to remain calm, but I was feeling lonely and down—my thanatophobia was acting up, knowing I was inches away from a dead body. Ironic, I know. But learning this type of practice can only prepare you so much for the ritual practice in-person. I felt scared and triggered thinking of my own future rite of passage; to go from standing with a beating heart to one day laying in a casket, lifeless. I began to panic about not recalling what to do ritually. I googled it on my phone and asked my former rebbeim of proper approaches to shmira. 

An Orthodox cousin from Jerusalem sent me a WhatsApp to help me figure out the gematria (numerology) of the deceased’s name so I could find any hidden meaning or message. After spending some time reciting prayers from my heart, I reached out to my hometown’s local Chabad rebbetzin Nechama Duchman. She texted: “It's a spiritual time, we are connecting to the neshama as it arises.” Another WhatsApp message, from a trans Jew from Eshel (Queer Orthodox Jewish NGO), said “We start saying tehillim from the beginning.”

I was beautifully supported by rabbis from across denominations: Renewal, Reconstructionist, Modern Orthodox, Litvish and Chabad. 

Although I recited some of the psalms I still didn’t feel connected to the text. Compared to my Orthodox upbringing, I always believed in personal prayers from my own words and heart. I closed my eyes and contemplated the deceased, without any photos of her. 

Finally, when I heard from Naomi Less, spiritual cofounder of Lab/Shul, who recommended I register for tahara training, I felt comforted. She said: “Does it help at all to think you’re enabling someone’s body not to be alone?” I gave a huge sigh of relief. I was able to relate to that. She further instructed me while I was still on my shift to sing or hum a melody that would console. 

During this ritual, I learned that if you’re not ready to do tahara, shmira is a pre-step. It’s amazing what will happen when you ask Jewish leaders in your rolodex about having any doubts in spiritual practice—there’s so much wisdom from folks who are willing to help. I reached out to rabbis I haven’t spoken to in years. No one decent turned me away. When doing tahara, there’s always a Roshei (head) Taharei who will be a guide and be supportive through all the brachot and steps. Even after I trained I felt nervous and forgetful, but it was okay, it’s important in these moments to have compassion for yourself.  

More religious denominations and some families have a gender preference, asking for males to take care of a male deceased family member and females to take care of the female deceased family member. There’s a lack of TGNCI folks (trans, gender nonconforming and intersex) Jews signing up for tahara. Hopefully one day there will be a TGNCI cohort of volunteers who can bring trans sensitivity and gender neutral brachot for Trans Jews who have passed. Chevra kadishas need all the gentle hands, and caring hearts, to commit to this timeless tradition, to ensure nobody is left behind. 

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You can reach out to Kavod V’nichum for Jewish end of life rituals and practices. 

Bad Shabbos came out in theatres this spring after a festival run across Canada and the United States, winning audience awards at multiple, including Tribeca Film Festival.

The film follows a New York Jewish family over the course of an eventful, yet hysterical, Friday night. Meg, David’s Christian, converting-to-Judaism fiancé, is introducing her family to David’s for the first time, but the evening goes awry when one of the attendees is accidentally killed. Family secrets emerge, violence transpires, and some new traditions are born. I sat down with director and co-writer Daniel Robbins over Zoom to discuss the need for more Jewish holiday films, the making of Bad Shabbos, and how it was inspired by a real-life Shabbat dinner.

If Niv audiences want to watch the film, it is available on VOD as of September 16, and you can visit Badshabbos.com for more information.

Daniel! Thank you so much for your time and your film—I sat down on Friday to watch it and I was so delighted. I thought the film was hysterical. You co-wrote the film with Zack Weiner and I know that the two of you are frequent collaborators. Can you tell me about the process of co-writing?

The process on every movie is different because every movie needs a new approach. Zack [the co-writer] is better at dialogue and I’m better at structure and refining, so we just play to those strengths. But we both chip in on each other’s work. We have different strengths and we have the same taste.

You have an incredible cast in this film—Kyra Sedgwick and David Paymer as David’s parents; Method Man; and then the main characters played by Jon Bass, Milana Vayntrub and Meghan Leathers. Who was your favourite character?

I think the dad. His inability to deal with any situation was so funny. He would run off when he was uncomfortable and start rocking himself and praying.

Did you prioritize casting Jewish actors for the Jewish roles? How did you navigate that?

I actually am not draconian about that; I think actors can play different roles. The key is to go with the best actor for the role. For this one, we were big on casting for authenticity. We looked at the actors we wanted and they all ended up being Jewish, but that wasn’t a rule that we had. I do think if you’re trying to cast something authentic, it might steer you in that direction. Every Jewish character was Jewish, and every Christian character was Christian in the movie. So, nobody is complaining.

I really love films that take place over the course of one day, or one night, as this one was. Can you speak to what it was like writing a film that transpired within a very short period of time?

It was always the plan to do it this way because we wanted it to take place during Shabbat dinner. Once you get into Saturday night, the rules change and it’s not as fun, so I think this timing helps for the tension. The goal was to write something we could film and that we could pull off, so that meant one location and a compressed timeline. And that ended up helping the movie ultimately.

Your previous film was horror, whereas this one is a dark comedy. Did you feel it was a strange transition genre-wise?

It worked because comedy was where we started and what we always wanted to make. So horror was kind of the side mission, the place to start and learn filmmaking, and to make a movie where you could maybe get your budget back. Once we felt like we were better at filmmaking, then we wanted to make comedy. I still think it was the right move to start in horror because to make an indie comedy is difficult.

I’m curious if any part of the film was inspired by a real-life Shabbat dinner. Did you experience a particularly traumatic one at some point?

The inspiration of the movie was Zack’s family's Shabbat dinners, because his mom would sometimes do a prank on someone just to keep things light. Our producer heard about this, and he said, “it would be funny if you do a Shabbat dinner, and something goes wrong and someone ends up dying.” Zack thought that would be a pretty funny movie. They called me and we started outlining. We invented all these funny characters and came up with all these different ideas—Jewish boy, Christian girl, what if it’s the night her parents are meeting his family for the first time, what if you make Method Man the doorman. Sometimes the more ideas you add, the tower just collapses, but with this one it just kept getting better.

Were there any other ways in which you drew on your own upbringing or family experiences or dynamics in creating Bad Shabbos?

General modern Orthodoxy is not often portrayed on screen. You either see Ultra-Orthodox or Reform, and I haven’t seen the middle of the spectrum, which is how we [my friends and I] grew up. We love how we grew up! We love Shabbat dinner and Judaism, and the balance of the secular life and the religious life, and how those two can be combined to create a more meaningful life. We wanted to make a movie in that world, where the characters aren’t trying to run away from Judaism or self-actualize. They love the traditions and are trying to absorb them into their lives and find the middle ground with their parents. That’s the journey that we are on and a lot of our friends are on, and that just felt like the story we wanted to tell.

In terms of the Jewish audience, were you worried about portraying certain stereotypes that some people might object to? Did you and Zack worry about how Jewish audiences would receive certain jokes or portrayals in the film? For example, the mother objecting to the Christian fiancé, even though she is converting.

There’s this line from Alain de Botton that stereotypes are dangerous not because they’re untrue, but because they’re artificial articulations of a much more complex truth. 

For example, the Jewish mother stereotype: I think it’s dangerous if it’s general and you get it wrong. And I think the wrong version is if you make the character cold and mean. But I think we got it right. Kyra Sedgwick played it from an intelligent place. She played the character as a warm, loving person because anyone who knows a Jewish mom knows how caring they are. They always want to make sure everyone has eaten; they care about everyone around them. Then we show how her passing on this faith, that’s been passed down through all these generations, is important to her. She’s nervous it might not continue if her son marries this girl.

Jewish moms have responded really positively to this portrayal because they feel like it got to the truth of it.

We are in the realm of stereotypes but if you do it right then it’s okay. That’s why we gave her a whole monologue, so that audiences understood where she was coming from. 

Did you intend to explore intergenerational dynamics in the film, or different interpretations of Judaism depending on the generation?

Our parents’ parents came to this country from Europe, and Judaism was so important to them and something they really had to fight for. Our parents grew up, generally, in a more relaxed environment, where Judaism was part of their tradition but it wasn’t something that had to be fought for. When they pass it down to their kids, there tends to be a slightly more lax attitude. The kids don’t feel how difficult it is to hold on to, so they might approach the traditions in a more casual way. You can see that in the characters in this film.

Congratulations on winning the Audience Award at the Tribeca Film Festival! What was it like?

It’s been amazing. We’re all from New York so maybe there was minimal voter fraud with our family, but with three screenings and over a thousand people, you can’t tilt the vote that much. I think people were just relieved to see a comedy that made them laugh out loud. I mean, the film is a farce and a little insane, but it does end on a heartwarming note of accepting differences, and learning how to work within them.

You know, a couple of complaints here and there . . . but we’ve got a Jewish audience. If you don’t get some complaints, then something is wrong!

How has the festival run been going?

From there we played other festivals and also won more audience awards. After winning in New York, we said, “Well of course—it’s a Jewish movie, it’ll work in New York” —but then, once we won the audience award in Reno Nevada at the Cordillera International Film Festival, people were like “Okay, I guess it’s just working!” It recently passed $1 million in the box office because people keep telling their friends. I’d argue that Jewish WOM might be the most powerful word of mouth. Because they really know how to get the word out.

I’ve seen comparisons of Bad Shabbos to Shiva Baby, and I do love this idea of an unintentional series of films about Jewish holidays or events that turn out really badly. What do you think of doing a Passover Seder version of this?

Bad Seder could be good; we have an idea for a Hanukkah movie. I think it’s a slightly more popular holiday and also, I always wanted a Hanukkah movie to watch when I was growing up. I know there’s 8 Crazy Nights but we need more. So it might be our next movie, we’ll see. And if that goes well, then maybe the third one might be Bad Seder. 

Dipping apples into honey. Is there a more classic taste for the New Year?

The combination of apples and honey is a frequent treat during Rosh Hashanah because together they symbolize a wish for a sweet and fruitful New Year. Apples are said to represent the full circle of the year, and honey represents the sweetness and happiness we wish for.

Here apples and honey are combined in two new ways for the High Holidays.

For vegan variations of both recipes, substitute agave syrup for the honey. 

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Honey-Curry Popcorn with Apples and Nuts

This recipe is sweet, slightly spicy, salty, and crunchy—and based on how quickly my taste testers devoured it, impossible to stop eating. Serve it as a pre-dinner munch, or as a snack during the holidays, or any time of year.

Makes 8 Cups

Ingredients

1/2 cup coconut oil, at room temperature

1/2 cup honey

2 cups raw pecan halves

6 cups plain, unseasoned popped popcorn (see notes)

1.5 ounces (40–45 grams) freeze-dried apple slices (see notes)

Spice mix (see below)

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Directions

1. Line two baking sheets with foil. Heat oven to 350 degrees Farenheit. 
2. Measure coconut oil when it's solid and place it with honey in a large pot and stir. Cook over medium heat until oil is melted and mixture is hot. 
3. Stir in spice mix. Add nuts and popcorn, stirring until well coated. Spread popcorn mix in single layers on prepared baking sheets. Bake for 25 minutes.
4. Turn the mixture with a spatula, separating the clumps. Bake about 25 minutes more until popcorn is dry and somewhat crisp and nuts are toasted (popcorn will continue to crisp up as it cools).
5. Remove from the oven. Separate the clumps. Let it cool. 
6. Break freeze-dried apple slices into 1/2-inch pieces and mix with popcorn and nuts in a large bowl. (Store airtight at room temperature for up to a day.)

Spice mix: In a small bowl combine 1 tablespoon onion powder, 1 tablespoon garlic powder, 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne (or to taste), 2 teaspoons kosher salt, and 1 1/2 teaspoon curry powder. 

Notes: I recommend popping your own popcorn in an air popper or in a microwave without oil or salt. Freeze-dried apple slices are available in many supermarkets and specialty stores as well as online. If your custom is to avoid nuts during the holiday, replace pecans with 2 cups additional popcorn.

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Grilled Apple Crumble 

The Grilled Apple Crumble has two parts. First are tangy charred grilled apple halves basted with honey and lemon marinade that are a dessert by themselves (see variation). The second is a baked treat with the grilled apples topped with a simple crumble for a homey but special dessert for Shabbat dinner or for High Holiday meals.

Grilling the apples intensifies flavours and adds a bit of smokiness. No grill? No problem. See the recipe for alternatives. Both the grilled apples and baked crumble can be made ahead.

I serve this parve dessert with non-dairy ice cream or coconut whipped topping with a drizzle of honey on top. 

Serves 6-8

Ingredients

1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 pounds (about 900 grams) small apples (see notes)

1 cup oil, divided, plus extra (see notes)

1/4 cup honey 

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon, divided

1/2 teaspoon  salt, divided

1/2 teaspoon  ground nutmeg, divided

1/4 teaspoon  ground cloves, divided

1 cup flour

1/2 cup rolled (old-fashioned) oats 

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 tablespoon parve/vegan margarine or plant-based butter

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Directions

1. Fill a large bowl with cold water and 2 tablespoons of lemon juice. Halve and core the apples, placing halves in a bowl as you work. (Peeling optional.)
2. In a separate large bowl, mix honey, 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/2 cup oil, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, and 1/8 teaspoon cloves.
3. Drain apples (discard water) and add to marinade, turning to coat completely.  
4. Let it sit, turning occasionally for 20–30 minutes saving liquid. Reserve 3 tablespoons of the saved marinade for baking.
5. Oil the grill rack and heat the grill to medium. Grill apple halves, adjusting the heat as needed. Brush with the remaining unreserved marinade and turn occasionally until softened but still somewhat firm, about 5–10 minutes total. (This can be made ahead. Refrigerate for up to 3 days mixed with reserved marinade. Bring to room temperature before continuing.) 
6. Apples can also be cooked indoors on a stove-top grill pan or electric grill on medium high. Alternatively, bake until softened but still somewhat firm in 350 degree Fahrenheit oven in a broiler-safe pan. Remove from oven. Preheat broiler. Brown apples under broiler. Timing varies.
7. Heat oven to 350 degrees Farenheit. Oil inside of 11-inch by 7-inch (28x18 cm) baking pan. Squeeze in as many halves as possible, cut side up in a single layer. Chop leftover halves and scatter to fill gaps. Drizzle with reserved 3 tablespoons of marinade. (If using apples grilled in advance, bring to room temperature, place halves in pan, and drizzle with liquid from container). Sprinkle with 2 tablespoons of brown sugar.
8. Combine flour, oats, sugar, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, and 1/8 teaspoon cloves in a medium bowl. Add 1/2 cup oil. Mix with fingertips until clumps the size of a small pea form. Spread evenly on top of apples. 
9. Cut margarine into bits and dot over topping. Bake for 30–35 minutes until the apples are soft and the topping is browned. 
10. Serve hot, warm, or room temperature. (Can be made a day ahead. Cover and keep at room temperature. To rewarm, place a foil-covered pan in a 350-degree oven until the crumble is at desired temperature. Remove foil. Bake for 5–10 minutes to recrisp the topping.) 

Notes: 2 pounds. equals about 8 small apples, each about 2 inches in diameter. Use pink ladies, gala, honeycrisps, or similar. Use grape seed, safflower, sunflower, or other neutral-tasting oil. Replace flour with gluten-free one-for-one flour substitute if desired.

Grilled Apple Variation: Grill apple halves as directed until completely tender and soft but not mushy. If desired, combine 2 tablespoons of brown sugar with reserved 3 tablespoons of marinade, cook over medium low heat until thickened and syrupy. Drizzle over apples. 

As summer winds down and days start getting shorter, I’m looking forward to curling up inside with some good reads. Here are some of the best books of the year (so far), in no particular order.

Fundamentally by Nussaibah Younis 

This is a heartfelt but irreverent and sometimes scathing look at aid workers in the Middle East, seen through the eyes of a Western woman, Nadia, who works in international development and joins the UN in Iraq to “deradicalize” ISIS brides. The novel also examines the different reasons women become radicalized (which include the women who didn’t have a choice). However, sometimes the characters, like the aid workers, fell into stereotypes, and some of the radicalized women felt like caricatures. Younis was skilled at illustrating the nuances of Nadia’s reality because of what she witnessed throughout her career in international development. 

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Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa

Hunchback, written by Saou Ichikawa was originally published in 2023 in Japan. The English translation of the novel, by Polly Barton, debuted in March. The story follows a disabled woman living in a care home following the death of her parents. The novel illustrates the limitations of her life, as well as her economic privilege after her parents left her with full-time care and a significant amount of money. She expresses herself by writing erotica on the Internet, and finds a community where she can be herself without being defined by her disabled body. While parts of this book were difficult to follow at times, particularly the twist at the end, it’s an important book with a lot of heart in addition to societal commentary about disability rights, both in Japan and globally. Ichikawa herself has congenital myopathy and uses a ventilator and electric wheelchair.

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The Immortal Woman by Su Chang 

Highlighting a Canadian independent publisher, House of Anansi, with this wonderful and immersive tale of a mother and daughter in China and beyond. Chang crosses generations and oceans to deliver a nuanced and well-researched look at 20th century Chinese politics, what it means to be an immigrant, and how nationalism can positively and negatively impact generations. Chang’s immense amount of research is evident in how her descriptions of everyday life feel immersive and almost real. This is a moving, character-driven story of two women at its heart.

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All the Parts We Exile by Roza Nozari 

This memoir is by another Canadian author, detailing what it was like growing up queer and Iranian in the suburbs of Toronto. Readers follow Nozari’s struggles with her identity and her difficult relationship with her mother. From Canada to Iran, we see her exile parts of herself, her family, and her history, only to reunite with her mother and reconnect with herself as she learns more about feminism, her family history, and how they shape who she is. Watching as Nozari slowly came to see her mother as an adult, rather than a parent on a pedestal, was a cathartic experience and something most daughters can relate to as they come of age. This is an immensely moving memoir that I highly recommend. 

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Sisters of Fortune by Esther Chehebar 

Described by the publisher as a Jewish Jane Austen, this book follows three Syrian Jewish sisters in New York as they each struggle to find husbands (despite actually trying) and make their way in the world. I really loved this book and kept telling my friends as I was reading it how little we discuss Mizrahi Jews in North America. From their grandmother speaking in Arabic, to the wonderful descriptions of food, Chehebar is using language and food to immerse the reader in a world they might not be familiar with.

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Red Clay by Charles B. Fancher 

Based on the author’s own family history, this is an epic tale of the American South during Reconstruction, as enslaved people struggle to make their own way in the world. The book follows Felix Parker, the main protagonist, and Adelaide Parker, the now elderly woman whose parents enslaved Felix and his family until slavery was abolished. Balancing both of these family stories is tough, but Fancher is a deft author and keeps the reader engaged at every turn while not shying away from the harsh realities of this history. A difficult but necessary read about American history and its lingering impact.

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Girls Girls Girls by Shoshana von Blanckensee

A Jewish take on San Francisco, this book follows two high-school grads who road trip across the country to be out as lesbians in San Francisco in 1996. This novel celebrates the queer community, found family, and Jewishiness, while also delving into the struggle of finding yourself and your people in a new place. I particularly enjoyed the sense of community from the strip club where the friends get lucrative jobs. Between their job and their gross apartment they discover from a stranger in a donut shop, you can really feel the gritty side of San Francisco throughout the novel. I am glad I could bear witness to this piece of queer history. I also loved the Jewish representation throughout the novel, from the use of Yiddish, to the mentions of holidays, to the beautiful statement from the protagonist’s bubbie that there are so many ways to be Jewish. 

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Punished by Ann-Helén Laestadius 

This is the second in a trilogy of books by Laestadius that depict different aspects of life and history of the Indigenous Sami people in Sweden. Punished follows a number of characters as they reflect on the traumas of their time at a government boarding school as Sami children. For those of us in North America, this is an eerily similar history to our own treatment of Indigenous communities, making it a critical and relevant read. There are many aspects of trauma highlighted in this book that raise ethical questions about what survivors of abuse and trauma are entitled to. It also shows us how compounding abuse can impact a life. A difficult but necessary look at the recent past. 

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Disappoint Me by Nicola Dinan

Poet and tech company worker Max starts dating Vincent, a corporate lawyer and cis-man who loves Max and isn’t afraid to show it—but he has a secret from his university days that might threaten the very foundation of their relationship. Dinan is talented at portraying complicated characters making questionable choices. Even as people show the worst parts of themselves, the narrative offers empathy and nuance. In the current cultural climate, this is an important look at how trans people just want a safe landing place and the chance to build their own life.

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Liquid: A Love Story by Mariam Rahmani 

This is a fantastic coming-of-age novel that follows an unnamed bisexual Iranian woman who splits her time in Los Angeles and Tehran deciding if she should commit to finding a wealthy spouse. She is so dedicated to the plan that she sets up a spreadsheet to track the 100 first dates she has decided she needs to go on to find someone. She is doing all of this with the reluctant support of her very devoted male best friend. The best part of this book for me was her time in Tehran during her father’s illness. She falls for his female neighbour, and it’s a wonderful and little-seen look at the vibrant underground queer scene in Iran. While you know where the story is going to end up the whole time, it’s still a compelling, hilarious, and sometimes painful journey to get there.

Poet, fictioneer, and professor, Aaron Kreuter, is delving into his first fiction novel with Lake Burntshore. It will be out with ECW Press on April 22.

Lake Burntshore is narrated in the third person, and focuses on the staff and surrounding peoples living within the tight community of Camp Burntshore during the summer of 2013. With a protagonist in Ruby, the narrator dives between characters and relationships like the swim staff dive effortlessly into the water. However, trouble begins after camp life is threatened when five staff are fired within the first week. The fired staff are replaced by five Israeli soldiers, which causes the camp to consider the conflict in the Middle East and its parallels to the neighbouring Indigenous land. Throughout their eventful summer of 2013—the soldiers’ arrival, romantic entanglements, and marijuana hijinks—Ruby and her peers struggle to identify exactly what it is that makes Jewish summer camp a life-altering experience.

During the course of an hour, I spoke with Kreuter over the phone about his inspiration, and writing process. While Kreuter’s and my exciting conversation about maps didn’t make the cut for this interview, it is worth mentioning that Lake Burntshore begins with two detailed and cogent maps that help readers live alongside the characters and campers at Kreuter’s fictional Camp Burntshore.

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In Lake Burntshore, there are moments when the narrator speaks with certainty and then there are other times when the narrator speaks with a sense of discovery. How strict are you with the rules of omnipotence regarding the narrator’s learning?

It depends on what’s going on in the novel. Different chapters have different structures and textures to them. There’s the chapter early on called “Ruby/Stolow,” which is from their two perspectives. Other times the narrator does change points of view. In all of my writing, I’m obsessed with community and belonging. As anyone who spent time at sleepover camp knows, the four to eight weeks you’re there, it becomes a sort of micro society.

I have a theory that writers write through a lineage of who they grew up reading. Your characters read widely, from books by Mordecai Richler to Ursula K Le Guin. Which books or authors most heavily influenced you when creating Lake Burntshore?

I didn’t discover Le Guin until my mid or late 20s and, when I did, she completely changed my life, not only because of the way she writes but in the way she imagines other possibilities. Le Guin embodies in her novels the idea that a better world is possible, a different world is possible. When I read Le Guin, it suffuses my body and mind with how we can live differently and better in an ethical sense. I hope my novel could have that effect on readers as well. Le Guin has this famous line that all human power can be resisted by humans. I think that’s a beautiful way of looking at it. I see it in her, in her fiction, and is definitely one thing I want to try and do with my own fiction.

A lot of Ruby’s favourite authors happen to be authors I also deeply love, especially Le Guin and Mordecai Richler. I definitely see myself writing in conversation with Richler who is, to my mind, still the foremost chronicler and satirist of the Canadian Jewish experience. The other two books Ruby has with her at camp are the collected works of Grace Paley, the anarchist feminist, Jewish American short story writer and poet; and work by Frantz Fanon, which speaks to her politics.

You craft a musical in the novel called Tel Aviv! Can you tell me more about it?

In the world of the novel there’s a very famous and successful play called Tel Aviv! It is a musical dramatization of Theodore Herzl’s fascinating novel The Old New Land, which imagines a thriving Jewish collective in Palestine from the vantage point of 1902. Tel Aviv! is sort of like the Zionist Hamilton. The staff put on a version of Tel Aviv! in the novel. Inventing this play, and imagining how it functions in the Jewish diasporic world really allowed me to look at themes of ideology and belief and the power of art to confirm or sway ideology and belief.

How would you define the narrative of Lake Burntshore, and what is your overall opinion on the concept and essentiality of plot?

One of the ways that the narrative manifests in the novel is that it takes place over a single summer, so the novel is temporally, and geographically, bounded by those eight weeks. I knew from the very beginning I wanted the novel to be in two basic parts, which mirrors or parallels the two traditional sessions of a Jewish summer camp. Did you catch that both parts have 18 chapters?

Oh my gosh, I didn’t.

That’s part of the plot too, the structure of the novel. From my camp experience, there’s always a difference between the first session and second session. And I sort of wanted to bring that into the narrative. Tom, the camp owner, actually thinks about that, he thinks about how the second session is sort of smaller and looser and more informal. I wanted that in the plot too. I see two main movements in the narrative. First is the inciting incident where more staff than normal get kicked out for smoking pot and Brett, Tom’s son, convinces Tom to bring in five Israeli soldiers to act as counsellors and staff (which happens at a fair number of summer camps throughout Canada and the U.S.). And so that change of having these Israeli soldiers at camp, we’ll be seeing how Ruby, who’s anti-Zionist and an activist at her university, is unsure and unhappy with how that’s going to affect the camp. Then coming to the fore of the narrative in the second half is Brett’s plan to buy 10,000 acres of the Crown land around the lake for the camp, which, by rights, is the traditional territory of the Black Spruce Anishinaabe First Nation, who lives next door. Ruby attempts to stop that from happening.

I’d like to ask you more about Ruby’s relationship with her best friend Seema. In the letter Ruby writes to her she lists the reasons she will miss camp: “The stories, the myths, the rituals, the rhythms . . .The meals . . . The sense of unified purpose . . . Hanging out with your cabin after dinner, the cool night air, anything and everything possible.”

That quote is from when Ruby apologizes to Seema, who’s Palestinian, for some tensions that they had as pen pals throughout the novel. I think it’s really important that Ruby, this young Jewish Canadian, is describing this phenomenon, Jewish summer camp, to her Palestinian best friend through letters.

Thinking about the above quote, when writing a book, one lives with the characters, and some characters do stay with us forever, but never as fiercely as when one is in the process of writing. What do you miss most about being in the process of writing Lake Burntshore?

I miss a lot of it. I miss that summer, the summer of 2013 on Lake Burntshore, this place that I half made up from experiences and also from what I’ve read and seen—just being on this journey of discovery and activism and the fighting for what you think is right, which is what Ruby and Etai do in the novel. I talk a lot to my students about the concept of novel vision, which is when you’re so deep into working on a longer fictional project that everything in your life, everything you see and experience and read, gets filtered through the novel. This is my sixth book, but it's my first novel, and I really, truly experienced that novel vision, where my whole life was subsumed by the novel and by this camp. I'll definitely miss that. I'll definitely miss thinking up different ways of describing the lake and its moods. Having characters interact in different ways, in different parts of the geography of the camp. In fact, I haven’t truly left the camp or these characters behind because the project I'm working on now (and I'm almost finished) is a cycle of short stories that exists in the Lake Burntshore universe. Some of the stories have characters from the novel. Others have an entirely new cast of characters. But since I finished the novel, I’m still moving in the world. I wasn’t fully ready to let go of the characters yet.

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

No fruit says “spring is here” to me more than rhubarb, which has been a favourite since childhood. Here I combine the tart stalks with another seasonal fruit—juicy, sweet strawberries. Both fruits are the perfect accompaniment to make a sweet-tart topping for mini cheesecakes. The tartness sets off the richness of the cake. 

The festival of Shavuot marks when the Torah was given by God to the Jewish people on Mount Sinai. It’s also customary to eat dairy foods on the holiday. 

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Mini Cheesecakes with Rhubarb and Strawberries

Makes 12

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INGREDIANTS

Cheesecake recipe

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6 (3 1/4 ounce total) whole graham crackers

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

24 ounce brick-style cream cheese softened

2 large eggs, beaten

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 teaspoon lemon juice

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup sour cream plus 1/4 cup for topping

12 thin slices of strawberry

Chopped mint leaves, optional

Directions

1. Line a 12-hole cupcake or muffin tin (or set 12 foil cupcake liners on a sturdy baking sheet).
2. Put graham crackers in the food processor until they turn into fine crumbs (well crushed but not powdery). You can also put the crackers in a sealed plastic bag and crush with a rolling pin. 
3. Place crushed crackers in a medium bowl. Stir in melted butter and 2 tablespoons of sugar. Press crumbs into the bottom of the cupcake liners.
4. Cut the cream cheese into 1-inch chunks and set aside.
5. In a large bowl combine sugar, eggs, vanilla, lemon juice, and salt. Beat with an electric hand or stand mixer on medium high until light and lemony in colour (2 minutes). Add cream cheese chunks in batches, beating on medium high until they’re incorporated before adding the next batch. 
6. Once all the cream cheese is incorporated add 1/2 cup sour cream. Beat again on medium high until the mixture is very smooth (3–4 minutes). 
7. Divide cheesecake batter between the 12 liners.
8. Place 1/2 teaspoon of rhubarb and strawberry topping on top of each cheesecake. (Return remaining topping to the refrigerator until needed.) Use a dinner knife to swirl the topping through the batter.
9. Heat oven to 375 degrees Farenheit.
10. Place cheesecakes in the oven. Bake for 20–25 minutes until the centres of the cheesecakes are a bit loose and jiggly and the tops are puffed up. They will still be pale. 
11. Turn off the oven and open the oven door, leaving cheesecake to rest inside for 30 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack until completely cool. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight. (Can be made up to 4 days in advance if kept refrigerated and several weeks prior if kept in the freezer. If freezing, defrost in the refrigerator before serving.)
12. Serve chilled (or remove from the refrigerator 20 minutes before serving). Remove liners if desired. 
13. The tops of each will have fallen, making an indent. Fill each indent with 1 teaspoon of rhubarb and strawberry topping and 1 teaspoon of sour cream. Add a strawberry slice. Garnish with mint.

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INGREDIANTS

Rhubarb and Strawberry Topping

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3 1/2 cups chopped fresh rhubarb or 12 ounce frozen, chopped rhubarb (do not defrost)

2 teaspoons water, or as needed

2 cups chopped fresh strawberries

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Sugar to taste, optional

DIRECTIONS

1. Place rhubarb in a saucepan over medium heat with water (do not use water if fruit is frozen). Cover. Cook until very soft, stirring often, adding just enough water if needed so rhubarb does not stick to the pan or burn. 
2. Stir in strawberries and vanilla. Continue to cook covered until the strawberries are soft. Taste and stir in sugar to taste if desired. Leave the cover off. Stir. Let any liquid evaporate. Remove from heat and let cool for a few minutes.
3. Puree by hand or with a blender. Cool completely before using in the recipe. Can be made up to 3 days ahead and kept refrigerated. Bring to room temperature before using. Use any extra topping on ice cream or other desserts. 

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Notes

• Add sugar to taste while cooking the fruit for a sweeter topping.
• Substitute a sturdy gluten-free cookie for the graham crackers if desired. 
• Do not substitute tub, soft or whipped cream cheese for the solid brick style. 
• For the smoothest cheesecake filling make sure the cream cheese is totally softened.

The three of them were stoned and bored in Michelle’s dorm room when they decided to drive the two hours north to camp, even though it was late January and their phones’ forecast threatened snow. At first it had been a joke, an idle comment while talking of summers past, hassling Michelle for not signing her staff contract yet, wondering what camp would look like right now, but it quickly took on the shape and weight of an idea, a plan, a goal. 

They got busy getting ready. Tiferet called her mom to tell her she was going to sleep at Michelle’s after all, yes Ima she will find a place to park the car overnight, yes Ima she will be able to get it out in the morning, the snow’s not supposed to be so bad, yes, I love you too Ima. Michelle called Tova to make sure she had the directions right. “Ask her to come!” Sue said, Tiferet shushing her. “As long as you make the left at the pub, you’ll get there,” Tova said. “Have fun, girls. Be safe.” They stuffed Michelle’s laundry bag with sweaters and blankets, Sue ran to her room to grab her sleeping bag and some granola bars, asked again if they should invite Jason, who lived in the dorms at College and Spadina, to which the other two emphatically responded no, laced up their boots, donned their toques, and slid the icy sidewalks to Tiferet’s car, parked at a metre on Hoskin. Boys were playing football on the back campus, grunting and steaming under the golden lights. Sue watched them, let out an exaggerated sigh before getting into the car. It was eight in the evening. 

Slushing and angling their way out of the smeared city, Regina Spektor cranked loud, Michelle sat in the backseat beside the laundry bag, beside herself with road trip excitement. Though she had spent ten years of her life there, the last two as staff, she had never been to camp outside of the summer. In the front passenger seat, Sue lit her tiny clay pipe, passed it back to Michelle. Michelle took a massive hit, tapped Tiferet on the shoulder, billowed smoke into Tiferet’s open mouth. Michelle sat back, the pipe and lighter clutched hot in her hand. She was more than just weekday stoned now; she was baked enough to feel the bodily divide of her two selves: the inside Michelle, unsettled, ill-at-ease, racing on five different tracks, and the outside Michelle, quiet, cool, ironic. Tiferet and Sue scream-sang about finding human teeth on Delancey. 

They were on the highway now, a paved page scrolling into the north. The warm car was full of smoke, movement, music, laughter. Outside the car there was nothing but black, cold, the small, meagre suns of the streetlights. Sue found Tiferet’s earth sciences textbook in Tiferet’s canvas tote, made fun of her for thinking there’d be time to study. Michelle watched the fields, the trees, the dwindling patches of suburban development. Winter was a different subgenre up here, the snow cleaner, whiter, a one-inch margin on the text of the world. After two hours of driving and singing, they turned off the highway. The car’s brights on, they picked their way down roads that were familiar yet alien, discussing quietly, pointing out frozen landmarks: the Kissing Oak Tree in town, the pub, the entrance to the Black Spruce reserve. Michelle’s heart beat unreasonably. Finally, Tiferet pulled up parallel to a towering snowbank. She parked the car. They were there. 

“What now?” 

“Let’s get out!” 

They piled out, stretched, shivered, zipped up. Though the road was decently plowed and sanded, it was narrow enough that Tiferet had to edge the car as close to the snowbank as possible. Michelle watched as Sue scampered out of the driver’s side door. 

They stared at the entrance to camp. The Camp Burntshore sign was half buried in snow; the gate was gone, presumably packed away for winter. A cold, piney wind blew. Michelle turned her phone’s flashlight on, shone it into the swallowing darkness. The snow was silver, undulating, unperturbed except for the brown trunks of the trees. “How are we supposed to walk through that?” Sue asked, uneasy. 

“Can’t go around it, can’t go over it, gotta go through it!” Michelle exclaimed, her high combusting into adrenaline. She stepped into the snow. 

They pushed down the camp’s main road, past the tennis and basketball courts, the snow up to their knees. Everything was still, at rest, white. The cold was sharp, the pines were tall, each step was a workout. Their eyes started to adjust, aided by a lowering half moon. “This is, like, totally surreal.” At the doctor’s office they discovered a trail in the snow. Michelle jumped onto it, brushed off her legs. Their movement no longer impeded, they romped all over the camp, their phones’ lights skittering across the snow and buildings, Sue keeping up a steady stream of chatter. The camp was a ruin, a frozen relic. The showers, the rec hall, the trip shed, all inert imitations of their summer selves. A and C was loaded with motorboats, canoes, kayaks, strange carcasses glimpsed through the phone-lit windows. Tiferet fell on a patch of ice, landed on her wrist, squealed in pain, yet swore she was okay. They left the branching trails to climb up to their old cabin. 

“What if, there’s like, a bear hibernating in there?” Sue asked before Tiferet forced open the door. They stood in the hollow, Upside-Down cold of the cabin, Tiferet carefully packing a bowl with gloved fingers. Michelle watched the pipe make its rounds: Tiferet’s blue hair peeking out the edges of her red toque; Sue’s bright cheeks puckered as she drew on the pipe. The cabin, void of beds, running water, tucked-in sheets, cubbies overflowing with clothes, laughter, electricity, belonging. 

“Do you guys feel like we’re trespassing?” Sue asked, nearly whispering.

“Trespassing in a graveyard,” Michelle responded. 

“Stop it Michelle, you’re scaring me!” 

“I’m freezing, I gotta move,” Tiferet said, hopping from foot to foot on the creaking wooden floor. 

After scrambling down the hill from the cabins, Michelle led them across centre field to the dining hall. They climbed the stairs to the back porch, where they could just make out the frozen lake. Tiferet told them how twice a year, once in the spring and once in the fall, all freshwater lakes flip over, to reoxygenate the deeper water. An owl hooted. They went down to the lakeshore. The docks disassembled, stacked up like giant pieces of Shreddies, smothered in thick snow. Prints and trails of unknown animals criss-crossing all around them. “I’ll race you to Big Rock Island!” 

They spread out onto the lake. Though there was a solid crust, their boots broke right through it before hitting the ice underneath; they were up to their hips in heavy snow. The going was slow. They weren’t more than fifty feet out onto the lake, the trees of Big Rock Island still far in the distance, when they collapsed. Laughed. Swam snow angels down into the hard surface of the ice. 

The moon was gone. 

Above them, stars. 

Michelle was breathing hard, hot in her snow gear. The weed, the trudging through the snow, the uncanniness of being here: now that Michelle was at rest it swirled like a whirlpool, and in the swirl, things surfaced. Her ten summers at camp, unmoored from where they lay anchored in her brain. The sun, the secrets, the love, the homesickness, the movies watched on rainy days, the joyful cacophony in the dining hall, the afternoon heat and the morning chill, the horniness, the bugs, the friendships, the knowledge that this was the most important place in the world and that you, however briefly, were a part of it, all unavoidably, tragically, absent. In its place, the snow, holding the shape of things for those yet to come. She imagined deer frolicking on the frozen lake, a pack of wolves inching closer, choosing their target. 

“Who’re you texting!” Tiferet, loud, incredulous. Michelle opened her eyes; she had nearly fallen asleep. The other two girls were sitting in the hollow they had made in the snow, Sue looking into the glow of her phone, Tiferet’s blue hair shimmering. 

“Jason,” Sue said simply, pocketing the phone. Out of her other pocket, she revealed a bottle of whiskey. She took a swig, passed it to Michelle.

“Can you believe it’s ever summer here?” Tiferet asked, once again reading Michelle’s mind. 

“No, I absolutely cannot.” 

“Pass me that,” Tiferet said, grabbing the whiskey, “my wrist is throbbing.” 

“Remember the first summer we were all in a cabin together?” 

“Another life.” 

“What about that summer there was twice as many boys in our unit as girls?” 

“We had our pick!” 

“I hated you that summer,” Sue said, taking a pull on the whiskey. 

“What! Why?” 

“You were the most popular, everybody adored you.” It was true, that summer was Michelle’s social zenith. But Sue was always right there with her, wasn’t she? If anything, it was Tiferet who was still an outsider that summer, still not grown into herself (though now here she was, lightyears ahead of them).

“And now?” Michelle asked, a teasing edge in her voice. 

Sue jumped on her. “Now, I can’t live without you!” 

“There’s no biological need for so many men,” Tiferet announced. 

“What?” the other two girls said, settling back, laughing. 

“It’s true. There’s no reason for parity between the sexes. We’re the only mammals that have it.” 

“Text that to Jason!” Michelle said. 

A squall of laughter. They fell back onto the ice. The stars were thick in the sky, though clouds were pooling in from the edges. Tiferet started talking about the incredibly hot, nearly empty space between the billions of galaxies, how there’s no more than an atom of matter per square metre out there, but it still adds up to more mass than all of the galaxies combined. “It’s called the intergalactic medium.” 

“The intergalactic medium?!” 

“No it’s not!” 

“Tiferet!” 

“It must get so lonely for that poor little atom, with nobody to talk to,” Sue said, after they calmed down. They were lying with their legs fanned out, their toqued and hooded heads touching. 

“I don’t know, it must be nice, just being all alone out there,” Michelle said, “away from all this . . . stuff.” 

Tiferet adjusted, grabbed Michelle and Sue’s hands.“What you’re not remembering is quantum mechanics,” she said, Michelle and Sue laughing, oh yes, of course, quantum mechanics, “that one atom constantly phasing in and out of existence, jumping from galaxy to galaxy, cluster to cluster. Nothing is ever really alone.”

“Damn, bitch, do you have to know everything?!” 

The clouds had taken over the sky; the stars were gone. It started to snow, sharp dry flakes. Michelle was getting cold. Where was that whiskey bottle? 

“I can’t believe you’re not coming back next summer,” Sue said. 

Michelle closed her eyes. Her face was wet, her breath shallow. She could feel the infinite blackness of sleep underneath her, a lake grudgingly turning over. 

“I think I’m depressed,” she said. 

Sue and Tiferet didn’t say anything. They scooched to either side of her, held her in a hug. 

The snow, coming faster now, with purpose, kissed their exposed faces, covered them in fine down. 

‍

Michelle woke up stiff and cold in the back seat of Tiferet’s car. She and Sue were entwined with each other under Sue’s unzipped sleeping bag. Michelle had been dreaming of bears swimming in lakes capped with ice. She surveyed the bright white world outside the window. By the time they had returned to the car last night it was snowing so hard they could barely see; now, there must be three feet of new snow out there. It was only then that Michelle noticed the car was on, Tiferet pulling the wheel, pushing on the gas, the tires spinning. “Fuck!” Tiferet yelled, hitting the steering wheel with her hand, yelping in pain. 

They had to climb out of the windows to get out of the car. They stood in the sharp morning light, warming themselves. Sue had said very little since waking up. They were totally snowed in.

“What should we do?” Tiferet asked, her hand wrapped in a T-shirt. 

“Wait for the snowplow, I guess.” 

“What if it doesn’t come? I have study group this afternoon!” 

“We can call CAA, or walk over to the reserve and ask for help.” Michelle trudged through the snow to where the gate usually stood. The camp looked entirely different than it did last night, and not just because there was a fresh blanket of snow erasing their tracks now. Everything was bright, white, present. Michelle watched a small avalanche of snow tumble off a white pine. The air was clean, wet, cold. She couldn’t see the lake, but she knew it was there. Michelle felt calm for the first time since they left Toronto. She turned around to tell the girls everything was going to be okay. 

A truck had pulled up beside the car; it gave three short honks. It was Tova. She jumped out of the cab, Tim Hortons coffees in hand, wearing a black toque, red flannel jacket, unlaced work boots. Head of trip since before Michelle was a camper, co-owner since Tom retired, Tova was somebody who had managed to never leave camp. Beloved Tova. 

“I thought you girls might need a hand,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “And Sue texted me at four in the morning.” 

Sue squealed, jumped on her. 

Along with the coffees she had brought Timbits, and, while Tova grabbed the tow line from her truck, Michelle popped three in her mouth, gulped the hot coffee. Nothing had ever tasted better. Tova went to unlock the kitchen basement, and returned with three shovels. Michelle started to dig out the front of the car, the satisfying physical labour of scooping mounds of snow warming her more than the coffee.

By the time Tova had hooked the tow line to Tiferet’s bumper, positioned the truck, and yanked the car free of the snowdrift and onto the somewhat-drivable road, it was mid morning. Tiferet’s hand was worse than she had let on, so Michelle offered to drive. After profuse thanks and tight hugs, they followed Tova out to the freshly plowed highway. Michelle accelerated hard, zipping past Tova. The entire world was generously glazed with fresh sugar, sparkling in the sun; the heat was on full blast, the radio off. “How many more winters will we have like this,” Tiferet said from the backseat, cradling her wrist. 

Michelle didn’t know. And for now, she didn’t care. She pushed down on the gas. The speedometer was edging 140 kilometres. She kept accelerating. Michelle had the very clear sense that no matter how fast she went, she’d get them home in one piece. She’d get them home alive.

Trees, trees, they are so tall, except for the ones that are so small. Speak to their trunks and their leaves too. Even an exposed root could give you a sign or two. Walk slowly on the trails, down streets, and uncleared paths and find the tree that is yours. If it is hard to find your tree, or you cannot hear if they respond, do not fret. Ela Phab is here to let you know. And that way, the next time you walk by your tree, you'll know which tree is yours. Starry signs have landed here and have rooted themselves in the land of apples and honey.

‍

Once on the evening marking the beginning of Yom Kippur, I found myself in a dim-lit, nearly deserted bar in a modest hotel at the edge of the Gobi Desert in the Chinese oasis town of Dunhuang. 

It was a peculiar place to be on this holy day. 

While not deeply religious, I was raised in a Jewish home where candles were lit each Friday night. At thirteen I was bar mitzvahed, and I attended Hebrew school through confirmation. My wife and I joined a temple when our children were young so that they might have some Jewish education. I’d even served on the temple board for several years.  

But over time, my embrace of tradition—and, in particular, traditional notions of God—had turned tenuous. The very concept of “God,” perhaps so clear for some, had faded like a photograph left in the sun. Permeating even within Jewish tradition, from Moses to Isaiah to Maimonides, is the notion of the unknowability of God. That unknowability made me question what it was I was praying to. The core of Yom Kippur is praying to God for forgiveness, but I’d come to consider it a hollow gesture to seek forgiveness from a deity I’d found impenetrable at best, and simply a way to explain the unexplainable at worst. 

Nevertheless, even with my agnosticism, Yom Kippur normally would have found me in services at some point. Indeed, if not for my work in cultural heritage conservation, which had prompted the trip to China, that’s where I’d have been. So spending this Jewish holy day so far from anything resembling a synagogue was disquieting. And to be spending it away from family, being here in Dunhuang, bordering the Gobi Desert, was plain strange. As a child, the furthest place on the planet I could imagine from my California home was the Gobi Desert. It was as exotic to me as the tales of the Arabian Nights and as distant to me as the moon. That I’d ever travel there never entered my imagination.

Completely unknown to me until my early forties was the town of Dunhuang. If the Gobi Desert was at least a place I could conjure up, no matter how inaccurately, Dunhuang wasn’t even on my mental map. But there I was. In Dunhuang. On Erev Yom Kippur. 

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For most of its recent history, Dunhuang was a dusty, forgotten frontier post in northwest China. But that belied its historical significance. Before drifting into obscurity around the fourteenth century (an obscurity that lasted until the twentieth century), Dunhuang had, for a millennium, been a place of consequence, first as a military garrison and then as an important and well populated settlement on the ancient Silk Road. It was the first stop for Silk Road travellers entering China from the west, and the last stop in China for travellers from the east.  

It was also an entry point into China for one of India’s greatest exports—Buddhism. Seventeen kilometres from Dunhuang is the Mogao Grottoes, among the most important Buddhist sites in Asia. Beginning in the fourth century and for a thousand years in remarkable and repeated acts of veneration, hundreds of Buddhist cave temples were dug into the cliff face at Mogao, then elaborately decorated with wall paintings and sculpture depicting Buddha, his disciples, Buddhist tales, and the life that comes after life. Some caves are no bigger than a closet. The largest cave grotto is nearly the height of the cliff face and contains a nine-story high statue of Buddha. Today with nearly five hundred decorated cave temples remaining, Mogao—designated a World Heritage Site in 1987—is the largest collection of Buddhist art in China.  

It is, in a word, astounding. 

‍

It was Mogao that brought me that evening to that mostly deserted, charmless Dunhuang hotel bar. 

I was on my fifth trip to Dunhuang, each one the result of my work at the Getty Conservation Institute. For decades the Institute had partnered with the Dunhuang Academy, the entity responsible for overseeing Mogao, on a series of projects to conserve and maintain the site. This trip in 2013 was part of the preparation for a major  exhibition on the grottoes to be held three years hence at the Getty Center in Los Angeles. 

Dunhuang and Mogao and the landscape that enveloped them had become rooted in my consciousness, along with my great respect for the Chinese professionals dedicated to preserving and protecting the grottoes. By now Mogao, nearly seven thousand miles from my home, was a place of familiarity. I’d come to regard it with  strong attachment; everything from the intricate (if often inscrutable) paintings adorning the interior walls of the cave temples to the short and peaceful walk from the  Academy to the grottoes, lined by slender poplars whose leaves danced in breezes blowing in from the desert. 

As for Buddhism itself, I neither understood its complexities nor had seriously gravitated toward its spirituality (notwithstanding the fact that my mother, in her youth, had written a paper on Buddhism for her synagogue confirmation class!). But even in the face of my secularity, the cave temples carved into the cliff face exuded a holiness that went beyond their exquisite beauty. Standing in those cool, dark spaces surrounded by wall paintings dense with imagery that ranged from everyday life to the other worldly (and, always, the Buddha), the piety and devotion that went into their making was palpable. 

Earlier that Erev Yom Kippur evening, before I wound up in the bar, work colleagues and I had attended an elaborate banquet at the fanciest hotel in Dunhuang. Later, after we’d returned to our own hotel, my Getty colleague David asked the group if anyone would go with him to purchase a pair of shoes he’d eyed at a shop in town. No one volunteered as we were all drained by the day, as well as by an evening of schmoozing with visiting dignitaries.  

Seeing David’s forlorn look, I agreed to join him. I liked David, who wildly combined omnivorous and academic scholarship with the rough and tumble sensibility and curiosity of a Brooklyn street kid who grew up in a house where the Jewish belief most rigorously adhered to was, as he put it, “Never cross a picket line.” 

In solidarity, I went off with David to the shoe store, situated along the large and noisy traffic circle at the centre of Dunhuang, close to a shop named “Classical Kaka” (it was unclear what they were selling). Passing on the “Kaka,” we went into the shoe store, David bought the shoes, paid less than he expected, and wore the shoes happily out the door.  

Back at our hotel, David offered to buy me a drink, and so we walked into the newly installed bar, a gaudy, nouveau riche looking establishment empty of customers save for a single dour looking man at a table by himself. The young woman handling the bartending duties seemed to think it was her task to invite us behind the bar and to point out every bottle of alcoholic refreshment located there. Having communicated our order with some difficulty, we took a seat at one of the seven lurid booths and watched as the woman, with nervous hesitation, prepared our drinks.  

And that is how I happened to celebrate Erev Yom Kippur by sipping whiskey with my colleague David, who was, I was certain, the only other Jew at that moment in Dunhuang—and probably the only other Jew within a thousand miles of the place.

But we were not, I knew, the only Jews in the long history of Dunhuang that had passed through here. Of that there was proof. 

‍

In 1900, by pure chance, a Taoist monk named Wang Yuanlu discovered a small Mogao cave whose entrance had been sealed up with mud plaster about a millennium earlier, hiding it for centuries. The Library Cave, as it came to be known, contained around fifty thousand objects, including paintings, textiles, and manuscripts on everything from religious to secular matters. It even included the earliest dated complete printed book, the Diamond Sutra. 

We’ll probably never know who placed the objects there or why the cave had been sealed up. Most speculate that it was to protect these objects from a possible raid or invasion. What we do know is that the contents of the Library Cave constitute one of the greatest archaeological repositories ever found, offering us vivid testimony of the artistic richness of medieval China, as well as evidence of the variety of peoples and cultures that passed through Dunhuang. In the early twentieth century, several eager and enterprising explorers and scholars from around the world made their way to Mogao and obtained—some would say absconded with—thousands of its contents, which are now housed in cultural institutions well beyond China (that is another, albeit riveting, story).  

What struck me personally when I first learned of it was that among the exceptional artifacts bequeathed to posterity by the Library Cave was a fragment of a Hebrew document. Dated anywhere from the seventh to ninth century, the fragment contains prayers from Psalms and Prophets, and is creased, which may mean it was folded and worn as an amulet. Its presence in the Library Cave, which included documents in a variety of languages, is evidence that among the multitude of travellers who trekked through this Chinese settlement over the course of a thousand years were Jews. That Jewish merchants travelled the Silk Road is a long-established fact, as is the historical existence of Jewish communities along the route in Central Asia. One perhaps could say that based on the biblical Exodus, crossing great deserts is embedded in the Jewish DNA. 

When in my youth I travelled in Western Europe, I made a point of finding synagogues in cities I stopped in, not to pray but to see physical evidence of the Diaspora. Visiting sites from Italy to the Netherlands that evidenced the historic presence of Jews was simply confirmation of what was already known to me. But Jews in a place of powerful and ancient Buddhist veneration wedged between two great Asian deserts? Well, that was a revelation. I’d flown halfway around the globe to a distant land I’d only vaguely imagined in my childhood, and here, too, the Jewish people of whom I was a part had come. 

Who were those Jews who travelled to Dunhuang with Hebrew prayers held close, and why had they left those prayers behind? What lands did they come from and how far did they travel? Where, in the end, did their journeys take them? 

Journeying across time and continents is the history of Jews. It is the history of my Jews. My great-grandfather was a rabbi in Lithuania. My grandfather was a businessman in Pennsylvania. My father was a lawyer in California. For perhaps five centuries my ancestors had lived and died in a small corner of the Baltics—having come from somewhere else—and then, in the blink of history’s eye, none were left there.

Dunhuang means “blazing beacon,” a name that grows out of the site’s early function as a place where beacons were lit to warn the surrounding population of possible attack by approaching nomadic tribes. 

But I see that designation altering in time. With the arrival of Buddhism, Dunhuang and Mogao became “blazing beacons” of faith, lighting the way toward a spiritual sanctuary. In that sense, there is a modest parallel with Judaism, for within the heart of every synagogue sanctuary is the Ner Tamid, an “Eternal Light” that remains lit above the ark of the Torah. 

Is there a faith that doesn’t seek the light? 

I ended up travelling to China’s “blazing beacon” six times over twenty-two years. It is the only place outside my country that I’ve visited so many times. In my own country that would be, arguably, Cleveland (and that is yet another, but less riveting, story). 

My fifth trip to Dunhuang was my only Yom Kippur there. I’m grateful it happened. Mogao was a place for which I’d come to feel an ardent affinity, a measure not only of my familiarity with the site, but my recognition of how in the midst of a stark and severe landscape there can be great beauty and spiritual expression. And how, in the midst of materiality, there remains the necessity for reflection. 

Therein, for me, lies the link to Yom Kippur. The creation of the grottoes with their many replications of the Buddha and depiction of tales of his wondrous deeds may not precisely represent an effort at atonement, but unquestionably they were a profound supplication for blessedness in a world that can be stark and severe. And if finding God on Yom Kippur remains elusive, that fact does not obliterate the opportunity it can offer to fulfill that necessity for reflection.

It would be grandiose to say that I found my own road to enlightenment on that Yom Kippur in Dunhuang. Hardly. The hotel bar in which David and I sat on that holy night was one of the dreariest rooms I’d ever found myself in. Dismal and depressing.  

But the fact that the two of us were there was uplifting. It connected us to forebears who travelled many roads we could only faintly conjure. Jews had never settled in Dunhuang, but they had, in its long history, paused there. And now they had again.

For my cousin Cait.

‍

‍

The history is in Edina.

Chipmunks would run up grandfather’s cane.

‍

A dumbwaiter and a laundry chute.

A bedroom for him and for her.

‍

Chairs in the living room not meant

For sleeping or sitting.

‍

The grand piano out of tune.

Apple juice with pull tabs

‍

Abundant in the cupboards.

Grandmother kept thin with 

‍

Amphetamines. 

The history is Thanksgiving

‍

Eve

When snow first fell.

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Behold the pen while writing a cheque.

When laughing by the waterfall at the Rosedale Mall.

‍

My cousin with a voice like roses.

Bouquet is a word borrowed from the French.

‍

The way a bakery will

Borrow flour from a bank.

‍

My cousin comes to the porch

To recover.

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White rabbits in the evening

Eat the bird seed. 

I want to be 

Discovered

By forty-six.

It’s a cold dawn

That brings forth

Milk in the refrigerator.

My cousin

Smoking in the living

Room.

The glow from camera

Bulbs and flowers

Later at her funeral.

Teach me Mississippi

How to river

In a wise way.

I’ll visit Minnesota

Where I was born

When I’m older.

It’s not often that we are called upon to literally stand up for our Judaism.

The time was August of 1997 and I was in graduate school, pursuing a Masters degree in family counselling. I had three more credits to go; it was the summer term, the one before I began my internship, and I was taking a course called Sociology of Education. 

I had gone back to school as a mature student; not only did I have a husband and son, but I would have to find a part-time job in order to help out with finances—something that would fit around my schedule. It was one of those “ho-hum” situations when I was simply putting in my time, thinking about the future, and how I was going to manage my household duties and care properly for my son while taking on my internship. One day in class I was taking notes when, suddenly, the atmosphere in the classroom altered and the professor’s words rang loudly in my ears. I came to full attention. For some unknown reason this teacher was talking to us in an excited way about his hobby, something he did in his spare time—he collected Nazi memorabilia, read many books about Hitler and the Third Reich, and sometimes met with others of his kind at meetings and conventions. He was an enthusiastic Nazi-admirer and often remarked how “neat” and “interesting” the Nazis were.

For several seconds I thought I must be dreaming this or imagining it. Here I was, in a public university classroom, and the professor was merrily talking about the assets of the Nazi party. My ears felt burning hot and I did not want to cry in a graduate level class. As this professor proudly held up rare death camp photos and a picture of his bedspread at home, decorated with a huge swastika, I heard someone sobbing.

I looked to my right and saw a fellow student, a woman, holding her head in her hands and uncontrollably weeping; and nobody was paying attention to her. I knew, then and there, I had to cross over to the other side of the room and comfort this weeping woman. I had to interrupt the class. My heart was pounding and the temptation to sit very still and concentrate on self-control was almost overwhelming. 

Prior to this day, I had never wanted to cause a disturbance in a class I was in. I love teachers and I have always had the highest respect for them. I also love school. But I kept asking myself, "What would my grandfather want me to do?"

This thought, coming unbidden, galvanized me. 

My paternal grandfather was a passionately devoted Orthodox Jew; my father wasn’t interested in our faith so I attended synagogue with my grandparents. They kept a strictly kosher home, with meat and milk dishcloths for drying dishes. I came in for my share of lectures when I got them mixed up, and I privately thought that keeping the kosher laws made little sense. However, when I began writing stories about my grandfather I started to appreciate how he embodied his Judaism and literally “saw a light”—his way of life appeared beautiful to me in its own way. I realized then that a deep sense of love and connection to my heritage came to life. It was as firmly rooted as my grandfather’s.

It was him that I felt that day, just as I feel Elie Wiesel’s influence as I write this. “Action is the only remedy to indifference: the most insidious danger of all,” he said in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in 1986. And this retelling is my form of action. 

As I got up, crossed the classroom and knelt by the woman’s chair she was holding a Jewish star that hung around her neck on a chain. She looked at me.

“I lost part of my family in the Holocaust,” she managed to say.

“So did I,” I answered. (Some of my mother’s uncles had been murdered.) I put my arms around her and we cried together. The professor called for a break and everybody left except for us. The professor looked befuddled and did not understand why we were crying. 

My friend left the room, unable to speak. Not being able to take anymore, she didn’t return after the break. I approached our teacher. He was still smiling but his eyes looked slightly out of focus.

“I think,” I said, “that you should take a break from your beloved Nazis and read a few books on Jewish history.”

Never, never had I spoken to a teacher in that way. 

Again, that goofy, “not quite with it” stare. 

“OK,” he finally said. “Have you any suggestions?”

“Jews, God, and History by Max Dimont and This Is My God by Leon Uris.”

I couldn’t continue any longer. Spent from the emotional turmoil and the effort I’d expended, after the break I docilely took my seat and began to mechanically take notes; however, that didn’t stop my brain from spinning. What to do? Report him to the president of the university? I had worked so hard toward my degree. I was so close to achieving my goal but could I somehow get myself into trouble by doing such a thing? What if the president sympathized with this professor? Besides—I felt that I had ”hit a wall” of evil and terror, and I was just one Jewish woman. Was expressing rachmones toward a fellow Jew enough?

Rachmones truly encapsulates when you don’t just sympathize with someone, but feel their pain as your own. 

The next night I went to class as usual. My Jewish classmate and I only nodded at each other. We never met for coffee, went out to lunch, went shopping together, and I knew why. If we were alone together we’d collapse into each other’s arms and sob. We felt helpless. We were concentrating on self-control. 

The next month was September—I had earned an A in Sociology of Education—and it was time to face the real world as a counselling intern. The halls where the counselling offices and classrooms were located boomed with the chatter of teachers and students. Somehow, through the maze of people, I saw my Nazi-loving professor. He still retained his goofy smile and out-of-focus eyes. It was almost humorous how obvious it was that he didn’t want to interact. However, we ended up, despite his efforts, face to face.

He managed to say hello.

“Hello,” I returned. “Tell me. Did you happen to read those two books you asked me about?”

I could tell he hadn’t; he was squirming with discomfort and embarrassment. He answered negatively.

“That’s okay,” I said. “No disrespect intended, but I didn’t think you had.” After all the years of reflecting on that night, it occurred to me that possibly the woman and I were the only Jews in the room and there were no other mature students present. Everyone else was in their twenties and maybe knew little about the Nazis and the Holocaust.

He and I never saw each other again, fortunately. But unanswered questions hang in the air that, once in a while, still plague me. Had I done enough? Should I have tried to befriend the sobbing woman? Why didn’t I make some report or protest? 

I cling to my grandfather’s memory and I imagine him telling me not to worry—I had done a mitzvah for a fellow Jew, I had expressed rachmones. It was enough.