Category: Judaism

Jewish Identity and Excellence: The Challenge of Impossible Standards

On the first two nights of Passover (or just the first night in Israel) Jewish people gather for a ceremonial dinner called a Seder, where the story of Exodus is retold. The centerpiece of the Seder table is a special plate, on which is placed six symbolic foods, each meant to represent an aspect of the Jewish people’s suffering as slaves in Egypt, and the way they gained their freedom. One of the items on the plate is an egg, and oddly, the egg is not a formal part of the dinner, so the symbolism of it is not directly addressed as part of the stages of the Seder. As a child, I always wondered what the egg was about, and asked a teacher of mine about it. Even though I learned later that his answer is not the official explanation, it resonated with me.

What he said is that the egg is not like other foods. When you heat an egg, it gets harder, and stronger. He said that this represents the Jewish people who were slaves in Egypt. I see now that his explanation was a variation of the saying “The same boiling water than softens the potato hardens the egg.” Pharaoh thought to soften the potato by working the Jewish slaves harder, and subjecting them to increasingly more cruel and harsh conditions. It didn’t soften them though. Like the egg, it made them stronger.

Another fixture on the Seder table is a bowl of saltwater, and in many families the egg is dipped in it prior to eating. The saltwater symbolism is pretty direct, representing tears. The symbolism, my teacher explained, is that the oppression-hardened egg is not the final lesson. Enduring slavery and Pharaoh’s hell would not be anyone’s choice as a way to become strong. Under the weight of this misery, the tears of suffering are the salt that layers over all aspects of life.

The metaphor applies just as well today as it did in biblical times. It has been said that many in the world apply impossible standards to the modern state of Israel, and that this is by design. It’s meant to trap Israel into an unwinnable game with eradication as the price of losing, said eradication being the clearly stated endgame of those who have opposed her existence since the beginning. It’s not hard to see the parallel to Pharaoh’s strategy here. Apply increasing pressure on Israel – pressure not applied to any other country – and eventually, she must break. We are seeing it in real time, right now.

As a consequence, by extension this increasingly impossible standard is then applied to all Jewish people across the globe. All 0.2% of us. This is not a new phenomenon. Jewish people have been subjected to impossible standards for thousands of years. With respect to anti-Jewish sentiment, the current situation in the middle east is the latest excuse. But what the people who do this don’t understand is the actual impact that has on people who are born Jewish. They don’t understand why that forces us to excel, which must certainly be maddening to those that wish to see Jewish people suffer. Before I explain my thoughts on why this happens, I want to make clear that I don’t think it’s Judaism as religion that does this, per se, although it is difficult to measure and potentially unweave from Jewish culture the effects of being held to impossible standards over millennia. Rather this drive to excel is the effect on a group of human beings born into a world that continually ups the ante on what will be tolerated. A world that from the outset seems to never afford them the same tolerance for humanity afforded to others. For context, let me give you some personal background.

I have been a high school math teacher for almost 25 years, with the exception of two years I spent on secondment, lecturing mathematics at The University of Waterloo. At the start of my career I worked in three different public schools in in the Greater Toronto Area, in neighborhoods with very different demographics from each other. Then I transitioned to teaching at a Jewish high school. As part of my ongoing work with Waterloo, I also have had the pleasure of working with thousands of students across Canada, as well as internationally in India, Singapore, Malaysia, China, and Ghana. These days I do a great deal of tutoring and mentoring, so I have the opportunity to work one-on-one with hundreds of high school and university students. As a result of these experiences, I’ve encountered students from a wide spectrum of countries, cultures, races, religions, and financial backgrounds. And there is one comforting and beautiful lesson I’ve learned:

Teenagers are fundamentally awesome people.

Despite cultural, geopolitical, and socioeconomic differences, the brilliance, goofiness, and awkwardness is universal. So too are occasional bouts of acting like an idiot. And the ability to be able to turn these characteristics on and off when the situation really warrants it is also universal. They’re ultra cool adults-in-training who still have the little kid in them but are learning how to manifest the grown-ups they will become. All while learning about and exercising their inevitable independence from older generations. They score huge victories. They make huge mistakes. If the child is the raw material, then the adolescent is the forge from which the ultimate adult emerges, tempered into that special alloy of perfection and flaws that we experienced adults all know we are. Witnessing this blossoming is an honour, and is what makes me so grateful to be an educator. For a teacher, students are like your kids, and when I witness them just being teens, I feel legitimate happiness. Even when they’re acting like idiots.

Take for example, school excursions like field trips and sporting events. Any teacher will tell you what a mixed blessing it is to supervise these, especially overnight trips. Those overnighters! There’s nothing quite as stressful as being responsible for dozens or even hundred of other people’s children out in the wild. Responsible for their safety, and also for their behaviour. The blessing is to be there to watch them experience and interact with the world outside the classroom. You see them behave respectfully to strangers. You see their curiosity. You see their enjoyment of each other. You also sometimes see them act like fools, and these are the times when you have to intervene. I have supervised more excursions than I can count, and many of them were multi-day trips to a different country. It’s stressful, but it is incredibly worth it.

So when I prepare a group of teens for an excursion I always tell them that I want them to have the best experience. I tell them how much I love that I get to be a part of it. And I make sure they understand the behaviours we expect, even while knowing that they often have slightly different plans of their own. But when I’m preparing a group of Jewish students, my presentation always has an extra request:

Hold yourselves to a higher standard.

See, if a stranger sees a large group of teens outside of school, they often have certain ideas about what they can expect, and some of that is negative. For example, if a large group of teens was eating lunch in a public space, and left a lot of litter, many people would disgustedly react with a thought more or less like damn teenagers – don’t their parents teach them to pick up after themselves? If the teens are being overly boisterous, you will often see strangers shaking their heads or looking at them angrily. In these situations, you will even sometimes see strangers intervene and try to modify the behaviour. Hopefully it doesn’t get to that stage, and as a chaperone you always do your best to make sure you are the one intervening, but people will be people. This is all normal.

It all changes though, if the group of teens is identifiably Jewish, say, because the boys are wearing kippot (aka yarmulkes or skullcaps). When it’s Jewish kids, the perception is no longer that it’s a group of annoying teenagers. It’s now a group of annoying Jews. The mutterings change from damn teenagers to damn Jews. Their Jewishness trumps their adolescence as the attributable factor for their unwelcome – albeit normal – behaviour. It’s not fair, but it is true.

That’s why I always tell my Jewish students that they must hold themselves to a higher standard. Not because of me, or because of arbitrary rules, and certainly not because it’s fair, but because whether they like it or not, they are ambassadors for all Jewish people. So be extra respectful, extra courteous, and keep that adult switch flicked to the on position. Because the world might cut you some slack knowing that you’re a teenager, but that slack gets gathered right up if you’re a Jewish teenager. And you know what? The kids always do it. They do hold themselves to a higher standard. We inevitably get comments from bus drivers, tour guides, other coaches, and even just regular people interacting with the group that the kids are so polite and respectful, and so nice to deal with – much more so than most groups of teens. This ability to live up to impossibly high standards has nothing to do with being Jewish, but the need to tap into that ability – and thus discover that you can – has everything to do with it.

Being judged more harshly than other teens because you’re Jewish isn’t fair. It’s not a choice anyone would make or a preferred strategy to learn how to rise above. It’s just reality. The reality that says to the sports teams from Jewish high schools that when you are playing at non-Jewish schools, kids will throw pennies at you. And if one of your basketball players commits a foul, the spectators will shout about dirty jews and their dirty play, so keep the fouls to the barest minimum. It’s an impossible standard.

The lesson in this runs deep and lasts a lifetime. First, it teaches the kids that they have the inherent power to be better – better than they even need to be. It teaches them that to be Jewish often means not giving bigotry and hatred an excuse, even and especially when that means behaving better than others. It teaches them that as much as we might wish otherwise, the world is not a fair place, and never will be, so play the hand you’ve been dealt instead of the one you wish you had. It teaches them that the best way to fight antisemitism is to act with honour, grace, and excellence. It also teaches them that you can let down that guard and be “normal”, but only when you’re amongst your own, and that breeds a strong sense of community. Ultimately, this lesson remains with the kids as they grow in to adults. They learn that they have the power to hold themselves to impossibly high standards. They achieve greatness as a result.

It’s ironic really. That impossible standards can make you impossibly great. But there it is.

Thanks for reading,

Rich

The Shiva Friend

In the Jewish faith when a person dies, there is a formal grieving process that includes something called sitting shiva. The general idea is that the immediate family of the deceased ((children, spouse, siblings, parents) gather in one place and mourn intensely for seven days. The ritual comes from the Hebrew word for seven, which is sheva. During this time the mourners are visited by anyone who wishes to pay respects. Mourners are expected to be uncomfortable in their grief, so you will often see them sitting on low chairs. You will also often see them wearing torn clothing (or symbols of torn clothing), and in order to avoid vanity, you will often see reflective surfaces in the shiva house obscured somehow. Sitting shiva is not hosting, so mourners are also not expected to entertain, clean the house in preparation, or arrange for any food/refreshments for themselves or others. They are not really even supposed to get up when someone arrives, so you will often see the door unlocked or even slightly open, as people arriving are meant to let themselves in. I am not an expert in the strict rules regarding shiva, so I will not attempt to explain it further than that, and I apologize if even in that short explanation I have gotten something wrong. If you want to learn more, this link has some good articles: https://www.shiva.com/learning-center/sitting-shiva.

I will add that the observance of shiva varies quite a bit, from number of days to how many hours/day visitors are expected, but the theme of it is consistent: mourners gather to grieve, and the community gathers to support them. The grief and shock of losing someone so close to you that you are in a position of having to sit shiva is more than disorienting. It can be completely destabilizing. You don’t even know what you need, and you’re often not in a position to take care of even the smallest details. Your world is splintered, and there is a sort of terrible tide that carries you forward that you are helpless to resist. It’s awful. But sitting shiva is a very deep and meaningful way to begin the healing process. Personally, having lost both my parents, I have sat shiva twice. And I found that it was like that trust exercise where you close your eyes and fall backwards. When you sit shiva, it is like falling backwards into the arms of the community. And right there standing at the front of them all, is the person (or persons) I call the Shiva Friend.

At my age, in addition to the times I have sat, there have been quite a few shiva houses for me to visit. In almost all cases – definitely mine – I have seen a Shiva Friend at work. It is one of the most beautiful and selfless acts of friendship that manifests. I was moved to try and write about this at a recent shiva of some close friends of ours, whose mother had passed away.

In Jewish tradition the funeral is supposed to happen within 24 hours of the death, although sometimes it takes a bit longer, and shiva starts right after the funeral, so there is not much time. The Shiva Friend doesn’t ask if there’s something they can do. They don’t say “if you need anything, anything at all, call me,” although there’s nothing wrong with those sentiments. The Shiva Friend is next-level though, and it takes a very special kind of heart.

The Shiva Friend shows up at the shiva house as soon as they find out someone has passed. They know that soon there will be many people coming and going, and even though the mourners are not supposed to be hosts, everyone knows that you want the place to look nice. I have witnessed these friends cleaning houses so thoroughly that they were dusting baseboards in the bathroom, and cleaning the crumbs out of the toaster. But that’s just the first stage. They also know that it is tradition for there to be food for the mourners and the visitors, and that the community will also want to show their support by providing meals. The Shiva Friend will usually arrange for the food on the first night, and make sure it is all set up before people arrive. They will coordinate with people who want to contribute a meal to make sure that it is organized and that food arrives and is ready on time. They are at the shiva every day, supervising, cleaning, making sure the mourners are comfortable and not troubled by the things that would normally trouble a person who has crowds of people arriving at their home. They stay at night after everyone has gone and make sure the leftovers (and there are so many leftovers!) are wrapped up and refrigerated, and that the place is clean.

Nobody asks them to do this. It is not an occupation. They simply take that burden. They don’t even think about whether they should. They just do it. And what’s even more special, is that it’s often not the person you would think of as your closest friend. But when you see it happening, you realize just how special of a friend they are, and how you need to make sure they understand how much it means to you.

You don’t have to be Jewish to be a Shiva Friend. I have often seen this act performed by non-Jewish friends. In fact, you don’t even need a shiva to be a Shiva Friend. It’s a manifestation of friendship that says:

“You don’t have to ask. You don’t have to repay me. There is no ledger to be balanced. I see your need. I am in a position to help. And I will help. That is all.”

I don’t think everyone is capable of this, and I think that’s ok. But I do know that if you have someone like that in your life, you know how blessed you are. And if you are that person, I see you. I appreciate you. I thank you.

Thanks for reading,
Rich

A Different Kind of Ceasefire

If you scream long enough into a canyon, your throat will burn, and the echoes of your anger will wash back on you. But the canyon stays the same.

This is what it’s like to argue on social media, and yet so many of us feel somehow compelled to do it anyway. Myself included.

Example: During the 2008 war in Gaza, I made a lot of noise on social media in support of Israel’s right to defend her citizens from attacks originating within Gaza. Then, as today, so many people and institutions globally disagreed. In one particularly strange interaction I had at the time, the person who was arguing with me said that because Israel has military superiority, they should take no action whatsoever, and simply allow Hamas to continue to fire rockets. And if some Israeli citizens should die, well, that’s better than what happens in Gaza when Israel tries to take out rocket installations. The argument is more or less the following: You know how businesses just have to accept some amount of theft as a cost of doing business? This is like that. Israel has to accept the death of her citizens as the cost of doing life. After days of trying to highlight the ludicrousness of the argument, I let it go. The only thing that changed was my blood pressure. Lesson learned. Social media is no place for reasoned debate, and it’s certainly not as though any Facebook post or argument is going to swing the Middle East to peace. In general, people don’t want truth, they just want to win. And they keep score by how many people are on their side. By engaging, you give them an opponent, an audience, and a scoreboard to erect. So I decided that I would never again engage this way on social media. Then October 7th happened.

You didn’t need to consult Nostradamus to know what was going to happen next on social media, and I said to my wife “I will not scream into the canyon again. I know how that goes.” And I didn’t. At first.

Now, regarding the conflict, my support for or feelings about Israel are not important for the purposes of this article. I am not interested in arguing about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. For one, while I have studied the history of the region and have learned a lot, I am not a scholar of it, and so I am not qualified. But more importantly, the people you end up arguing with are even less qualified, as we see almost every time. In fact, it seems the less they have studied the history, the more qualified they feel to make righteous proclamations. This is not a new phenomenon, but we have social media largely to thank for highlighting, amplifying, and ultimately weaponizing this endearing quality of the keyboard zealot.

So, against this backdrop of my perspective, let me paint a picture.

In the days immediately following October 7, a social media friend of mine who I respect started posting about Palestine. The first inkling I had that there was something odd there was when he said that he found himself having to remind himself that not all Jews are Israel. How, I wondered, have we come to a place where a good person has to engage conscious effort to remember that a Jewish human is separate from Israel, lest he attribute all the evil he feels is perpetrated by Israel to any Jew he meets? I don’t understand this need to consciously humanize someone by distinguishing them from a country. There is a lot to consider there, and I am not a psychologist, but it’s very telling. Because that seems to be a fairly pervasive perspective, whether perpetrated purposely, or adopted subconsciously. The notion that if you hate Israel, you must therefore hate Jews is a deliberately propagated idea, as well as a sadly seductive one for essentially good people to embrace, since statistically most people have not met, or are not aware they have met, any Jewish people in their day-to-day life.

I gave a lot of thought to this from my own perspective. When Russia attacked Ukraine, I didn’t have to remind myself that not all Russians are Russia. When al-Qaeda flew airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, I didn’t have to remind myself that not all Muslims are al-Qaeda. I have read about the Chinese treatment of Uyghurs, and let me be very transparent here – I know almost nothing about this situation except for a few articles I’ve read, which does not remotely make me an expert or qualified to have an opinion. Still, even if I believe the worst, I don’t have to remind myself that not all Chinese people are China.

Why then, did my friend feel that he had to consciously separate Jews from Israel? It sat in my thoughts for a while. In the meantime, he started posting in support of Palestine. Which is okay. I support the Palestinian’s right to a state as well. But his support was manifesting as an attack on Israel. As we’ve seen, there is this sentiment that in order to support Palestine, you must demonize Israel, because according to this narrative, it must be Israel that is standing in the way of a Palestinian state. There is a clear and large contingent that believes that you can not be pro-Palestinian without being anti-Israel. You know what? Even though I strongly disagree with that mutually-exclusive ideology, even that doesn’t bother me on the surface of it. What frightens me is what this viewpoint implicitly permits and promotes.

My friend’s first post on this topic following October 7th was not a condemnation of the massacre. It was that meme that is a collage of four maps, that many of us have seen, that paints the picture that since 1947 Palestine has slowly disappeared to be replaced by Israel. He posted the image with the quote “Free Palestine”. I know him to be a good and caring person, so I responded with a link to an article that shows how that meme is insidiously misleading and does not tell the story accurately, and serves mostly to fuel righteous rage in the hearts of people only cursorily familiar with the history of the region and the resulting conflict. My assumption in posting the link being that he would read it and at the very least admit that there is room for doubting the “Israel-as-conquerors” narrative. Aside from a like, nothing much came of my response. Still, I took the like as a good sign.

A few days later, he posted again. This time it was an image of a google search for Palestine, with a corresponding map that does not show Palestine on it. This time his quote included the plea “How do you erase a country?”, along with wondering why the world cares so much when Russia attacks Ukraine but seems to support Israel wiping Palestine from the map. No mention made of the Hamas massacre, and what the world’s reaction should be to that. This was very hard for me to read and reconcile with who I know he is. And that’s when I really broke my rule of not engaging. I responded with “Was Palestine ever a country?”

It was not an appropriate response. Although it was intended to determine if, in his understanding, Palestine had ever been a country, it was poorly timed, not totally well-phrased, and not appropriate to the sentiment he was displaying, so it landed badly with him. He took it as me not sympathizing with Palestinians in Gaza (I do), and being insensitive to their misery (their misery eats at my gut in more ways than I can articulate here). That said, my question, taken simply as it is written, is valid. Was Palestine ever a country? I have researched the answer. If you’re reading this, please research it as well. I am not trying to answer that question here, only point out that given the history of the region and the current accusations, it is a question whose answer matters, just as the answer to the question of who can claim to be indigenous to the region also matters. What happened as a result of me asking was very telling. There were two interactions of note.

One was very positive. My friend and I had a days long, mutually respectful conversation over private message, that resulted in a deeper understanding of each other as humans. We could agree that we support Israel’s right to exist, and that we condemn Hamas’s terrorism unequivocally. We agree that Israel is not evil, and specifically that the rights of women, the full citizenship rights of all non-Jews in Israel, and the celebration of Israel’s LGBTQ+ community is to be applauded, especially in contrast to the same issues in Gaza under Hamas rule. We agree that Hamas’s October 7th attacks and stated desire to continue them paints Israel into a moral corner from which there is no painless exit. We could not come to a complete agreement on how Israel should handle and respond to Hamas’s aggression and terrorism. And since neither of us is a military strategist, political science expert, or clairvoyant able to look into the future and then look back at whether or not current decisions played out optimally, our failure to agree is not objectively important. He also subsequently made two posts that I appreciated more deeply than he probably knows. One showing an understanding of the difficulties faced by Israel in the ongoing conflict, where he even quoted Golda Meir, and one where he shared my “How Does it Feel to be Jewish” article, and cautioning people who are passionate in their support of Palestinians not to conflate their feelings about Israel with anti-Jewish sentiment. This kind of interaction and outcome is proof that long-form, respectful discussion can bring progress.

The second interaction I want to highlight was with another Facebook friend of his, who decided that my response asking if Palestine was ever a country was his chance to vomit his hatred of Israel, Israelis, the entire western world, and, if I had let him continue by continuing to engage, very likely his therefore justified hatred of Jews. I will summarize the brief exchange.

First, he told me that I should read up on all the lies that “Israel and its colonial allies have flooded the mainstream media with”. The classic “do your research” response of the instant-expert. My response was to ask him how he, personally, knows these are lies, and could he please cite sources. His response was then to list all the tired claims and rants, with no sources. The idea being I guess that because he says so, it must be true, especially if he uses exclamation marks. But maybe my favourite part of his rant was when he told me that “Jews who survived the Holocaust condemn Zionism, which is what Israeli extremists follow.” Dear reader, I have three holocaust survivors in my family alone, and have met dozens more. I didn’t ask him how many he knows personally, or has met, but I would be surprised if the number is greater than zero. His speaking on their behalf, attributing the exact opposite of their sentiments regarding Israel to them, left me without words, but seemed most likely attributable to his reliance on memes and TikTok for his worldview. It was clear there was going to be no way to have this conversation productively, but I persisted a little longer as a sad kind of experiment. I once again asked him to cite his sources for this, since it was clear that he himself was not a primary source. And how many of us are? He finally did. His source … wait for it … was three TikTok videos of caricatured Israelis (perhaps you thought I was being facetious above), and, of course, Roger Waters, the knower of all things.

At this point I could see where this was headed, although it really was clear from the outset. A kaleidoscopic chaos of memes and assertions based on his beliefs, quotes or perspectives from single anecdotal sources that bolster his position, with no interest in actual research or fact-finding. I disengaged, with the sentiment which I hold sincerely: “I hope in our lifetimes we witness a peace we can both live with”. His response was “Good luck finding your sense of history and humanity”.

And that’s how it’s done by the keyboard warrior. When all you have informing your outrage is programmed vitriol and hate, the classic way out is to accuse any opponent of precisely what it is you are guilty of. It’s the grown-up evolution of “I know you are but what am I?”

So what does all this have to do with the title of this blog entry? What ceasefire am I talking about? Well, consider what have we seen since October 7th, from a wide range of people and institutions. Immediately on learning about the massacre, the posts began: “Free Palestine!”; “Israel is genocidal!”; “I am not antisemitic, just anti-Zionist!”

To many of these theoretically well-meaning people, the terror attacks were not a call to condemn terrorism, or to acknowledge the pain of knowing that a terrorist organization is now holding Jewish babies hostage. Nope. They were a call to break their own social media ceasefire and renew their own brand of attacks on Israel. And you know what? If you really feel there is evil being done, and you want to stand and show your opposition to it, I can’t fault you for that, even if I can rightfully expect you to research it diligently and see if it jibes with reality.

No, what I question is your timing. Many – I’d dare to say most – people in this category, believing their calls to be righteous and just, don’t have a personal stake in the conflict. They are not Palestinian. They are not Israeli. They are not Muslim. They are not Jewish. They have never been to a country in the Middle East. They can launch grenades from their keyboard and not worry about the shrapnel tearing into their own skin, or the skin of their families. They are simply swept up in the tide of anti-Israel rhetoric. A tsunami of hate catalyzed by the seismic act of burning Jewish babies, gang-raping Jewish grandmothers to death, and capturing babies to take as hostage (I can’t believe I am using the word “capture” and “baby” in a sentence).

Many of the people carried on this tide are openly and aggressively antisemitic, but that’s not even my point today. My point has to do with the ones who are not. And I believe, or maybe it’s better to say I want to believe, that these are the majority. This meteoric rise in righteous indignation, nominally against Israel, is not coincidentally correlating with the meteoric rise of hate crimes against Jewish people and property, large public rallies calling for the extermination of Jews, and the consequent DEFCON 1 feeling that is permeating every Jewish person I know. There are Jewish students on campus just wanting to get to class who are being verbally and physically harassed by protestors. There are Jewish students on campus who had to lock themselves in a library to stay safe from the mob. There is now a stronger need for security presence at Jewish simchas. “Simcha” is the Hebrew word for a celebration, and in fact derives from the word for happiness. And now we need armed, visible security to experience that happiness safely. Taking down mezuzahs and hiding other outward symbols of our faith is becoming common. I’m guessing you don’t realize it, but it is your attacks on Israel that are lending support and legitimization to this open hatred of Jewish people. Even if you feel like Israel and Jews are completely separate entities in your mind, this is not the case for most people on either side of the conflict. So you are lending strength to the people who really just hate Jews. Who want to kill us. They are using your attacks to justify and fortify their hate speech, to fuel their violence, and to further their agenda to exterminate Jews. You are making them feel safe to broadcast their hatred. Think about that. You are turning dials that increase the feeling of safety for people who want to finish Hitler’s holocaust, thus simultaneously reducing the safety of Jewish people. By being complicit in equating Jewish humans with a country, you are literally dehumanizing us. And is it helping a single Palestinian in Gaza?

If this is you, your attacks on Israel aren’t making anything better for anyone whose plight you seek to remedy, only making life terrible for us. Please consider a humanitarian ceasefire, so that we can find some room to breathe, and reevaluate where our safety lies.

Because right now, it feels like nowhere is safe.

I Have Never Felt More Jewish

On October 16, which was about three and a half weeks ago, I wrote a poem titled That’s Our Daughter, and a few days later I wrote a piece titled “How Does it Feel to be Jewish”. I posted both here, in my blog.

Prior to this, I hadn’t written anything in my blog for three years. If you’ve read either of those then it’s no mystery what led me to write and post. October 7 shook us in a way that we are all still trying to metabolize. I wish we didn’t have to. But no matter how much our souls try to reject the poison, there it is. And there is no antidote. We just need to learn to function with it pulsing through our veins. Even as the world seems determined to pump more of it in.

Unlike other major events I’ve lived through in my life, I can’t tell you exactly where I was when I learned about what happened. I thought that might just be me, but I’ve read this sentiment from other Jewish people as well. I can tell you where I was when I heard about the first plane flying into the WTC tower on 9/11. I can tell you where I was when I learned that my best friend’s eight year-old son had died suddenly. Hell I can even tell you where I was when I heard that Gretzky got traded from the Oilers. But this one … nope. No idea. And I think that’s because I am still finding out. In fact, I didn’t know right away that there had been a massacre. The way news reaches me, personally, I first heard that Hamas was firing rockets into Israel again. The news of what they had done on October 7th snaked into my awareness later, very slowly. And I still wasn’t processing it. Then I saw a video of a young woman being dragged from a jeep by Hamas terrorists. She had clearly been raped. She was bleeding from her head and her crotch. And the whole thing slammed into me in that moment. She could have been my daughter. She is our daughter. I am still haunted by her reality, and the reality of her parents and family. It sent me into a depressive state I had no way to navigate, and so I did what I often do, which is to start writing.

I wrote “How Does it Feel to be Jewish” to articulate to myself how it felt. When I was finished, I was not thinking about whether it was any good. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to click submit, and in fact almost did not. I wasn’t expecting the response it got. My Facebook post about it was shared almost a thousand times. Here on the blog site it has been viewed just under two hundred thousand times. It even got picked up by The National Post, which is surreal. Although I believe these facts, I still don’t really understand them. I have been overwhelmed by the response. I’ve received comments, private messages, texts, and even had people from my past or my family’s past reach out to tell me they read it and it touched them, and to share their own experiences. And I keep thinking, But I’m not special! But it slowly dawned on me. The response isn’t even remotely about me. It is about us. I am not special. WE ARE. Jewish people are special.

I know, I know. You want to respond with “All people are special!”. I will tell you right away – I agree. I agree with all my heart. All people are special. All of us are born with potential for profound humanity. Even now, my faith in humanity has not been shaken, even in the face of the recent cementing of my understanding of humans. Most people are good. My claim that Jewish people are special is, in fact, a result of the fact that all people are special. Any human could be born Jewish. And any human that is born Jewish will then live a life as a Jewish person. This is not a statement about religion, belief in God, observance or nationality. It’s just true. If you are born Jewish then the life you lead will be led as someone who was born Jewish. That can take you in many directions. But it can’t take you away from the fact of your birth. With rare exception, this means you become aware over time that there aren’t very many of us. In Canada we make up one percent of the population. Worldwide, it’s about two tenths of a percent. This has the effect of isolating you locally, while promoting a sense of community globally. Many of us tend to feel connected to each other precisely because there are so few. And if you are a Jewish person living today, then Israel as a modern Jewish state has been around for most and likely all of your life. No matter where you stand on the conflict, this is true. You may love Israel. You may hate Israel. You may support Israel fully or you may have criticism. But Israel has been there. October 7 was a massacre of Jews. It was deliberate murder, torture, and rape. What it has done to pretty much every Jewish person I know is manifest as an attack on our global community. And while it is deeply heartening to receive support from outside that community – and there has been plenty – we also see the hate that has been freed. We see how quickly the rape of our daughters, mothers and grandmothers has been brushed aside. We see how it catalyzed renewed calls for our extermination. The sentiment “Hitler was right” trends. Hitler didn’t try to erase Israel. It wasn’t even a country at that time. Hitler meant to erase Jews. We know what “Hitler was right” means.

We also see, as Mayim Bialik put it, the mysterious struggle some prominent institutions seem to have to find the words to condemn the terrorist acts of October 7. Or as she also said, the swiftness with which the very meaning of terrorism has been redefined by many so that it does not include the beheading of our babies. We see that clear hate speech is being tolerated under the nominal umbrella of nuance. And believe it or not, for us, it’s not even about blaming anyone, although there are plenty of institutions and even people we can blame. It’s a collective understanding that we get it. Again. The only community we can count on without reservation is ourselves.

Now, when we talk to each other, even when it has nothing to do with current events, there is a deeper connection. When we read each other’s posts and stories, from people who never had much presence on social media before, we understand. We’re like any other group of people. Some of us get along in our day-to-day and some of us don’t. We disagree with each other on many things and we agree with each other on many. But all of that has been put aside, because we understand our world in a way that I am glad others do not. We didn’t ask to be a group for whose extermination open calls can be made, without repercussion, in our home countries. We just are. So now the deepness of our connections is made manifest. A deepness many of us probably weren’t aware of.

I was at a Bat Mitzvah recently, and at the end of the service, the congregation sang Hatikvah. I went to Hebrew school for twelve years. I know the words and can sing them without conscious thought. In the thousands of times I’ve heard it or sung it, I have never been impacted by it the way I was this time. It brought me to tears. And it was not because of a connection to Israel, although anyone reading this would find that the most obvious explanation. What was in my heart at that moment was a connection to Jewish people. All of them. Everywhere.

I have never felt more Jewish.