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In 2023, the Ontario Arts Council (OAC) launched a project with community-based organizations in Ontario to improve equity, diversity, inclusion, and accessibility efforts. One of the projects chosen was SHVILIM. A collaborative effort between FENTSTER, No Silence on Race, and Shoreline Collaboratives.

For nine years, FENTSTER was a window gallery in downtown Toronto but has, in the last few years, shifted into an organization committed to creating and hosting programs celebrating diverse Jewish culture and inclusivity. No Silence on Race is an organization that highlights multi-ethnic and multi-racial Jews through programming. And Shorelines is a consultancy that helps organizations foster equitable workplaces. 

SHIVILM is dedicated to “enhancing the visibility of Jewish culture in Ontario’s arts landscape while supporting greater understanding about anti-Jewish oppression.”

SHVILIM, which in Hebrew means “paths,” has created an educational resource called Bridging Worlds that opens up new pathways for understanding antisemitism and Jewish history and culture in Ontario.

‍Bridging Worlds offers tools for Jews to find Jewish belonging in an increasingly hostile world while also offering historical artifacts and facts to help those in and outside of the Jewish community understand Jewish history and antisemitism.

The series offers a four-part resource guide filled with different perspectives and teachings. It includes information on tropes and stereotypes, as well as anonymous testimonials from arts workers and artists on their experiences in the community, which were taken from a survey SHVILIM conducted, and more.

One survey participant noted that “Sometimes it feels difficult and slightly unsafe to be Jewish in non-Jewish spaces. Sometimes it feels difficult and slightly unsafe to be Jewish within Jewish spaces.” On the small corner of the internet SHVILIM has created free, accessible, and visually beautiful documents that hope to repair and deepen the understanding of Jewish oppression.

I spoke with project director Evelyn Tauben, art historian, curator, and founder of FENTSTER; and Sarah Margles, research and strategic design lead, with over twenty years of practice in anti-oppression counselling, on the intricacies of realizing Bridging Worlds. 

Before diving into the documents for yourself, read on to find out how it came together.

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When I started working within the Jewish community, I was surprised at how many different approaches there are to defining antisemitism. Was it difficult when doing this project, and in reaching out to other people in and outside of the Jewish community, in defining it?

Margles: We didn’t define it on purpose. In a lot of ways, the way we designed the dynamics of the antisemitism document is meant to be an alternative to a definition. There’s three dynamics [Exaggeration of Power, Blame, and Isolation]. Is the incident that you’re looking at playing into one of those dynamics? If it does, then Jews are targeted. We offer a framework for how to look at things that are happening or things that are said and then assess where it falls on how harmful it is.

Evelyn: There’s a preoccupation of labelling. And people want you to just say, Yes, this is antisemitism. And the truth is, things are very complicated, and it’s not always necessary to even put a label on it. Just to name something here is a bit sticky and maybe harmful to Jews. We’re serving the arts community, right? How can we have better conversations in the arts world about how we think about these tropes?

How did both of your professional experiences help you create this initiative and shape it into what it is?

Margles: I have quite an extensive background in thinking about systems of oppression and I have an education background. I come at it thinking about teaching and educating and helping people understand complicated things. I spent many years working in DEI spaces. I’ve had very few experiences of antisemitism in my life, and all of them have been in those spaces. And some were fierce. A couple of them were career altering, where I had to leave my job. When I had flagged the problem, there was no awareness, no willingness to look at it. I’ve been thinking for a long time, especially in that DEI work, about what are the elements that make it easy for some groups to build strong allyship, to change public discourse on a form of targeting, and why is it so hard for Jews to do that? A lot of it is the nature of antisemitism. In many ways, antisemitism isn’t about Jews. It’s about these imaginary people who have these magical, strong powers that have very little to do with who we are. 

Tauben: I’ve been working in Jewish arts and culture for over 20 years, and it feels like, depending on the day, I’m in either a straddling position or a bridge-building position, or in an isolated and stuck place where I’m between these worlds, and sometimes each world has a lot of suspiciousness about the other and a lack of understanding about the other. I’ve kind of made it my role to move between worlds and try to keep talking to everybody. I’ve been a part of an anti-oppression community for over 15 years. It feeds into how I think about the world and how I do my work. But this was the first time I felt I could really bring those commitments together and make an offering to the arts community that honours Jewish stories, where people in the arts are at, what they need, and what they’re up against—what we’re all up against. I felt called to do it, which is a mixed bag because it’s more fun to curate and produce concerts than to spend two years of your life thinking about antisemitism.

There are many elements within each of the documents. Was it difficult to find a balance in how much material to show regarding, for instance, survey responses or historical findings on antisemitism or addressing the current climate we are in?

Tauben: A few things we did stick in quite late in the game because it created more balance to the narrative. We have this section about Jews and power, and that Jewish power is exaggerated, which is part of the dynamic of antisemitism. But there was a feeling that we must also name that white-presenting Jews do have privilege. And there’s a tension because there are some scenarios where we have privilege and power, and sometimes where we’re targeted and the power is exaggerated. And that’s important to at least name, even though it’s not dealt with in a very substantial way.

How important was it to have voices outside of the Jewish community joining in on this project?

Margles: It was important for a number of reasons. One is we needed internal checks and balances. We can’t see our own biases, and so as much as we may be intending for things to follow a certain set of values and certain lines of integrity, we needed people who would be able to catch us if we fell off and weren’t aware of it. Also, we wanted to bring in their voices and their perspectives around a lot of the issues and make sure we are capturing diverse viewpoints. We also wanted to make sure the documents are understandable to someone who’s not in the community. Having eyes on this from a ton of different perspectives in and out of the Jewish community was hugely important to maintain the integrity and ensure that the quality of what we produced was top notch.

Tauben: That happened all the time where someone came in with a different lens, and I was like, Oh, wow. I just totally missed this because I am an Ashkenazi Jew. And they said it with love, but sometimes with ferocity as the situation warranted. Our core philosophy about this work is that we won’t be able to end antisemitism alone. That’s maybe, or largely, why some of the other approaches are not working. Because we’re shouting off onto the side by ourselves, saying, Please take us seriously. The most personally transformative part of this work was developing these close relationships with allies. I actually did not know this level of allyship was possible.

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Was there anything else you learned about during the creation of these materials that surprised you?

Margles: Learning happened all the time and everybody who was part of the project wanted to have their boundaries pushed. They wanted to hear different perspectives. They wanted to clarify their own perspectives, which is very different from a polarized environment where you dig your heels in and you just block out anything that’s different from how you see the world. It was very hopeful in a lot of ways, in ways that walking through the world these days doesn’t feel so hopeful.

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Four questions for reflection conclude each chapter of Bridging World‍‍, and I wonder, after creating these materials, what questions are you left with?

Tauben: The main question that we’re actively grappling with is: Where do we go from here?

Some people have had to go on to more, better compensated jobs, but enough people believe that there’s something here that we created that has legs and that there’s more possibility. And so, we’re asking ourselves: If we had more funding and if we took more time, what would that look like? How can we use what we felt for future initiatives? What’s the best use of our time and energy? What do people really need and want right now? What’s possible? The best thing we could think of doing, might not be possible right now. People are really worn out from being so scared and discouraged for so long. They may not have capacity for some of the offerings we’re interested in, like dialogue spaces that bring people together who have different lived experiences and perspectives. And then, another question is who wants to walk this path with us as we try to go forward? Can this be for other communities beyond the arts community? Who else is already thinking in these ways that we can partner with? There’s a lot of questions. At the end of this, it still feels very unresolved.

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

Gabor Levai and Csaba Kurti didn’t know they were Jewish until they were teenagers. 

“It wasn’t uncommon for Jews growing up in Hungary to not know they were Jewish,” Levai said. 

Born in Budapest, Levai was only told he was Jewish when he was a young teenager. He remembers his parents sat him down during a family lunch to tell him the truth regarding his religious background.

Near the end of high school, after the fall of communism, he had the opportunity to travel to Israel for a six-week program. The experience changed his life. He reconnected with his Jewish roots and when he returned home he attended Jewish clubs and became president of the Hungarian branch of the Union of Jewish Students (which is similar to Hillel). 

Kurti also didn’t know he was Jewish until he was 12, and his parents even chose the name, Csaba, as it was a “pure Hungarian name” with no Jewish affiliation, he said. 

His parents “tried to hide everything” due to rampant antisemitism. When Kurti’s mom shared the “family secret” swearing him to not tell any friends or neighbours, Kurti said he didn’t even know what the Holocaust was, let alone Judaism.

“It was not a topic that was taught in the communist era, it was not in the curriculum,” he said. 

Once the communist regime fell, Kurti’s parents went back to synagogue in the early 1990s. Around this time, he began to gather other young Jews to come together for Hanukkah parties and other events, feeling an inherent and deep connection with Judaism. 

Levai said his and Kurti’s paths crossed in Hungary. 

Kurti together with his brother, formed the JMPoint Foundation (Jewish Meeting Point), a community platform that included matchmaking, heritage preservation, formal and non-formal education, family camps, and cultural programs, bringing thousands of Hungarian-speaking Jews together from around the world. Levai led the Hungarian Jewish Youth Association (UJS - Union of Jewish Students) and volunteered extensively. 

Since 1999, Levai has been an entrepreneur with a focus on communication, media, and business consulting. Kurti has worked as an IT project manager and business analyst and served as the strategic director of the Autonomous Orthodox Jewish Community of Hungary.

“In both cases, community work was something we did out of love—while maintaining full-time careers,” Levai said. It was this strong history of community building that followed them when they immigrated to Canada. 

When they both met in Toronto, almost 10 years ago, the same question came to both of them: “Where is the Hungarian-Jewish community here—and if it doesn’t exist, why don’t we build it?”

Levai and Kurti found that Toronto was home to many Hungarian Jews, but people often gathered in small groups; there was no central meeting hub or communal space to come together. 

They wanted to change that and in 2019 they launched Memories Without Borders, an organization for the Hungarian Jewish diaspora. 

The organization has put on numerous events over the years which include Shabbat dinners for friends and families to gather, excursions and cultural trips around the city, but one of their proudest accomplishments is The Senior Academy, which gives workshops, lectures, and interactive activities to Jewish and non-Jewish seniors.

During the pandemic, Kurti and Levai realized how isolated seniors had become so they began donating food weekly for three months to seniors in need, and realized that providing resources and connection to this demographic was of high-importance for their organization. 

They also recently launched a rental program for equipment such as cameras, tripods, professional lighting, microphones and more to provide professional tools for community programs, educational purposes and content creation for those who may have difficulty accessing high-end equipment. 

Levai and Kurti are also working on grants and sponsors to find their own physical space to work out of, right now, they rent from the Prosserman JCC, but they would like a central place to work from and put on events. 

While they work towards that goal, their work is ever-meaningful, as they help foster community and engage Hungarian Jews in the city. Their upcoming Hanukkah party on December 16, will be one of their biggest events yet, with more than 100 tickets sold. 

“It's very heartwarming, it feels really good (to bring people together),” Levai said. ”You know, it's still exciting when we meet a fellow Hungarian. For example, today we met someone and they said, ‘Oh, I have Hungarian roots too.’ They don’t speak the language but their mother and grandmother do. So we just invited them to the Hanukkah party. That’s when we see, this is working. We’ve built something and we can see it grow.”

Bonnie Chandler, a dentist from Toronto, loves the outdoors. It started from when she was a kid going camping with her dad. She later spent three seasons in Algonquin Park doing fisheries research, where she spent off-hours canoeing and kayaking. 

Her adventures in the wild never stopped and she has instilled that same intrepid spirit in the next generation. Just as Bonnie’s father took her on nature trips, she takes her children on wilderness expeditions. 

I had the pleasure of speaking to Bonnie and her daughter Yael, a product designer, about their most-recent trip to the Nahanni River, known by the Dehcho Dene people as Nahʔą Dehé, in the Northwest Territories.

From August 1 until August 14, Bonnie and Yael lived alongside the river and its surrounding land, topped with spindly trees. They went with Black Feather, a company that has been taking participants on “self-propelled trips by foot, canoe, sea kayak, ski and raft in unique wilderness locales” for over 50 years.

However, it is not their first trek through the North. The mother-daughter duo, who I am campaigning to go on The Amazing Race Canada, have paddled through the Wind River in the Yukon, the Kiel River in the Northwest Territories, and now the Nahanni River. But it never gets old. From bear sightings to fishing to witnessing breath-taking canyons, nature’s beauty remains striking. And it is their time together, amongst the unbelievable landscapes that leads to a strengthening of connection between family, community, and the land we dwell on.

Some of us will never go on wilderness excursions, our adventures will lead us elsewhere, but reading can transport you anywhere. Next stop: Nahanni River.

What does it mean for you both, as mother and daughter, to take these trips together?

Bonnie: I’m very blessed that she would come with me three times. And we get along great. We help each other out. But Yael is stronger than me right now. She’s a real bear.

Yael: This trip we were with two sets of couples, and then two single people who came on their own. I think all of them have kids, and they all said, I wish that my daughter, my son, would come with me. When we went on our first trip, and I was telling some of my friends, they were shocked that I was willing to spend two weeks sharing a tent with my mom.

Bonnie: I was the oldest one on this trip and Yael was the youngest by about 30 years. On other trips there wasn’t such a difference, but I have to say, everyone loved Yael. I find Yael extremely happy on these trips. You can’t wipe that smile off her face.

How do you accommodate your Jewish practice on these trips?

Bonnie: We keep kosher, so we ate a vegetarian diet on the trip.

Yael: We explained to people what kashrut means, why we follow it. One of our guides this year, Charlie, his dad was a Black Feather guide before him. He said that his dad once took a group of Orthodox Jews on a private trip and all the guides made sure everything was kosher. They brought new pots and pans and brought kosher meat. They’re really accommodating. The company is fantastic.

How are the meals prepared?

The guides know how to cook. When you go on a canoe trip on your own, you’re packing dehydrated food and oatmeal, it’s not super inspiring. They take no dried food. It’s all fresh and they plan their meals so it lasts until day 12 and day 14 without a refrigerator. They make cinnamon buns from scratch. You see the guides the night before making the dough, and in the morning, rolling up the cinnamon buns. Each trip we’ve been on, the guides prefer different levels of involvement in cooking from the participants. On our second trip, they were happy for everyone to help. Everyone was always in the “kitchen,” which is two overturned canoes in an L shape, cutting stuff up and stirring food over the fire. You’re never hungry.

Bonnie: We always help with the dishes. Everybody’s happy to chip in.

What did your Judaism bring to this experience?

Bonnie: This year we had a woman on our trip who was born Jewish but hasn’t practiced Judaism in a long time. One night, she came up to us after dinner and she said, It’s my dad's yahrzeit, I usually light a candle. And so our guide gave us a candle. Yael said Kaddish, and she repeated after me. She didn’t know the words. I don't know if she’s ever said it before, it was special.

 Over the course of your travels, what have you learned from one another?

Yael: My mom has a lot of experience doing trips like this and adventuring and being in nature. I’m always learning about different trees and plants and flowers from her, and even just how she puts up her tent or how she takes it down.

I'm sure that it can get hard sometimes when you’re out there.

Yael: There are challenges we had on this trip. The weather was great and not too cold, because it can get cold up there. But there was one day when it poured for 30 hours straight. We were cold and wet, and paddling in the rain, and then setting up our tent in the rain. And tents are not waterproof. The guides were making a fire with wet wood. But it’s all part of the experience, and it’s kind of character building and team building.

Bonnie: I think more people should do it. It's pretty expensive. That’s the one thing. I think that's why people who go on the trip are a little older. But it can be really life changing.

How so?

Yael: You have to be self-reliant, but as a group. And turning off your phone and shoving it at the bottom of your pack and not seeing it for two weeks is an amazing feeling. You have tons of questions on these trips like, “What tree is that?” “What if I can’t start a fire?” Needing to figure stuff out on your own is an experience we don’t always have today. When you’re on a trip like this, you have 14 days and you’re starting at point A and you need to get to point B. But in between that time, the guides and the group are constantly making decisions about how far we can go based on the group’s energy or the weather. Those are the things that matter. Coming back from that and going back to work in tech, a high-pressure environment, I just had this feeling that the deadlines at work are based on nothing. It feels so artificial, in a sense, after being in nature and seeing what really matters and where we should be putting our effort.

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.

I have always loved Passover—the smells, the sounds, the tastes. My favourite part is gathering my family around the table and leading the Seder. The magic of Passover lies in its domesticity. Each year, families and friends, including those who may not have practiced their Judaism all year, come together to tell the same story. 

For the past two years I have designed my own Haggadah, highlighting the elements I find most meaningful, omitting others, and peppering photos of past Passovers  throughout. 

Rabbi Yossi Klein Halevi teaches that there are two types of Jews: Purim Jews and Passover Jews. Passover Jews read the Haggadah and draw the moral lesson: “Love the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19). Purim Jews read the Megillah and draw a different conclusion: The world is dangerous. We must be vigilant. 

I have always considered myself a Passover Jew. This year, after a frightening rise in antisemitism that saw Toronto synagogues shot into, an American preschool attacked, and a Belgian temple bombed, I am no longer sure. 

For the Seder I lead, I did something different this time around. I created a series called Modern Moseses, a collection of stories for each of our 14 guests to read aloud. These stories featured a diverse range of Jews and non-Jews who had escaped or helped others escape modern slavery. 

They include Sithy Yi, who fled the Cambodian genocide as a child, helping her family survive starvation and mass killings under the Khmer Rouge only to be detained by ICE decades later; and Indigenous Canadian Bridget Perrier, who survived the child sex trade and has become an advocate against human trafficking in Toronto.

I also honour figures from the Holocaust: Nicholas Winton, who rescued 669 children from Czechoslovakia; Irena Sendler, who smuggled 2,500 children out of the Warsaw Ghetto; Aleksander Pechersky, who organized a revolt at Sobibor extermination camp; and Mira Fuchrer, a leader of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. 

Later in the evening, we opened the door for Elijah, recalling historian Shalom Ben-Chorin’s assertion that medieval Jews did so, in part, to ensure an infant corpse had not been planted in their doorway as part of a blood libel. 

We closed the door, sang our concluding songs, and then, the doorbell rang. 

Three young men stood outside, having taken a few polite steps back to show they meant no harm. They were tourists, confused by Toronto’s arcane temporary permit system. My mom welcomed them in from the cold. We offered to print their permit and invited them to sit and share some flourless cake. 

“Where are you from?” I asked as I headed upstairs to fetch their document. 

“Germany.” 

I froze. Around the table, the Jews burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

“We are celebrating Passover,” my cousin Lior explained, pulling up three chairs for our guests. 

They didn’t recognize the word. 

“Where in Germany?” he asked. 

“Nuremberg,” one replied, “have you heard of it?” 

“As a matter of fact,” Lior said, “I have.”

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Some of us were curious, why this house? We were the only ones with lights on at 11 p.m., they explained. I found myself oddly comforted by the fact that my mother had always been too nervous to hang a mezuzah.  

I grew up attending Jewish day school and learned about the horrors of the Holocaust at a young age. I had the privilege of believing it could never happen again. I wondered whether Johannes, Tömas, and Felix had come by our house before 2023, if I would have found the moment as unsettling, or as darkly humorous, as I did now. I thought of my time in Berlin 11 years ago and the amazing people I met there. I never conflated them with the history I had studied. 

The ancient Israelites whose liberation we celebrate at Passover were not naive. They knew that survival required vigilance. And yet, as they fled Egypt, they welcomed Erev Rav—a “mixed multitude” of non-Israelites—into their midst. In other words, they were Passover and Purim Jews.

The philosopher Adi Ophir offers another interpretation of opening the door for Eliyahu. Like Ben-Chorin, he sees a darker history behind the ritual, but not one of fear. Rather, he understands it as defiance, a way for Jews to prove, to themselves and to others, that they were not afraid. 

We may have hesitated when our unexpected guests turned up at our door. But by the end of the night, everyone was eager to take a photo together. 

I am proud that we didn’t let fear override our Canadian-Jewish instinct to welcome the stranger.

“Who is honoured? One who honours others.”

— Pirkei Avot 4:15

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Across faiths and centuries, Moses and his legacy continue to shape our lives. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—faiths that honour Moses as a prophet—represent over 4.6 billion people, more than half of humanity. Not only is he one of the most revered prophets in the Torah but he is the most frequently mentioned prophet in the Quran. His teachings, along with the Ten Commandments he received on Mount Sinai, are also embraced by Christians. 

As a psychotherapist, CEO coach, and an author I have spent my life studying how embracing spirituality can lead to better leadership skills. I often look to Moses as an example of a truly inspiring leader—one who is identified as a humble servant, but still displays confidence and courage beyond measure. 

Moses is known as the greatest of our leaders, the humblest of men, all while still possessing the audacity, the holy “chutzpah,” to challenge God. Moses’s virtuousness is front and centre in our stories from the burning bush to the Exodus from Egypt. “Moshe Rabbeinu” means he is our teacher. We’ve followed him not just through the desert but through the example he set.

This is especially true during Shavuot, the celebration of receiving the Torah. At Har Sinai, arguably one of the most defining moments in Jewish history, Moses is our guiding hand, bridging heaven and earth. And yet, according to the Torah, nobody knows where Moses is buried. Our greatest of prophets, buried without fanfare as one last radical act of humility.

Like the Buddha, whose mother died shortly after birth, and many others who have risen to greatness, Moses too suffers early trauma when he is separated from his parents as a baby. For his own protection, Moses is given away and put on the Nile to be raised in the house of a domineering, abusive grandfather, the Pharaoh. Moses even famously begins his life with a speech impediment, despite going on to deliver some of the most moving words in the bible. 

But what I find the most unique about Moses is how he balances his leadership with utter egolessness. Despite being such a powerful figure, he still acts as the “Servant of God” (Exodus 14:31) and of his people first.

Yet when challenged by Korach, a power-hungry rival, Moses does not defend his authority but humbly replies, “In the morning the Lord will show who belongs to him . . . The one whom he chooses he will bring near to him” (Numbers 16:3-5). Rather than boasting about his role as God’s chosen messenger, Moses’s reaction is to ask, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the children of Israel out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11). Though Moses is known as the “Eved Hashem,” usually translated as “Servant of God,” the more literal translation of the phrase is the even stronger moniker, “Slave of God.”

Moses isn’t perfect, of course. He has his moments of despair, pleading with God, “The burden is too heavy for me. If You treat me like this, please kill me here and now—if I have found favour in Your sight—and do not let me see my wretchedness” (Numbers 11:15), yet nonetheless rises again. Later, he famously succumbs to his anger with the Jewish people, striking the rock in the desert meant to give them water, rather than obeying God by speaking to it (Numbers 20:11). Some say this is why Moses isn’t allowed to enter the Promised Land at the end of his life, but the Kabbalistic explanation is that if he had, it would have ushered in Messianic times (for which the world was not ready). Of course, in the time of the Messiah, Moses will reincarnate and finally be allowed to enter the Promised Land.

But, throughout the highs and lows, the victories and disappointments, Moses stays committed to the collective well-being, navigating unprecedented challenges with compassion and faith. He knows true leadership involves growth and humility in the face of one’s own limitations. That’s in part why he makes it to the ripe old age of 120, eyes bright and undimmed to his final days (Deuteronomy 34:7). This shows us that when we passionately engage with life, vibrancy and light can continue to flow through us, at any age.  

In modern leadership discourse, Moses’s qualities—confidence, compassion, humility, and service—are increasingly recognized as essential for success and greater fulfillment. Moses’s life story teaches us that we are capable of achieving far more than we might have ever believed. He teaches us that leadership is about staying grounded, and remaining devoted servants to truth and a purpose beyond oneself. His willingness to carry the burdens of his people, to intercede on their behalf, and to accept his own limitations, reflects a deep spiritual maturity that transcends mere authority. 

In a world, now hungrier than ever for enlightened, egoless leadership, Moses stands apart as a guiding light. May we all continue to learn from him, and be blessed to live to one hundred and beyond.

October brought us the long-anticipated second season of Netflix’s hit show Nobody Wants This. Last year, I wrote about my disappointment in the program’s portrayal of Jewish women. I wondered if season two would fare any better—and to my surprise, it did.

The show’s creator, Erin Foster, loosely based the series on her own life. The show explores the interfaith relationship of podcast host Joanne (Kristen Bell) and Rabbi Noah (Adam Brody). In season one, the non-Jewish women were portrayed as fun and carefree, while the Jewish women were nit-picky and irritating. That stereotypical portrayal received significant backlash, and it seems Foster heard the criticism loud and clear. 

The character of Esther (Jackie Tohn) who was happily-unhappily married to Rabbi Noah’s brother, Sasha (Timothy Simons), undergoes a complete transformation. Her husband’s emotional affair jolts her into realizing she may not be as convivial as she once was. As she reconnects with her past self, she reclaims her independence and joy.

Last season, Esther was positioned in stark contrast to Joanne: naggy and explicitly “not fun,” while Joanne was effortlessly entertaining. In season two, we see Esther’s character go through a strong evolution. Her shifts range from the small—changing a dinner-party playlist from Solange to Ms. Lauryn Hill’s Doo Wop—to life-altering, like asking Sasha for a separation. Doo Wop may be Lauryn Hill’s trendiest song and Sasha may be a loveable oaf, but by pursuing her own bliss, Esther is freed from the confines of the Jewish American Princess stereotype and becomes far more dynamic (even if the romantic in me hopes she ends up back with Sasha). 

Rabbi Noah’s ex-girlfriend, Rebecca, is finally humanized. When the pair meet for a relationship post-mortem, we learn that Noah had been leading her on by naming their imagined future children, calling her his “forever family,” and even planning a trip to Portugal two weeks before calling it quits. Where season one painted Rebecca as erratic and manipulative, season two reframes her shock and anger as justified. It is unclear whether this reversal was engineered in response to critics or part of Foster’s long game. Perhaps I should have been more patient. 

In Judaism, it is never too late to make things right. Just over two months ago, we gathered for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. In its second season, Nobody Wants This performs a kind of teshuvah, a rehumanizing act of moral repair. 

Rabbi Noah’s mother, Bina (Tovah Feldshuh), does not receive the same character reversal, remaining firmly opposed to Joanne. In episode two, she appears to soften when she sees her son’s girlfriend encouraging him to embrace his emotions. But the moment is short-lived. When a friend comments that the couple is “really tied together,” Bina claps back, “And I’ve got the scissors.” As in the previous season, Joanne’s relationship with her prospective mother-in-law takes one step forward and two giant steps back. 

But perhaps this storyline is holding up an uncomfortable mirror. Maybe we, as Jews, need to be more honest about how we treat outsiders. If Foster wrote Bina based on her own experience marrying into a Jewish family, then perhaps we should take that portrayal seriously and examine how we can be more welcoming, as our tradition so often instructs. 

We do get glimpses of Bina’s capacity for kindness. She comforts Joanne’s despondent sister, offering the wise insight that “if you are hurt by what [a] person said . . . it is because you think these things are true.” Bina is not inherently cruel; she is afraid. Her son’s relationship with a non-Jew threatens her, and she is not alone. For generations, Jews have worried that intermariage would dilute an already small population. I will never forget a fellow Birthright participant yelling at me from across a hotel conference room that her grandparents hadn’t survived the Holocaust for my parents to intermarry. This fear runs deep. Yet a 2021 Pew Study found that “the offspring of intermarriages have become increasingly likely to identify as Jewish in adulthood.” The data suggests that intermarriage is not erasing us. In many cases, like my own family, Jewish identity emerges stronger.  

Rabbi Noah experiences his own reckoning when he loses out on a promotion due to his interfaith relationship with Joanne. He’d been gunning for the senior rabbi position for years. Unhappy in the shadow of Senior Rabbi “Big Noah” (yes, they’re both named Noah), he leaves in search of a new spiritual home. He is soon hired by what seems to be a Humanistic congregation called Ahava. 

Unfortunately, that is where the show makes its most glaring religious misstep. During Rabbi Noah’s job interview, Senior Rabbi Neil (Seth Rogan) praises him for a Tu B’Shvat sermon that “completely changed the way [Neil] mourned.” I was momentarily confused as Tu B’Shvat celebrates the environment and has nothing to do with mourning, until I realized he meant Tisha B’Av, the sombre day marking the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. It is an understandable mistake for a layperson, but not a rabbi, no matter how atheist. Perhaps Rogen was improvising, as he’s known to do, but it’s disappointing that a show about a rabbi didn’t have anyone on set to catch the error. (Erin Foster, if you’re looking to hire a clergy consultant, I’m available!)  

Later that episode, Noah wishes his Purim party guests “mazel” (luck) instead of “chag sameach” (happy holiday). It’s a small slip, but a telling one: mazel isn’t a catch-all Yiddish term Jews toss around at random. A little input from a Jewish professional would have gone a long way. 

Still, the show redeems itself beautifully in the final episode. As Noah and Joanne contemplate breaking up, a quintessential rom-com montage unfolds. Noah relives his favourite moments with Joanne, while she recalls her favourite experiences with Judaism—lighting Shabbat candles, dressing up for Purim, eating challah (that one’s easy; it’s objectively the world’s best bread), and watching Noah’s sermons. I teared up, moved by the beauty of Jewish life. 

In the end, season two of Nobody Wants This repairs its earlier caricatures of Jewish women with tenderness and nuance, and continues its landmark celebration of Jewish joy. 

Maybe season three will have all that and accurate Judaism.

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.

The Harold Green Jewish Theatre Company is ending their 2025–2026 season with a crowd pleaser: Fiddler on the Roof.

But this version of Fiddler is special because it’s all in Yiddish (with English and Russian subtitles). First premiering in 2018 in New York, the off-broadway show was a knock-out; garnering praise from Jewish and non-Jewish critics.

The revival will reunite many members of the same creative team that helmed the off-Broadway production. The show will be directed by Tony and Academy Award winner Joel Grey, and Broadway veteran and Tony nominee Steven Skybell will star as Tevye, leading an all Canadian cast. The show runs from May 25 to June 7 at the Elgin Theatre in Toronto.

I sat down with David Eisner, co-artistic director of the Harold Green Jewish Theatre Company to discuss the important legacy of the musical and why the Yiddish rendition will resonate with audience members.

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There's so much anticipation for this Fiddler production. It’s beloved in the community. When coming up with the new season, why did you decide on having an all Yiddish version of Fiddler?

The answer to that starts probably about three or four years back when we heard it was happening in New York, and there was the possibility of a tour. Avery Saltzman (co-director of the Harold Green Jewish Theatre Company) and I pride ourselves in telling and sharing Jewish stories from different angles. To tell the story of Fiddler on the Roof in the authentic language of the characters we thought would be something special, and when we saw it in New York we were over the moon. My parents spoke Yiddish. And involuntarily, and this happens to many people, when you start hearing the violinist play and then the first words are said you get emotional because it's so authentic and real. Avery and I, and our general manager, Matt, went to see it and became convinced we wanted to do it.

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How did it land all these years later in Toronto?

The tour fell apart because it was so expensive. And then we said, “you know what, why don't we try to put it on ourselves for our 18th season?” We would do the production with Steven Skybell who played Tevye, who’s reprised the role numerous times; it’s in his bones. We have the whole creative team from New York. Directed by the legendary Joel Gray, as well as the artistic director, Zalmen Mlotek, and others. They all came up to Canada to replicate the show but with a Canadian cast. We ended up with a remarkable cast. Approximately half are Jewish and half aren't.

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Will this production tour Canada or is it  only showing at the Elgin Theatre?

This will be the only production. It’ll be on for two weeks but we have over 20,000 seats that we can sell. So far, we’ve received and are getting groups from Buffalo, from London, Ontario, as well as the rest of Ontario and Western New York. We're excited.

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Can you tell me the importance of having this all-Canadian cast?

Well, it's a little known secret, but Canadian performers are some of the best in the world. I mean, you go to New York and you see Broadway and we’re as good if not better. The creative team couldn’t believe the talent pool that we had to pick from here. We were thrilled that they were happy and that it will be an all-Canadian cast.

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More generally, how do you decide what you’d like to have in a season?

Avery and I look at a few touch points to hit for every season. We want to do potentially a comedy, a drama. We like to add music. We want to incorporate an element of the Holocaust, not for the whole season, but for a show. Something where there’s an homage to the past and some new Canadian world premieres. That will make up a season. And our next season has all of that in spades. So we’re thrilled that people are coming to Fiddler. We hope people will stay on this journey and be enriched with Jewish stories and become subscribers.

That’s our goal because we were hit hard, like every theatre, during the pandemic. We had close to 2,500 subscribers. And then we were half of that, but we’ve been slowly growing. We’re taking a big swing with this production, but it’s an important show. It’s the biggest title in the canon of Jewish theatre. We wanted to do this for our 18th year.

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What are you hoping audiences take away from this rendition of Fiddler?

In these times, there’s a pride in acknowledging the resilience of the characters in the play. The play’s central theme is tradition. When I think of being Jewish, it’s religion and culture. And the culture part, it’s important to energize the Jewish soul. We can do that by entertaining, educating, and bringing the fire to the Jewish soul with some of the work. But in general, I would love the audience to be wonderfully entertained and just enjoy something memorable that will stay with them for a long, long time.

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

Spring arrived March 20 on the secular calendar but on the Hebrew calendar it arrived two days earlier with the start of Nissan. Nothing reminds me more of spring than this creamy green sauce, which resembles the colour of fresh grass, a symbolic moment of renewal. The recipe can be used as a dip, a sauce, or as the base for a salad dressing. 
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The first weeks of Nissan are traditionally spent preparing for Passover, which began the evening of April 1. Spring Green Garlic and Avocado Sauce is a perfect seasonal lift to a holiday menu, or for any occasion.

Spring Green Garlic and Avocado Sauce

Makes about 1 1/2 cups sauce

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Ingredients

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus as needed

1/2 cup fresh lemon juice, plus as needed

2–4 tablespoons peeled garlic cloves

1/4 teaspoon salt, plus as needed

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper, plus as needed

3 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

3 tablespoons chopped mint

3 tablespoons chopped basil

1/4 cup chopped green onion (use white and green parts)

1 cup very ripe avocado, mashed

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Directions

1. Place oil, juice, garlic (use 2 tablespoons for a garlic bite, 4 tablespoons for a wallop), salt, pepper, parsley, mint, basil, and onion into a blender. 
2. Process on high until smooth, stopping and scraping down sides as needed. 
3. Add avocado in batches and blend until smooth. 
4. Taste and adjust seasoning by adding oil, juice, salt or pepper as needed.

Serve as a dip with artichokes or crudites, as a sauce over cooked fish, chicken, vegetables, rice or grains, or use in the salad dressing recipe below. Can be made a day ahead. (Flavours will intensify.) Refrigerate in an airtight container. Stir and taste again, adjust seasonings before using.

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Spring Green Garlic and Avocado Salad Dressing

Makes about 2 1/4 cups

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Ingredients

Spring Green Garlic and Avocado Sauce (see recipe)

3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, plus as needed

1/2 cup and 1 tablespoon lemon juice, plus as needed

1/4 teaspoon salt, plus as needed

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper, plus as needed

1/2 teaspoon sugar, plus as needed (optional)

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Directions

1. Mix sauce, olive oil, and lemon juice together in a jar or bowl. Taste. 
2. Add sugar and additional oil, juice, salt and pepper as needed. 

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Can be made a day in advance. (Flavours will intensify.) Refrigerate in an airtight container. Stir and taste again, adjusting seasonings before using.

Imagine walking into The Soraya’s gallery this winter, and the air feels thick with conversation. The David Labkovski Project (DLP) has designed their current exhibition, Through the Eyes of David Labkovski: Sholem Aleichem and His Heroes, as an immersive exchange between two artists instead of a static display. Dedicated to Holocaust education and promoting historical dialogue through art, the DLP preserves and promotes the legacy of Lithuanian artist David Labkovski, whose works depict life before, during, and after the Holocaust. Labkovski’s paintings hang beside excerpts from renowned playwright and author Sholem Aleichem’s stories with an accompanying multimedia video installation.

The exhibition opened on September 13 and runs until December 31, 2025, at The Soraya Younes and Soraya Nazarian Center for the Performing Arts in Northridge, California. It stages a dialogue between the life Aleichem captured before the devastation of World War II and the loss Labkovski recorded after. One wrote the music of everyday life; the other painted its silence. 

One side holds the painted world of Labkovski who was born in Vilnius, Lithuania, in 1906. He survived the Holocaust and years in Soviet labour camps before emigrating to Israel. Market squares, ghetto streets, narrow doorways, the haunted stillness of places where neighbours once stood—faces and streets rendered in vast shades of watercolour and oil, each brushstroke promising a refusal to forget. Each canvas is anchored in something he saw or knew would vanish without record. Decades earlier, Aleichem had been writing the life of those same towns before they disappeared. He used humour as a kind of armour. Often mistaken for sentimental folklore, Aleichem’s stories are layered portraits of a community negotiating hardship and change with resilience and grace.

What’s most striking is how seamlessly Labkovski’s paintings and Aleichem’s words speak to one another. A gesture or a glance in paint seems to echo a sentence written decades earlier; a line of text, in turn, illuminates a figure caught mid-breath on the canvas. Seen together, their work reveals how humour and heartbreak coexist, how both artists used storytelling to preserve dignity amid loss. The result is a dialogue that transcends time, inviting viewers to witness memory as a living exchange rather than a distant past.

This is not only an art show but also a community space for remembering. The Soraya, a cultural hub in one of Los Angeles’s most diverse regions, serves audiences as varied as the city itself: students, educators, members of the Jewish diaspora, and curious visitors. Here, they may find themselves picturing the uneven clatter of a water carrier’s cart, the flicker of candlelight before the advent of electricity, or the layered conversations of a small-town street. The particulars may belong to another century, but the emotions of love, envy, friendship, and ambition are timeless.

The debut in Northridge is only the beginning. Built to travel, the exhibition is intended for museums, universities, and community centres across the country, bringing with it the DLP’s acclaimed educational programs. These workshops use art and literature to prompt personal reflection, bridging the gap between historical fact and empathizing with lived experiences. For younger generations in particular, the combination offers a way into history that is as emotional as it is informational.

For all its historical gravity, Through the Eyes of David Labkovski: Sholem Aleichem and his Heroes is not a memorial in the conventional sense. It is a meeting between a pen and a brush, between what was lived and what was lost, between memory and imagination. It invites visitors to stand in the space between, to listen, and to carry the conversation forward.

The seventh night of Hanukkah ushers in Chag Habanot, a special evening for many Jews around the world because it celebrates the connections between women, especially mothers and daughters. 

Chag HaBanot is a North African Jewish tradition that honours the story of Judith, a heroic Jewish widow who saved her people from the Assyrian general Holofernes. This night can also be referred to as the Festival of the Daughters, which also marks the start of the month of Tevet and is commemorated by singing, dancing, gift giving, and telling stories of Jewish heroines.

Traditional holiday foods in Jewish communities from Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, and Morocco often includes sweetened couscous. Dairy foods are also served since Judith executed an enemy general after plying him with cheese to make him thirsty and wine to make him sleepy. 

The Sweetened Couscous and Fruit and Nut Couscous Cake recipes below reflect some of these customs and make great additions to any Hanukkah holiday dinner.

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Sweetened Couscous

Serves 6–8

Ingredients

1 1/2 cup water

1/4 cup butter plus 1 tablespoon

2 tablespoon sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

1 cup couscous

1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon powdered sugar

1/2 cup raisins or chopped dried fruit

1/2 cup unsalted, slivered almonds (raw or roasted)

1/2 cup unsalted, shelled pistachios (raw or roasted)

1/2 teaspoon plus 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon orange blossom water or rose water, optional

Garnishes (see below)

Milk or cream for serving

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Directions

1. Place the water in a small pot with 1 tablespoon butter, 2 tablespoons of sugar, and salt. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Stir in couscous. Cover and remove from heat. Let it sit for 4 to 5 minutes until the couscous has absorbed the water. Fluff with a fork and break up any clumps. Place couscous in a large bowl.
2. While couscous is cooking, melt 1/4 cup of butter. Stir melted butter into the couscous.
3. Stir in 1/2 cup of powdered sugar, raisins, almonds, pistachios, 1/2 teaspoon orange blossom water. Mix well.
4. Pile mixture into the middle of a platter and use your hands to shape into a dome, cone, or pyramid, being careful not to compress the grains. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of powdered sugar and 1 teaspoon of cinnamon. Decorate with selected garnishes.
5. Serve with milk or cream on the side to pour over individual bowls of the sweetened couscous.

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Garnishes: Press on or sprinkle with additional almond slivers and or pistachios, pitted date halves, raisins, chopped dried fruit, pomegranate seeds or other garnishes as desired.

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Fruit and Nut Couscous Cake

Serves 8

Ingredients

1 3/4 cups whole milk

6 ounces (1 1/2 sticks) butter plus extra for greasing pan

2/3 cup sugar plus 1 tablespoon

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 cups couscous

1 1/2 cups golden or other raisins (or a mix of raisins, dried pitted cherries, dried cranberries, and or dried blueberries), divided

3/4 cup chopped unsalted almonds or walnuts (raw or roasted)

2 tablespoon vegetable oil

1 tablespoon rose water or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 1/4 teaspoon baharat spice mix (see notes)

1 teaspoon lemon juice

3 large eggs

2–3 tablespoons powdered sugar

Topping (see below)

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Directions

1. Heat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.
2. Cut a circle of parchment paper to cover the bottom of an 8-inch springform pan. Grease the top of the parchment paper and sides of the pan with butter.
3. Place milk, butter, 1 tablespoon of sugar, and salt in a saucepan. Cover and bring to a simmer over medium high heat. 
4. Stir in couscous. 
5. Cover and remove it from the heat. Let it sit for 4 to 5 minutes until liquid is absorbed. Fluff with a fork and break up any clumps. Place in a large bowl.
6. Add 2/3 cup sugar, 1 cup raisins, almonds, oil, rosewater, baharat, and lemon juice. Mix well.
7. Separate the eggs. 
8. Whip the egg whites in a medium bowl until more than doubled in volume, glossy and shiny white. (Do not whip into peaks.) 
9. Beat the egg yolks in a separate small bowl. 
10. Stir egg yolks into the couscous. Gently fold whipped whites into couscous in 2 batches.
11. Pour the mixture into the prepared pan and bake for 40 to 45 minutes until the mixture is firm but not hard to the touch. The edges should be brown and pull away from the edge of the pan. 
12. Place on a wire rack and let cool in the pan. Remove pan sides (if desired remove parchment paper and pan bottom) and then place on a serving platter.
13. Sprinkle powdered sugar and remaining 1/2 cup raisins on top. Decorate with dollops of the dairy topping (see below). Serve with extra topping on the side.

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Topping: Sour cream, plain or vanilla yogurt, whipped cream, or rosewater-flavoured whipped cream (whip half pint heavy cream with 2 tablespoons of sugar and 1/2 teaspoon of rose water until soft peaks form). Plan on 2 to 3 tablespoons of topping per serving plus additional for decorating.

Notes: If you can’t find baharat use 1/2 teaspoon of ground cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon of ground cardamom, 1/4 teaspoon of ground nutmeg, 1/8 teaspoon of ground allspice, and 1/8 teaspoon of ground cloves.

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. 

This series of ceramic sculptures draws from iconic moments in Seinfeld, focusing on the character of Cosmo Kramer as both cultural symbol and exaggerated human form. My focus on Seinfeld is rooted in my Jewish heritage and in the cultural impact of its two Jewish creators, Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David. Their success, along with the show’s subtle Jewish references and sensibilities woven throughout its humour, draws me to reinterpret its main characters through clay.

By translating televised comedy into hand-built ceramic form, I transform fleeting visual gags into tactile, enduring objects. Humour becomes material—slowed down, reshaped, and given weight.

Each piece references a specific episode. “The Hot Tub” captures Kramer after spending the night in freezing water when his heat pump breaks, his body suspended in deep blue glaze, where slapstick shifts into stillness. “The Butter Shave” reimagines Newman’s hallucination of Kramer as a turkey, turning a special-effects joke into a fully embodied sculptural transformation. “The Puffy Shirt” explores the flamboyant costume Jerry unknowingly agrees to wear on television, examining how clothing can overtake identity and turn misunderstanding into spectacle. Finally, the Kramer bust distills the character into expression alone—his posture, hair, and animated features capturing a personality perpetually in motion.

Working in ceramics allows exaggeration to remain imperfect and human. Glossy surfaces and hand-built forms preserve texture and irregularities, grounding pop culture in physical presence. What was once ephemeral—broadcast, laughter, illusion—becomes solid and intimate.

Through this series, I explore how comedy shapes collective memory and how Jewish creators have influenced mainstream cultural narratives. By reconstructing these moments in clay, I emphasize the main characters as vessels of humour, identity, and shared cultural memory.

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It is Friday morning. Mother is the first to wake up. She lights the oven. On Fridays, she kneads bread for the entire week. She keeps the sifted flour in a special wooden chest, and in one corner of it she always keeps a sourdough starter. After every kneading, Mother leaves a piece of the risen dough for the next time.

         With this starter she prepares doughs that need to rise—biscochos. She keeps the baked bread wrapped in a white sheet in a separate wooden chest with a lid. Then she cooks dishes for the Shabbat dinner, and the rest of the weekend.

         My sisters, Blanca and Rifka, and I help her. We follow Mother through the house and, following her advice, do all the necessary work. There is so much love, togetherness, and liveliness between these walls, washed by the mild morning sun. The floorboards creak with the joy of our footsteps, and Mother’s voice caresses my soul.

         The day passes. Time flows on.

         When we were younger, while Mother was preparing buriquitas, I used my small, childish hands to crush a lump of sea salt in the brass mortar, grinding it fine, while Rifka ground roasted coffee in the brass mill with a handle. In the cupboard we keep the coffee and sugar in tin boxes. Above the sink hangs a water can with a small tap. In one corner lies a bar of homemade soap. Blanca, being the eldest, washes the dishes with wood ash.

         The day passes. Time flows on.

         “It’s neither Saturday, nor is the ducat on the ground,” I hear Mother say in a slightly serious voice as the rustle of her dress comes closer and closer to me.

         As we grew up, Mother altered and mended our clothes so they could be worn until they were completely torn. Even then, she would cut the torn garments into thin strips, join them together, and from them weave the rug in the hallway and knit the bedspread for the smaller room.

         When Mother finishes the handwork she prepares for our dowries, she places it in the chests in the basement. What treasure is hidden in those chests! Cloths embroidered with the finest red, green, yellow, and blue-silver thread—what beauty!

         “He who does not work does not eat,” I hear Mother say.

         “The stomach is not filled with words!”

         “He who does not work does not eat,” I repeat Mother’s words to myself. The stomach is not filled with words. The day passes, and time with it.

         In the pot, beans are boiling for tonight. The wine for kiddush is ready. We will put the eggs on to boil later. Now Blanca is preparing buriquitas with meat and pumpkin. They are light and quick to prepare.

         She puts one cup of oil, one cup of water, and a scant teaspoon of salt over the fire to boil. She removes the pot from the heat and suddenly adds half a kilogram of sifted, warmed flour, stirring quickly with a wooden spoon.

         “Blanca, add a little more flour so the dough becomes soft,” Mother says, and her voice echoes between the kitchen walls like the most melodious Spanish romance, lingering there to quiver and dance like the fluttering of white butterfly wings in spring across the greening fields, valleys, and hills around Monastir.

         “So the dough becomes soft,” Blanca repeats with a gentle smile.

         “As soft as an earlobe!” the three of us say in one voice, laughing. Our laughter flies out like a white dove through the open window, echoing through the Jewish Quarter and the surrounding alleys, soaring high into the blue, clear sky.

         The day passes, and time with it.

         “A mother tongue never dies, and the Sephardic culture and tradition will live on through you, my dear children,” Mother says. “Remember my words and do not forget: hope nourishes faith.”

         Blanca obediently adds a little more flour. She forms small balls from the mixture and rolls them out with a rolling pin. In the middle of each crust she places the filling that Rifka prepared from ground meat sautéed with a little water, onion, pepper, salt, five peeled and finely chopped olives—my task—and an egg.

         I love eating buriquitas with walnuts or hazelnuts the most.

         Blanca folds the dough in half and cuts the pieces with a glass so that they take on the shape of a crescent moon. She lines them up on a greased baking tray, brushes them with egg white, and sprinkles them with sesame seeds. Then she places the tray in the oven.

         The whole house begins to smell of warm dough, soft as a soul and deliciously baked—sweet and savoury little beauties.

         Blanca opens the oven. The buriquitas have turned golden brown.

         “Mmmm . . .”

         She takes out the tray and covers it with a cotton cloth. Tomorrow, for Saturday breakfast, after the men return from the synagogue, we will bring them to the table with boiled eggs and anise rakija.

         The day passes, and time with it.

         “Remember, my children, where two eat, three can eat as well. Bread, salt, and goodwill!” Mother says as she prepares an onion stew in a copper pan for Sunday lunch, because Sunday is laundry day and there is much work to be done.

         She adds cubed beef and sautés it with three tablespoons of oil. I chop seven onions, though it tastes even better in winter when we replace half the onions with leeks and, instead of grated tomatoes, add a large spoonful of tomato paste.

         Once the meat has softened, she transfers it to a copper pot and adds a cup of water, a small cup of rice, a whole head of garlic, two peppers, parsley, celery, black pepper, red paprika, and salt.

                The day passes, and time flows on.

         I love Friday and Saturday the most. I love Shabbat as much as I look forward to Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Hanukkah, Las Frutas, Purim, and Pesach. I love the preparations: rice pudding and small cookies for the Purim plate, pandispan and mlechnik, but most of all pastel dultsi.

         I love the breakfasts, lunches, and dinners when we are all around the table—Isaac, Abraham, Blanca, Rifka and I, with Mother and Father—together for Shabbat, which I always await with immeasurable joy.

         “Hana, Blanca, Rifka—remember, my daughters,” Mother says while we help her spread the tablecloth. “A house without a woman will crumble. Be thrifty in everything.”

         She places the bread in its embroidered cover and sets linen napkins with monograms for everyone. If any bread remains, it is carefully wrapped for the next meal.

         My older brothers, Isaac and Abraham, join Father in the prayer. Mother lights the candles and pours a little wine into small glasses for each of us. Shabbat begins, and the house fills with quiet peace.

         Mother stands while the prayer is read. She is the last to sit at the table and the first to rise.

         The candlelight flickers softly across the faces of my brothers and sisters, of Mother and Father. Father reads the Sabbath prayer in a calm voice, and at the end we all answer, “Amen.”

         Mother gives each of us a piece of bread with salt and blesses us: “For health and joy.” Para salu i alegriya.

         After dinner she prepares the beds for sleep, spreading reed mats on the floor and laying mattresses over them. In winter, when the brazier must be extinguished for the night, she wraps warm bricks in our bedding so that we will not feel the cold.

         Time passes.

         Para salu i alegriya.

         For health and joy.

         Mother’s voice echoes softly as I fall asleep, drifting into the land of dreams and fairy tales.

Leah Goldberg’s poetry and stories have moved me since childhood. In her unassuming yet distinct way, she conveyed messages of friendship, community, and
tolerance through everyday experiences, often with a quiet emotional clarity that continues to resonate.

Goldberg migrated from Lithuania to British-mandate Palestine in 1936. Her work intertwines themes of love, loss, and belonging with reflections on the immigrant
experience and the feeling of living between places. Having migrated from Israel to Australia myself, I feel a deep resonance with her words, as captured in her poem,
“Pines”:
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“Perhaps only migrating birds know –
suspended between earth and sky –
the heartache of two homelands.”

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A few years ago, I co-created a theatrical performance piece dedicated to Goldberg’s life and work. While composing music for that show, I wrote several songs inspired by her poetry, allowing the language to guide melody, rhythm, and tone. Returning to these poems recently, I was reminded of their delicacy and humanity, and felt drawn to explore that emotional thread more fully in new recordings.

This EP album release also connects to an earlier project of mine, which featured musical settings of poems by Yehuda Amichai, who once described Goldberg as “the
poet I fell in love with at age 17.”

In Word to Note, her poems are reimagined through a contemporary folk lens, featuring cello, piano, voice, and bass guitar, with contributions from Shanni Cohen
on piano and Neil Kelly on bass guitar.

Through these songs, I hope Goldberg’s reflections on identity, home, and connection can reach listeners across languages and generations, offering a quiet
reminder of empathy, attentiveness, and shared humanity.

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To a Picture of My Mother (לתמונת אימי)

Poem by Leah Goldberg
Music by Adi Sappir
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Lyrics: 

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You look so calm
You are other:
Proud, a bit, and embarrassed at being - my mother.
Accompanying me with a tear and a yielding smile
You never ask: “Who?”

You never wondered, never raged, when I came
To you daily demanding: “I need!”
With your own hands you gave all
Only because I am—me.

More than I, you remember today
My childhood's sorrows, and what your soul knew then:
The day your grown daughter would come to you,
She would bring with her grief that had grown up too.

Yes. I'll come broken and not ask how you are.
I'll not cry in your arms, not whisper: “Mama!”;
You'll know then: He who left me was dearer to me than you,
And you'll never ask: “Who?”

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March 30, 1941

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Snow was falling, steady and heavy, onto the upper deck of the Serpa Pinto, the ship which had been our home, with six hundred fellow Jews and other refugees, for the last fifteen days. Built to accommodate three hundred, she had carried us well in spite of the overload, and I imagined she was happy to be rid of us soon. My twin sister, Hannah, and I stood with my parents who were crying quietly. I elbowed Hannah, but she had already noticed. It was a sight neither of us had ever seen, even in the face of all we had recently been through. At nine years old, we were the youngest on the ship. Our parents had taken great pains to keep us close to them throughout our journey from Lisbon. They were less protective of our older brothers, Arthur, who was thirteen, and Josef, who was fifteen, throwing snowballs at one another. 

Hannah answered my nudge with a slight shift toward me. These were the subtle movements the two of us had developed, the silent communication of identical twins. We had always done this, and our mother prided herself in being able to intercept and decode our messages like a spy. Through what I could now see were happy tears, shared by all of the adults, she had sensed how badly we both wanted to be with the other children who were frolicking noisily in the falling snow. She nodded, signaling it was alright for us to join our brothers in the fun. Hannah leapt on her toes and grabbed my hand, but before I let her pull me with her, I followed the eyes of the grown-ups hoping for a glimpse of whatever it was that held their collective attention so firmly. I saw the outline in the snow of that statue I’d seen in history books and newsreels, the one with the torch held high and the crown of spikes on her head. 

“We’ve made it,” someone said. Our parents embraced, and their public intimacy fascinated me almost as much as the giant, scary lady whose solemn face I could barely make out through the falling snow.

“Heidi, come!” my sister said, yanking on my hand so hard it hurt.

“Ow!”

Our Mary Jane shoes were not made for this weather, and we half ran, half slid our way over to where Arthur had begun making a snowman. A couple of dark-eyed girls, their hair pulled back in tight ponytails, were watching Arthur work. They giggled when he smiled at them, his blue eyes twinkling in that way Hannah and I both adored. There was not much snow to work with yet, but Arthur was skilled at scraping what there was together and making discernible shapes out of it. My sister and I stood with the two Roma girls and marvelled at the magic that was our brother Arthur. 

“That’s our brother,” I told one of them. She simply smiled and giggled some more, before saying something to the other girl, who I imagined to be her younger sister, in a language I’d never heard before. Since they didn’t understand my German, I tried English, which I’d more recently learned at Saint Julian’s school, where all four of us attended when we first arrived in Portugal, in the fall of 1938. She shook her head, as if saying, “Sorry. Don’t know that one either.”

Before Hannah or I could try the French they taught us in first grade, Josef sprinted over from where he had been making snow angels with a very pretty girl called Rita whom he had shared an obvious flirtation with throughout our journey. He had something in his arms which, I realized just in time, were three snowballs. He fired them in succession. Hannah and I ducked, as did the two girls standing next to us, but Arthur failed to see our older brother coming, and he took a direct hit in the neck.

“Bloody hell!” Arthur called out in the perfect schoolboy English he had learned at Saint Julian’s. It had become natural for him, as it had for Josef, Hannah, and me.

“Ooh,” Hannah and I intoned in perfect harmony. Our mother knew little English, but she knew this kind of talk and would not be happy if she heard it. 

Before Arthur could retaliate, he and Josef both noticed the statue. 

“Come on!” Josef yelled, and we all, including the two dark-eyed girls, followed him to join the crowds of people who silently regarded Lady Liberty. Many of the adults were wiping their eyes; no one spoke. A boy with wild brown curls hurled a snowball in the direction of the statue, and a large woman who Hannah and I decided early on was his grandmother, cuffed him hard on the back of his head.

“Mostre algum respeito!” she hissed at him. I knew enough Portuguese from our time in Lisbon to understand the words, and I probably could have guessed them anyway, judging from how quickly the boy quieted down, stood beside his grandmother, and held back tears. 

“Girls, come here,” I heard my mother call in German. “You boys, too.”

We stood together and watched as the ship made its way into port at Ellis Island. Oil smoke and steam obscured what I was able to see from up on deck. 

“Look!” Hannah said, poking my shoulder. “Look at all the doves!”

A large flock of birds flew around the port in wild, coordinated circles.

Josef laughed. “Those aren’t doves. They’re pigeons, aren’t they?”

I had never heard that word before. Mrs. Winfrey, our English teacher at Saint Julian’s did teach us about a number of bird species—doves, cardinals, bluejays, and sparrows. She even made a point to let us know we would be likely to encounter many of them once we arrived in America. How strange that she didn’t mention this one. There appeared to be more of them than people. 

“Arthur, are you alright?” my mother asked in German. She was inspecting a large, red welt on his neck.

Arthur squinted at Josef, before answering in English.

“Yes, Mother. Quite alright.”

Our father gathered us and shepherded us inside to our cabin. Getting there was no easy task, as many of those who were up on deck were making their way to collect their things and preparing to disembark. 

“We’re not quite there yet,” he explained as the four of us sat like good soldiers on the bed Hannah and I had shared for the past two weeks. The cabin was first class, small but comfortable, even for my mother, my sister, and me. Father, Josef, and Arthur had their own cabin, a few doors down the corridor.

“But the statue,” I protested. In my mind, all those who came to America came to this statue. They received blessings from the giant woman before making their way to their new lives.

My father explained that because there were so many passengers that would need to be processed, the ship was making two stops—one here at Ellis Island, and one in the Port of Hoboken (a word that made Hannah and me giggle)––a few miles up the river. We would be in the second group. 

“Can we go back on deck to play in the snow some more?” I asked eagerly.

“We’ll let the passengers disembark first,” my mother said, wiping my nose with a handkerchief she produced, as if by magic, from up her coat sleeve. All of our cheeks were red from the cold, so we got comfortable in the dark panelled cabin, amidst the usual smell of oil, the gentle rocking of the ship, and the excited, multi-lingual voices of the throngs of new Americans making their way to the lives that awaited them. Hannah and I snuggled under the covers of our warm bed. My mother busied herself with packing our things, and I watched the snow falling outside the porthole, my sister’s breathing already steadying into sleep beside me.

“In just a few short hours,” our father said, before he and the boys headed down the passageway to their cabin, “we will be home.”

My grandmother’s earrings were her most prized possession. She wore them every day for sixty years. 

When I look back at old photo albums, there they are; barely visible, little specks on my grandmother, Rose’s, ears. The twenty-four karat gold dangle earrings are delicate. Each one has a small, slate-blue sapphire with a tiny diamond underneath encircled by gold. The small plump perfect pearl below the diamond glistens like the one in Vermeer’s painting. 

I first saw the earrings in a photograph of Rose outside a café in Budapest in 1910. Sitting with her friends at a large table, a half empty beer stein before her, captured in a rare spontaneous moment of laughter. I never remember her laughing or smiling. She was a serious woman. (Some family members say she did not have a sense of humour.) This moment captured a woman I do not know. It was before her marriage, journey to America, the births of her two children, four grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. In the photograph she is young, beautiful, and fashionably dressed, looking confident and happy. 

She told me that the pearls were added to the earrings after arriving in America. She wanted to feel the earrings move when she turned her head. She proudly revealed that after several months of saving, she bought the earrings using her wages as a dressmaker. Perhaps she loved them so much because of the effort it took to obtain them. Perhaps they reminded her of Europe and her youth.

Rose’s life wasn’t easy. Suddenly orphaned at sixteen in Ternopol, Poland (now Ukraine), and bereft of family nearby, she was invited to live with a family friend in Budapest. Accepting the invitation, she immediately sought employment. Fortunately, she had a talent and skill that enabled her to find a job in a boutique clothing store. She was an excellent seamstress and had a natural sense of style. In the photograph of her outside the café, she is wearing one of her own creations, a beautifully tailored frock with a lovely hat to frame her delicate features. 

Suitors flocked to Rose during her time in Budapest but she turned them all away. Rose had one consuming dream—move to America and escape the pogroms of her childhood. Most of her beaus did not share that dream so she discarded them. Then, one day her landlady’s husband came home and announced: “In the barber shop, I found a man, Nathan, as crazy as you Rose. All he talks about is going to America.”  

The two met, fell in love, and our family saga began. Rose left Budapest for a year to work in London, where she could earn more money and quickly save enough for their passage to America. But living with her older sister in a tiny and decrepit East End flat was not easy. Bathrooms were outside and there was little privacy in the small crowded flat. Rose didn’t know English, but still she soon found work as a seamstress in a boutique near Buckingham Palace patronized by wealthy women. Nathan remained in Budapest, apprenticed to a bookbinder. Theirs was a long-distance relationship sparked only by letters. A year after parting, they reunited and married in London. Within weeks, they departed for America and arrived at Ellis Island seventeen days later after a difficult journey. The date was April 13, 1913, a scant year before the outbreak of WWI. All the couple had was $40 to forge their way in this new land. 

Life was often arduous in their new home. During the Depression, my grandfather kept his job as a bookbinder. Eventually, he became a foreman but not before having a serious accident that almost prevented him from working again. While operating a machine, he lost several fingers of one hand. The factory was not liable. There was no workmen’s compensation. But the owners liked him, kept him on and even promoted him to foreman. He was very grateful and worked at the same company for more than fifty years, often working six-day weeks. Even though Rose and Nathan struggled at times and money was scarce, my grandmother never considered parting with her earrings. They were all she had left from her old life. And they were an intrinsic part of her now.

I remember her wearing them not just for family occasions, but every day. Relatives bought her other earrings as gifts, but I never saw her wear any of them—she would thank them and then tuck the new earrings away in her dresser. 

Two days before her death, when she was on a stretcher going to the hospital, she motioned to her daughter (my mother) and pointed to her earrings. My mother understood. She removed them for the first and last time. After Rose's death, they were given to me because my mother didn’t have pierced ears.  

I, too, wear them on holidays and family occasions, and they have become a part of me. One day, several years ago, when I was strolling on the boardwalk near Brighton Beach after a family gathering, I suddenly realized that a pearl had fallen off one of the earrings. Frantically, I retraced my steps. After a long search, which involved crawling on my hands and knees, I found the missing pearl. I was so relieved I began to cry. 

I almost lost them again when I had thought I placed them in the safe in the basement of my house. When I went to retrieve them some days later, they were gone. I was shattered and searched the entire house to no avail. I felt a void without them, especially at family events, but I eventually reconciled myself to their loss. Nearly a year later when I was preparing to move, I found them in a crevice near the safe where they must have slipped from my hands. Grateful, I vowed to be more careful in the future. 

Grandma’s earrings have been in many places over the last 115 years. They have been worn by my two daughters at their sweet sixteens, their wedding rehearsal dinners, and also by my cousin at her rehearsal dinner. They are worn by me, my children, and grandchildren as a homage to the past, a legacy for the present, and always a link to the future.