Jewish American Heritage Month

Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

By Rasha Herzallah

RAMALLAH, Friday, May 15, 2020 (WAFA) In the midst of the massacres perpetrated by invading Zionist militias in pre-1948 historical Palestine that led to the creation of today's Israel, and in the middle of bombardment and ethnic cleansing, what does it mean for a human being to die alone of thirst?

Can someone describe or imagine at least an event like this, or can they even imagine an event of this nature when death and displacement go on everywhere? But this is what happened to Ms. Nabiha Al-Huneidi.

Nabiha, despite being illiterate, was known for her extraordinary popularity and respect among the women of Lod, and was usually offered the main seat in any council, where she would tell women verses that she memorized and others she improvised, although she had not received any school education.

Nabiha, who was her daddy's girl, was the daughter of the wealthiest man of Lod before the 1948 Nakba of Palestine. She got married to Mr. Daoud Tarteer, a member of the then wealthy Tarteer family, who died at an early age. The lady had to raise four orphans. She considered their education her top priority, and living up for her children and their future was the top mission in her life.

However, the events of the Nakba in 1948 started to impose another path in her life, as the Zionist militias destroyed the country, and her family members were displaced. Unfortunately, Nabiha died alone of thirst inside a mosque in Lod, and was buried in a place that is unknown until today.

A couple of years ago, a picture of a memorial public fountain went viral on the social media and read: Free water available in honor of my grandmother Nabiha Al-Huneidi, who died alone and thirsty after we were expelled from Lod on July 13, 1948. This photo became iconic, and people started using it to commemorate the Nakba on May 15 every year. However, the details of the story behind this memorial remained unknown to many.

Several weeks ago, we started searching for the location of this monument and its owner, and we reached out to many family members who are scattered in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the United States, but they said they knew nothing about the story, and some of them said the photo was most likely taken in Jordan. Others said the photo was perhaps taken in Lod, while some told us that they knew nothing more about it than what was written on the memorial. Until that moment, Nabiha was unknown, as was her mysterious death story.

Our search continued until we came across a Facebook comment dating back to three years ago. The comment was on a picture published by an activist stating that the memorial was built in the "Tarteer Palace" in town of Surda, north of Ramallah. We were told that the owner of the palace had died in 2015, and his children had immigrated to the United States, and the house has been locked ever since.

The search continued until we came across a comment by Mahasen Tarteer, Nabiha's granddaughter, on Facebook in which she praised her grandma and her cousin, who built the memorial. We talked to Mahasen, 74 years old, who resides in the Jordanian capital of Amman after she, together with her family, were expelled from her hometown of Ramle by Zionist gangs in 1948.

Mahasen spoke about her grandmother with great sorrow as she recounted what was narrated by her father, Ayoub, who and whose family were forcibly evicted from Lod while carrying his daughter, Mahasen, her brothers, and her cousins towards the town of Ni'lin, west of Ramallah, for fear of massacres by the Zionist gangs.

By that time, Nabiha, who was 60 years old, stayed at home because her children were forced to walk tens of kilometers, and she was disabled and needed someone to carry her all the way.

"Because of the severity of the tragedy, my cousin was carrying her daughter and because of exhaustion and thirst, she left her under a tree, but my father returned there and carried her," Mahasen says.

After a long journey full of fatigue and exhaustion, the father and his brothers arrived in Ni'lin, and after they had secured their families with one of their acquaintances, they returned to Lod to bring their mother. But they could not reach her, as the Zionist gangs were randomly shooting at people, bombing houses, and destroying everything they saw on their way. The family continued their attempts to reach Nabiha but all in vain.

Nabiha did not find anyone to take care of her, as she was unable to exert any effort without assistance, until she was found by the uncle of Mahasen's mother, Hajj Ibrahim, who volunteered to help the needy and who moved her together with a number of elderly people to a mosque in the city. Hajj Ibrahim looked after them, supervised them, fed them and watered them but, as Mahasens father narrated to her, the Zionist gangs imposed a curfew on the city, arrested its youth and men, preventing Hajj Ibrahim from reaching her, and Nabiha had to face her fate alone.

On the July 13, 1948, Nabiha died in the mosque alone from hunger and thirst. She died alone, without anyone with her except few unknown volunteers who buried her in a place that is unknown to this day.

Nabiha is one of the tragic cases of the 1948 ethnic cleansing of Palestine that are narrated today by the grandchildren. Her tragic death is a symbol and evidence of hundreds of thousands of similar stories that remain untold until today. It is also one of thousands of stories that stand evidence to the most heinous crimes committed against the Palestinian people whose impact can be seen to date.

M.N

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On Nakba Day, what does it mean to die of thirst? - WAFA - Palestine News Agency

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

Like most people in California, Luis is sheltering in place. He whiles away the hours listening to music on a Spanish-language radio station and scrolling through websites on an old, borrowed cell phone. But instead of being at home, the Honduran immigrant is spending his days on the ground floor of a pandemic-shuttered shul, at Kehilla Community Synagogue in Piedmont.

At 63, Luis, who asked that only his first name be used, has lived in the U.S. for more than 30 years. He was recently released from an Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention center near Bakersfield, where he had been incarcerated for six months. Hes been in quarantine at Kehilla since May 1.

Every day or two, a masked volunteer from the synagogues Immigration Committee delivers home-cooked meals and groceries. Occasionally, Luis hears the sounds of a custodian cleaning somewhere in the synagogue. But mostly hes alone in the empty building, happy for the quiet and tranquility.

Its peaceful at the temple, he said in Spanish through a synagogue volunteer acting as an interpreter. When I first got out, I couldnt sleep; I was so excited and emotional. Even now, I cant believe Im free.

During the coronavirus pandemic, conditions have been especially dire for immigrants in ICE detention facilities, long criticized for overcrowding and inadequate sanitation. On May 7, a 57-year-old Salvadoran man became the first person held at a U.S. ICE detention facility to die of COVID-19. At least 943 immigrants in detention across 20 states have tested positive for the virus, according to ICE, and immigration activists believe its only a matter of time until a major outbreak threatens more lives.

Luis, who is homeless, was incarcerated in October after ICE agents found him sleeping in his car in a Target parking lot. He first heard about the coronavirus pandemic from the Spanish-language television news at the detention center. We were terrified one person would get it and then we all would get it and we would die, he said.

In a pandemic, detention centers are a public health officials worst nightmare; 6-foot social distancing is virtually impossible. At the Mesa Verde ICE Processing Facility where Luis was incarcerated, the detained men and women live in large dormitories with bunk beds spaced 2 to 3 feet apart, according to recent news reports. As many as 100 people live in a single block and hundreds eat together in a common dining hall.

In April, as reports of the unsanitary conditions there leaked out, protesters gathered outside the detention facility. When Luis went out to the recreation yard, he could hear people outside the facility yelling, Freedom. The detainees yelled back in response and assembled in the shape of a heart as a drone flew over them recording the scene.

People incarcerated at the center organized a hunger strike and demanded that the facility make hygiene supplies like soap and masks more available. Luis participated in the hunger strike for a day and a half but finally had to quit because he was on medication that had to be taken with food.

Now, perhaps in response to the protests and legal efforts to free those who are detained, ICE is releasing a trickle of people who are particularly vulnerable to the virus.

Because of his age and several chronic medical conditions, Luis was approved for release, but he needed a place where he could quarantine for at least 14 days.

Julie Litwin, chair of Kehillas Immigration Committee, heard about Luis plight and approached the Kehilla leadership. The synagogue was ready; it had recently converted a storage room into a guest suite with a private bathroom with the intention of helping immigrants in need.

This is a moment in time when its possible to do something relatively simple to potentially save lives, said Litwin. If a detained person has an address to go to and a place to self-quarantine for a short period of time, it increases the chance that they may be released from a dangerous situation, where they could potentially die if there is a COVID-19 outbreak.

Litwin, 64, has been defending the dignity of immigrants for most of her life, first as a nurse-midwife working with farmworker families on the Central Coast, later at a county hospital, and now as an activist.

As a Jewish person this work is very important to me because of our history and culture and stories; we have been immigrants and migrants back to biblical times, she said. Our safety and our lives and the continuation of our people wouldnt have happened if there werent people who were kind to us. Thats something dear to my heart.

Kehilla has a long history of supporting immigrants. In 1985 the synagogue declared itself a Sanctuary Congregation and became an active member of the East Bay Sanctuary Covenant, a network of faith communities engaged in helping refugees escape death squads in El Salvador. Ever since, the congregation has championed the rights of immigrants. In recent years several members have opened their homes to refugees and asylum seekers and others have served on accompaniment teams supporting them.

Were doing this because we have to, said Kehilla Executive Director Michael Saxe-Taller. Our values call us to do it. We as a congregation have taken a very strong stand in support of immigrants and refugees. When this request came, it was clear whats happening is a travesty of justice and if we had the opportunity to do something about it, we should.

A group of immigrant advocates is working to find Luis a more permanent home in the Sacramento area, where his former employer at a Jack in the Box restaurant has agreed to give him back his old job this time with more hours so he can afford to pay rent. He will remain on electronic monitoring with ICE, a GPS tracking device buckled around his ankle, while he continues to fight his immigration case.

Luis, who had never heard of Judaism before coming to Kehilla, said he hopes to visit a synagogue once hes settled in to his new home.

Frankly I have no idea of what Judaism is, he said. Ive never heard anything about it. I dont know what they preach or what this religion is about, but I can tell you the way Ive been received here says a lot. Im so grateful and happy.

Continued here:

From ICE detention to quarantine in an East Bay synagogue J. - The Jewish News of Northern California

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

(JTA) When the coronavirus pandemic first descended on the United States in March, the Orthodox rabbis of Dallas shuttered their synagogues together in a remarkable show of unity.

In April, as the governor of Texas began reopening the state, the rabbis banded together again, telling their congregants that they all would keep their synagogues closed.

But now, as the nations lockdown enters its third month, their compact has frayed. This week, the rabbis announced that going forward, each synagogue would decide on its own when to resume in-person services.

The Orthodox Rabbinate of Dallas have collectively decided that each shul will open at a time and in a way that is best suited for its physical plant and congregation, the rabbis wrote in a statement published Thursday. Please note that whenever your shul opens and in which form, one thing will be common to all shuls the reopening will be gradual, methodical and, in the initial stages it will, sadly, need to be quite different from when we all prayed together.

The letter offered the latest evidence for an emerging reality: Two months after abruptly ceasing all communal prayer, Orthodox communities across the United States are increasingly divided over when and how to resume this centerpiece of Jewish life.

In Dallas, community leaders are essentially agreeing to disagree about whether it is safe to come back to synagogue. But in other places including New Yorks suburban Long Island, Florida and Ohio rabbis are openly sparring over whether to permit outdoor minyans, or small-scale prayer services held on porches and lawns.

That Orthodox communities are eager to get back to prayer services is not surprising. Non-Orthodox synagogues have added online Shabbat services and begun allowing prayer quorums to form over Zoom, enabling those whove lost a loved one to recite the Mourners Kaddish. But Orthodox practice does not allow technology on Shabbat or virtual minyans, precluding observant Jews from fulfilling the religious obligations that form the rhythms of daily Orthodox life.

Rabbis ruled that staying home to prevent the spread of disease was a higher obligation than praying communally during the pandemics early days, when it ravaged Orthodox communities in New York and New Jersey. But as time has worn on and other local communities have not experienced the same crisis, rabbis have faced pressure from their constituents to allow minyans to resume with added safeguards.

Hasidic Jews in Londons Stamford Hill neighborhood gather for Shabbat services, April 25, 2020. (Barry Lewis/InPictures via Getty Images)

Last week, major Orthodox groups issued two sets of guidance that urged a slow, careful return to in-person prayer services. One set of guidelines, from the more liberal Orthodox Union, took a firmer stand than the other, from the haredi organization Agudath Israel, against resuming outdoor services immediately. But both groups left final decisions about reopening to local rabbis and health officials.

The result has been tension within Orthodox communities, with advocates of devising a pathway back to communal prayer clashing with those who say its too soon, and too risky, to reconvene.

In Cleveland, an Orthodox rabbinical association announced Tuesday that block captains could begin organizing outdoor minyans that conformed to distancing guidelines.

It faced swift opposition from other Orthodox rabbis in the area.

I feel duty-bound to inform people that I am not supportive of the letter, one of the rabbis wrote, according to the Cleveland Jewish News.

Leaders of a synagogue in Deerfield Beach, Florida, sent a letter to congregants this week sharply criticizing those who gathered for services in what they deemed rogue minyanim.

This level of raw chutzpah and dangerous Sofek Pikuach Nefashos cannot be tolerated, said the synagogue leaders, using a Hebrew phrase meaning possible danger to human life.

The letter warned that participants in these minyans would be denied honors at the synagogue whenever it reopened.

And the Rabbinical Council of Bergen County, home to a number of large Modern Orthodox communities, released a letter Wednesday saying outdoor minyans absolutely cannot take place now. The northern New Jersey group was the first to issue unified rules during the pandemic, shutting down all synagogues under its purview on March 12 as it became clear that an outbreak in the New York City area was spreading within the community.

Perhaps nowhere has the fracture been more pronounced than in areas of Long Island where haredi and Modern Orthodox Jews live side by side on the same tree-lined blocks.

A local synagogue that continued to meet for services stood out so much that a prominent rabbi denounced its leader by name in a fiery lecture on Zoom just before Passover.

Rabbi Hershel Billet of the Young Israel of Woodmere called the rabbi who allowed the prayer service a danger to the entire community and promised to personally try to run this man out of the community.

Jewish men pray while keeping distance from each other outside their closed synagogue in Netanya, Israel, April 23, 2020. (Jack Guez/AFP via Getty Images)

Later that month, a group of 57 rabbis from the Five Towns and Far Rockaway signed a letter urging against gathering for outdoor services.

That was three weeks ago. In the past week, several rabbis have begun cautiously approving the practice under narrow circumstances.

The split in this community has fallen along loose ideological lines, with rabbis aligned more closely with the haredi community, often described as ultra-Orthodox, allowing the outdoor minyans while those in the Modern Orthodox camp continue to oppose them.

But there have been some exceptions where the distinctions blur between parts of the Orthodox community.

Rabbis Eytan Feiner and Motti Neuberger of The White Shul, a synagogue in Far Rockaway affiliated with the more modern Orthodox Union, sent a letter to congregants last week allowing outdoor minyans to proceed with restrictions in place.

The letter advised congregants that the minyans could only be held if each family remained on its own property and maintained at least 6 feet of distance from anyone outside his own household.

Only OUTDOOR Minyanim are permitted, they wrote.

Rabbi Zalman Wolowik, director of the Chabad of the Five Towns in Cedarhurst, sent a similar letter to his congregation after previously prohibiting outdoor minyans. But Wolowik told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency that he had not participated in such a minyan himself because his house is not situated in a way that would allow it.

If they can do it right, everybody on their own property kudos to them if they can do it safely, said Wolowik, noting that many people are not able to participate in the minyans if they dont live close to enough people who can participate. I am their best example I cant do it and so I dont do it.

But the guidance issued last week by the Orthodox Union and Rabbinical Council of America cautioned that even carefully regulated outdoor services could spin out of control.

Care must be taken to ensure that this not become a free-for-all, the guidance said.

One Long Island rabbi who had recently allowed the outdoor minyans wrote to his congregants Thursday warning that his permission would be revoked if the rules for running the minyan were broken.

I am sad to say that a number of people have called to tell me that the guidelines have already been broken in several ways, Rabbi Yaakov Feitman of Kehillas Bais Yehudah Tzvi wrote.

It was that possibility that the rules would be broken that led Modern Orthodox rabbis in the community to oppose the practice.

In theory, one can create a minyan today that doesnt pose risk, Rabbi Dr. Aaron Glatt, a rabbi at two synagogues in the area, including Billets, and the chief of Infectious Diseases at Mount Sinai South Nassau Hospital, said. But the question is can that theory be translated into reality.

The post Rogue minyans and divided ranks: Orthodox rabbis are increasingly split over safety of communal prayer appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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'Rogue' minyans and divided ranks: Orthodox rabbis are increasingly split over safety of communal prayer - Cleveland Jewish News

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

Photo by Kay Kim / flickr No changes made.

By Rabbi Charles L. Arian

The COVID-19 pandemic has challenged synagogues and rabbis to respond creatively. Services are not as easy as, Add Zoom and Stir. We maintain the closeness of our community, though, and are adapting to our new ways of conducting shul business.

One of the issues with the pandemic is that we have to change the way we do things. We cant meet in our synagogues for services. Rabbis cannot counsel congregants in person. We cannot read from the Torah scroll.

Change is not always easy for Jews. Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, a recently retired professor of liturgy at Hebrew Union College in New York, has said that in most synagogues, the phrase inscribed above the ark is either Know before Whom you stand or For out of Zion shall go forth Torah. But it should really say, We have always done it this way.

The coronavirus crisis has meant that almost no organization or individual has been able to do things the way they have always done them. When we were forced to close our doors, we quickly retooled and moved almost everything from in person to online.

We have not missed a minyan or a Shabbat or holiday service, and we have even added services (Havdalah and a well-received healing service) and social gatherings (Virtual Lunch and Virtual Coffee with the Rabbi.)

We have had our first Zoom bat mitzvah and a Zoom seder which was attended not only by current but even former members who have moved out of the area. I am still available for one-to-one counseling by phone or by Zoom.

here have been stumbling blocks along the way, however. Many of our congregants had technical difficulties, and I am now not only the rabbi but the IT department and the help desk. We had to adapt the service for online use, cutting out portions and shortening the service. And for the first time in my 27 years in the Conservative rabbinate, I authorized a violation of Conservative movement guidelines.

When it became clear that places of worship would have to temporarily close, the movements Committee on Jewish Law and Standards said that streaming Shabbat services was permissible if the livestream was running 24/7, activated by a timer or operated by a non-Jewish employee. On the viewers end, it had to be accessible without operating the computer on Shabbat, similar to leaving on the television to watch a ball game. We didnt have the equipment or staff to comply with the guidance that was given at the time, so I authorized violating these guidelines.

When we first closed our building, it was assumed that it would be for two or three weeks and then things would go back to normal. After eight weeks, the end is not in sight as new COVID-19 cases and deaths continue to increase. It has also become clear that social distancing does not have an on/off switch. We will not go from stay at home orders to the status quo ante. Synagogues, churches and mosques will have to consider a hybrid model with service leaders and a small number of congregants attending in person and others online. As I have said to a number of people, while its too early to think about reopening, its not too early to start thinking about what things will look like when we do reopen.

I am fairly certain that if we did not offer streaming services on Shabbat and holidays we would not survive the lockdown. We are starting to figure out what our High Holiday services will look like with, most likely, only a few people in our sanctuary and most congregants watching from the safety of their homes. And when the lockdown is lifted, what will our Shabbat services look like? If the state says that we can reopen but no one over 70 or with certain health conditions should attend, is it ethical to have services which exclude some congregants? Should we continue to do Zoom services only? A hybrid model with some people at the synagogue and others online?

There are no easy answers to these questions. As I consider all the alternatives and discuss them with my congregations leaders and with other rabbis, it is clear that we will not be able to go back to what we had done before, and our new reality will be deeply uncomfortable for a lot of people including, at times, me. But precisely 1,950 years ago our ancestors faced a similar crisis as the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and the main form of worship that they had became impossible. They responded creatively with Torah study, acts of lovingkindness and prayer replacing the Temple service. We, too, will figure this out and emerge stronger than before.

Rabbi Charles L. Arian leads Kehilat Shalom in Gaithersburg.

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Why we cannot do it as we always have - Washington Jewish Week

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

JTA The Conservative movement issued a ruling allowing congregations to livestream services on Shabbat and holidays during the coronavirus pandemic.

Noting the unprecedented time brought on by the virus, the movements Jewish law authorities voted Wednesday to allow livestreaming with a number of caveats, including that the equipment be set up in advance or that a timer be used to avoid the active use of electricity on Shabbat and holidays, when it is traditionally forbidden.

The Committee on Jewish Laws and Standards adopted the ruling by a vote of 19 in favor, three against, and three abstentions.

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The ruling, written by Rabbi Joshua Heller of Congregation Bnai Torah in Sandy Springs, Georgia, notes that it is applicable to the current situation only and that its conclusions will need to be reassessed as we transition to a new normal.

The question of livestreaming on Shabbat and holidays had already been under debate within the movement prior to the pandemic.

This question took on a dramatic new urgency as almost every synagogue in the world was forced to suspend in-person physical worship, and even as some begin to re-open, it is likely that it will be many months before large groups can assemble together safely, Heller wrote.

Heller also addressed concerns that allowing livestreaming could lead people to do other things prohibited on Shabbat or holidays.

The wider intrusion of technology into Shabbat and Yom Tov worship will require greater fences to preserve the sanctity of the day, he wrote. It is a short step from watching services to emailing, online shopping, and other activities which violate the letter and spirit of the law.

Traditionally, Conservative and Orthodox congregations have not allowed livestreaming on Shabbat or holidays as it violates the prohibition against using electricity. However, some Conservative synagogues livestream anyway and more have started doing so since they were forced to cancel in-person services due to the pandemic.

In March, leaders of the law committee issued a crisis declaration allowing the recitation of the Mourners Kaddish with a prayer quorum, or minyan, convened online, saying that congregations that follow it would have to use a multi-way link that allowed participants to see and hear each other.

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Conservative movement allows livestreaming on Shabbat, holidays during pandemic - The Times of Israel

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

The national leader of American Judaisms biggest denomination said he is considering the possibility of merging parts of its operations with those of other liberal Jewish movements.

Its a very real possibility despite some religious differences between the denominations, said Rabbi Rick Jacobs, the leader of the Union for Reform Judaism, which has over 850 congregations, summer camps that host 10,000 children and a biennial conference attended by thousands.

The URJ helps fund the movements seminary, trains synagogue presidents, arbitrates disputes between and within communities and hosts ReformJudaism.org, a website with information on Jewish ritual and practice that gets hundreds of thousands of visitors a month.

The coronavirus has hurt the URJs finances, in large part because the movement decided to cancel its summer camps. It has forced the URJ to lay off 20% of its workforce, and compelling it to evaluate its near and longer-term prospects: how it can continue providing its services at a greatly diminished size and how it can survive years of widespread economic hardship.

But some Reform leaders and rabbis are concerned about preserving the unique identity of the Reform movement, which in recent decades has emphasized its role in social justice work, especially through its lobbying wing, the Religious Action Center.

The URJ isnt only an administrative body, Rabbi Amy Schwartzman, leader of the 1,800-household Temple Rodef Shalom, outside Washington, D.C. It also houses a progressive ideology and a philosophy that is like no other movement, and a theology that is central for the future of progressive Judaism.

The economic crisis brought on by the coronavirus shutdown has already hit the Jewish world. In addition to the URJ, other national organizations, like the Jewish Federations of North America and the college campus organization Hillel, as well as local day schools, Jewish community centers and synagogues, have announced layoffs and furloughs.

Though the pandemic has forced many pillars of organized Jewish life to downsize extremely quickly, synagogue support organizations like the URJ have been struggling for years. The 2008 financial crisis hit the Reform movement particularly hard. About 20% of its dues-paying synagogue members left, and not all returned, said Jonathan Sarna, a professor of Jewish history at Brandeis University. Since then, the organization has gone through multiple rounds of downsizing, and has cut programs.

The two main other egalitarian denominations Conservative and Reconstructing Judaism have also been forced to adapt to economic crises and what has seemed to be an unstoppable flow of Americans, young and old, migrating away from organized religious life. In 2012, Reconstructing Judaism merged its synagogue union with its seminary. This year, the Conservative movement appointed a joint chief executive for both its synagogue and rabbinical organizations, a move that many observers saw as a prelude to a broader merging of those two bodies.

The question is not so much will there be a URJ but what is its new purpose and how big does it need to be to achieve its goals? said Rabbi Lance Jonathan Sussman, a historian of American Judaism and the leader of Congregation Keneseth Israel, a Reform synagogue in Elkins Park, Penn.

The URJ, Jacobs said, has been providing what have amounted to emergency services to communities to help them respond to the pandemic, training hundreds of synagogues on how to use remote video software and adapting services and classes to Zoom and Facebook Live, as well as helping 200 synagogues apply for Small Business Administration loans. (Jacobs said that most of the applications were successful.)

He didnt not specify which parts of the organizations might merge. He framed the possibility as a positive development for several movements that overlap in many ways in styles of worship, although barriers of ritual and practice remain, particularly between the Conservative movement on the one hand and the URJ and Reconstructing Judaism on the other. In Conservative Judaism, for example, rabbis are not allowed to officiate interfaith marriages, and Jewish identity is passed on by the mother restrictions that the other two movements have dropped.

The language of demise, the language of shrinkage, thats not the language to describe the reality of Jewish life today, Jacobs said. Change is the language. Adapting is the language.

Steven Windmueller, a professor of Jewish communal service at the Reform movements seminary in Los Angeles, has argued for years that some kind of merger is necessary for survival. Now, he said, that conversation can no longer be put off.

Instead of saying, we launched the strategic plan in anticipation of what could happen, the events are defining us, he said.

Rabbi Hayim Herring, a business consultant who has worked predominantly with Jewish organizations, said there were four things the movements could start doing together first: facilitate synagogues that serve similar populations to merge or pool resources; merge parts of their respective summer camp operations; create a shared system for adult education, which many synagogues conduct on their own; and share accounting, IT and marketing teams.

The goal, he said, should be to focus resources on making as many Jews as possible feel welcome in organized Judaism, and not just in specific movements.

If more people feel positively about congregations, thats important for all the movements, he said.

Jacobs said merging parts of the various organizations operations could happen within his tenure as president of the URJ, although its not imminent. If it happens, it will be one of the many changes that were underway before the pandemic such as streaming services and have now accelerated.

The global pandemic is a big push in the right direction in some ways, a direction that many people resisted, he said. Because the status quo is always really appealing.

Ari Feldman is a staff writer at the Forward. Contact him at feldman@forward.com or follow him on Twitter @aefeldman

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Reform leader: merging national organization with others a very real possibility - Jewish Journal

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

(JTA) When the coronavirus pandemic first descended on the United States in March, the Orthodox rabbis of Dallas shuttered their synagogues together in a remarkable show of unity.

In April, as the governor of Texas began reopening the state, the rabbis banded together again, telling their congregants that they all would keep their synagogues closed.

But now, as the nations lockdown enters its third month, their compact has frayed. This week, the rabbis announced that going forward, each synagogue would decide on its own when to resume in-person services.

The Orthodox Rabbinate of Dallas have collectively decided that each shul will open at a time and in a way that is best suited for its physical plant and congregation, the rabbis wrote in a statement published Thursday. Please note that whenever your shul opens and in which form, one thing will be common to all shuls the reopening will be gradual, methodical and, in the initial stages it will, sadly, need to be quite different from when we all prayed together.

The letter offered the latest evidence for an emerging reality: Two months after abruptly ceasing all communal prayer, Orthodox communities across the United States are increasingly divided over when and how to resume this centerpiece of Jewish life.

In Dallas, community leaders are essentially agreeing to disagree about whether it is safe to come back to synagogue. But in other places including New Yorks suburban Long Island, Florida and Ohio rabbis are openly sparring over whether to permit outdoor minyans, or small-scale prayer services held on porches and lawns.

That Orthodox communities are eager to get back to prayer services is not surprising. Non-Orthodox synagogues have added online Shabbat services and begun allowing prayer quorums to form over Zoom, enabling those whove lost a loved one to recite the Mourners Kaddish. But Orthodox practice does not allow technology on Shabbat or virtual minyans, precluding observant Jews from fulfilling the religious obligations that form the rhythms of daily Orthodox life.

Rabbis ruled that staying home to prevent the spread of disease was a higher obligation than praying communally during the pandemics early days, when it ravaged Orthodox communities in New York and New Jersey. But as time has worn on and other local communities have not experienced the same crisis, rabbis have faced pressure from their constituents to allow minyans to resume with added safeguards.

Last week, major Orthodox groups issued two sets of guidance that urged a slow, careful return to in-person prayer services. One set of guidelines, from the more liberal Orthodox Union, took a firmer stand than the other, from the haredi organization Agudath Israel, against resuming outdoor services immediately. But both groups left final decisions about reopening to local rabbis and health officials.

The result has been tension within Orthodox communities, with advocates of devising a pathway back to communal prayer clashing with those who say its too soon, and too risky, to reconvene.

In Cleveland, an Orthodox rabbinical association announced Tuesday that block captains could begin organizing outdoor minyans that conformed to distancing guidelines.

It faced swift opposition from other Orthodox rabbis in the area.

I feel duty-bound to inform people that I am not supportive of the letter, one of the rabbis wrote, according to the Cleveland Jewish News.

Leaders of a synagogue in Deerfield Beach, Florida, sent a letter to congregants this week sharply criticizing those who gathered for services in what they deemed rogue minyanim.

This level of raw chutzpah and dangerous Sofek Pikuach Nefashos cannot be tolerated, said the synagogue leaders, using a Hebrew phrase meaning possible danger to human life.

The letter warned that participants in these minyans would be denied honors at the synagogue whenever it reopened.

And the Rabbinical Council of Bergen County, home to a number of large Modern Orthodox communities, released a letter Wednesday saying outdoor minyans absolutely cannot take place now. The northern New Jersey group was the first to issue unified rules during the pandemic, shutting down all synagogues under its purview on March 12 as it became clear that an outbreak in the New York City area was spreading within the community.

Perhaps nowhere has the fracture been more pronounced than in areas of Long Island where haredi and Modern Orthodox Jews live side by side on the same tree-lined blocks.

A local synagogue that continued to meet for services stood out so much that a prominent rabbi denounced its leader by name in a fiery lecture on Zoom just before Passover.

Rabbi Hershel Billet of the Young Israel of Woodmere called the rabbi who allowed the prayer service a danger to the entire community and promised to personally try to run this man out of the community.

Later that month, a group of 57 rabbis from the Five Towns and Far Rockaway signed a letter urging against gathering for outdoor services.

That was three weeks ago. In the past week, several rabbis have begun cautiously approving the practice under narrow circumstances.

The split in this community has fallen along loose ideological lines, with rabbis aligned more closely with the haredi community, often described as ultra-Orthodox, allowing the outdoor minyans while those in the Modern Orthodox camp continue to oppose them.

But there have been some exceptions where the distinctions blur between parts of the Orthodox community.

Rabbis Eytan Feiner and Motti Neuberger of The White Shul, a synagogue in Far Rockaway affiliated with the more modern Orthodox Union, sent a letter to congregants last week allowing outdoor minyans to proceed with restrictions in place.

The letter advised congregants that the minyans could only be held if each family remained on its own property and maintained at least 6 feet of distance from anyone outside his own household.

Only OUTDOOR Minyanim are permitted, they wrote.

Rabbi Zalman Wolowik, director of the Chabad of the Five Towns in Cedarhurst, sent a similar letter to his congregation after previously prohibiting outdoor minyans. But Wolowik told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency that he had not participated in such a minyan himself because his house is not situated in a way that would allow it.

If they can do it right, everybody on their own property kudos to them if they can do it safely, said Wolowik, noting that many people are not able to participate in the minyans if they dont live close to enough people who can participate. I am their best example I cant do it and so I dont do it.

But the guidance issued last week by the Orthodox Union and Rabbinical Council of America cautioned that even carefully regulated outdoor services could spin out of control.

Care must be taken to ensure that this not become a free-for-all, the guidance said.

One Long Island rabbi who had recently allowed the outdoor minyans wrote to his congregants Thursday warning that his permission would be revoked if the rules for running the minyan were broken.

I am sad to say that a number of people have called to tell me that the guidelines have already been broken in several ways, Rabbi Yaakov Feitman of Kehillas Bais Yehudah Tzvi wrote.

It was that possibility that the rules would be broken that led Modern Orthodox rabbis in the community to oppose the practice.

In theory, one can create a minyan today that doesnt pose risk, Rabbi Dr. Aaron Glatt, a rabbi at two synagogues in the area, including Billets, and the chief of Infectious Diseases at Mount Sinai South Nassau Hospital, said. But the question is can that theory be translated into reality.

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

TORONTO (JTA) As the rate of new COVID-19 cases very gradually declines in Ontario, Canadas most populous province, this citys residents can see the light.

Storefront retailers are preparing to reopen by appointment or with limited capacity. Restrictions prohibiting access to parks including the coveted cherry blossom blooms are loosening.

Still, as Prime Minister Justin Trudeau said in one of his recent daily news briefings, Normal is something thats a long way off.

This is true for both the country as a whole as well as Toronto, its largest city, home to 48 percent of Canadas nearly 400,000 Jews, according to a 2018 Environics Institute survey.

With a ban on gatherings of more than five people in effect, empty streets, shuttered spaces and canceled events have rendered the provincial capital unrecognizable. Residents have been forced to adapt in order to keep their city alive, and thats exactly what members of Torontos vibrant Jewish community are doing.

No oys for this cafe

Judy Perly holds a takeout bag outside her Free Times Cafe. (Courtesy of Perly)

Judy Perly bought the Free Times Cafe, situated in the Little Italy neighborhood, 40 years ago as an alternative to life as a starving artist. Jewish food wasnt the focus at first that came 15 years later, around 1995, when the business needed a boost after a fire. Perly was living in her late mothers house, near Bathurst and Eglington, where kosher bakeries like Grodzinski and Hermes appeared to be thriving.

I didnt have my own children. I want[ed] to be a Jewish mother, Perly recalled.

Shortly thereafter, Bella! Did Ya Eat? was born a weekly Sunday brunch buffet named after Perlys mom, Bella, complete with live klezmer music. This helped cement Free Times as a local institution known for homemade Jewish, Middle Eastern and Canadian food accompanied by live entertainment seven days a week.

After closing in mid-March, Free Times Cafe sprang into action to create a Passover pop-up menu for pickup and delivery. Perly said it sold 600 meals in three days and had to turn away 200 more.

It was so successful, it was too much for us, she said.

Since then, Perly said her team has developed an improved online ordering system, allowing catering to continue without a hitch while the restaurants 110 seats rest empty. The takeout menus for Bubies Friday Nite Dinner and Mothers Day brunch featured popular Free Times fare including chicken soup, brisket, blintzes, latkes, challah, bagels and fish platters.

The last Bella! Did Ya Eat? to take place in person was March 8, Perlys 70th birthday. Nevertheless, Perly has found ways to bring the ambiance to customers homes. Shes used Facebook to broadcast live concerts and lead patrons in her famous Sunday OYs!

Appearing in a Facebook video, Perly is seen sitting alone in the empty restaurant.

Were gonna do six oys today, she says, inviting viewers to join her. Oy, oy vey, oy vey iz mir, oy a broch, oy gevalt and oy yayoy yayoy yayoy and do we ever need [them].

The Toronto Jewish Film Festival goes online

Actress Judith Chemla in a scene from The End of Love, which was set to open this years Toronto Jewish Film Festival. (TJFF)

Founded in 1993 as a response to the lack of Jewish content playing in mainstream cinemas, the Toronto Jewish Film Festival has grown to become Canadas largest annual Jewish cultural event: an 11-day festival showcasing 100-plus films from more than 20 countries. They also run year-round programming, and J-Flix, a free streaming platform dedicated to Jewish and Israeli movies.

For the first time in its 28-year history, the festival which begins May 30 is set to take place online.

In a normal year, 20,000 people attend the festival. But no one can describe this as a normal year, said Debbie Werner, its executive director.

The festival is holding dates at the end of October for a tentative in-theater portion.

Some of the films we show do get theatrical releases or make it onto major streaming platforms like Netflix, but a lot of them dont and if the work cant be seen at festivals, it cant be seen, Werner said. Its really important for us to support the artists as well as to encourage film as a medium where we explore Jewish culture and preserve Jewish history.

This had been a record year of over 900 submissions, including Ron Chapmans film Shelter, which was slated to premiere at the festival. Chapman said that after putting three years into his documentary on the ways that Jewish immigrants shaped Toronto, he has decided to hold off until it can premiere in the way he envisioned.

I really felt that I made a film for the big screen, to be seen in a theater, he said. For me, it is worth the wait.

Werner said the goal is to maintain the festival feel. Using an encrypted viewing platform built by CineSend, the festival intends to follow a set schedule, releasing each film for 24 hours, followed the next day by a Zoom Q&A with filmmakers and guest speakers.

The opening film, The End of Love, is expected to drum up discussion because of its timeliness: Its an autobiographical story about a long-distance relationship unfolding entirely over Skype.

A bar and bat mitzvah photographer gets creative

This photo of the Nemers family was taken as part of Elliot Sylmans Porch Pics project. (Elliot Sylman)

Photographer Elliot Sylman, who specializes in weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs, has been busy for a man with no events to shoot. Last week he photographed 23 families in one day mostly on their front porches.

Instead of charging $400 per portrait, his usual fee for this type of work, hes asking customers to donate to Reena, a nonprofit that supports individuals with developmental disabilities within a framework of Jewish culture and values. He calls the initiative Porch Pics.

Theres no sense in sitting around and not doing something. If you cant work, you may as well deliver meals or try to raise money, said Sylman, 53, who typically gets home in time for dinner with his wife and two daughters, then heads straight back to work processing the pictures. He picks his favorite and sends it to the subjects within a day, along with a link to donate.

Despite the Porch Pics moniker, some groups are photographed in cars or on driveways. Sylman uses a zoom lens to capture apartment dwellers on balconies. Some portraits are serious, others are kitschy pajama-clad folks clutching cleaning supplies or martinis.

It was nice to get the family together and just smile, said Elana Gryfe, a teacher for the Toronto District School Board, who participated in Porch Pics with her husband and three kids ages 16, 19 and 22. Gryfe said she plans to frame the photo, which will serve as a snapshot of this moment in time her sons quarantine beard and all.

And Elliots a really fun, nice person. So that social interaction was good even though he was six feet away, she added.

Sylman, whos been a photographer for 34 years, said Porch Pics quickly ballooned from a few friends to over 250 groups, and he has nearly surpassed his $18,000 fundraising goal.

He works with several charities throughout the year, and has photographed over 400 Holocaust survivors, which could be the largest collection of formal portraits of survivors in the world. He said he wants to publish a book soon and, if he can find a sponsor, hopes to photograph hundreds more survivors in Israel once international travel resumes.

Kavod-19: A Jewish Facebook group helps thousands

A restaurant employee pitches in for the Kavod-19 Facebook group, which coordinates bringing food donated from restaurants to front-line health care workers. (Klara Maidenberg)

Facebook has become a hub for Torontonians, connecting those who want to help with those who need it. But, as Zack Babins rapidly realized, the Jewish community has certain needs that would go overlooked in a massive general group.

In early March, before the mandatory lockdown, Babins became inspired by a Facebook group called CareMongering-TO, which aimed to share and organize resources. He came up with a pun and formed Kavod-19: Toronto Jewish Community Response to COVID-19. Kavod is the Hebrew word for honor and respect.

Babins, 27, said he hoped to hit 1,000 members the next week. He hit 1,000 the next day.

Since then, the group has been used for numerous purposes, such as helping people track down kosher food, socialize with isolated Holocaust survivors, donate supplies and access support systems. One post asks if anyone has a free standing Chuppah to rent/borrow for a Zoom wedding. There is a no-tolerance policy for bigotry, ads or disinformation.

Rafi Yablonsky, an administrator who assists with managing the group, said he gets messages daily from people asking how they can help. And Babins said the group has been keeping up his spirits. There are now over 9,000 members representing a cross-section of this citys Jewish community.

I invited mostly people in my peer group, which is like a secular Ashkenaz mid-20s range, said Babins, who grew up in the highly Jewish suburb outside of Toronto called Thornhill, and whose long history of community involvement includes the Alpha Epsilon Pi fraternity and Hillel Ontario.

But then you could see when people in the Russian community started getting invitations and people in the more observant community it was very interesting watching that happen. We came together in a really big way.

Sock footage

Marisa Sheff stands alongside one of her sock vending machines at Ryerson University. (Courtesy of Sheff)

Marisa Sheff offers a different way to donate. Every time someone purchases a pair of novelty socks (think Pac-Man or sriracha sauce graphics) from her company, Sock Footage, they donate a second pair of mens cotton socks to someone in need.

This isnt just a stroke of pandemic PR its how her business operates. Sheff, 38, came up with the idea after learning that socks are the most needed but least donated item at homeless shelters.

In addition to its online store, Sock Footage has been piloting one of the first known charitable vending machines in Ryerson Universitys Podium Building, which drops two pairs of socks for the price of one and has a donation receptacle beside it. Sheffs socks have also served as philanthropic loot bags for birthday parties and bar and bat mitzvahs. Since launching, Sock Footage has donated almost 2,500 pairs of socks.

When the coronavirus hit, Sheffs business stalled: The vending machine stood stagnant behind Ryersons closed doors, direct contact with strangers became unthinkable and her partner charity was no longer able to accommodate her donations.

Then she found out that Veahavta, a Jewish humanitarian organization based in Toronto, was still operating its mobile outreach van. With new health and safety precautions, the van is servicing its route six days a week, handing out critical food and supplies to vulnerable people living on the streets. Among the supplies are Sheffs socks.

Agencies estimate that street homelessness in Toronto has tripled due to social distancing in shelters resulting in fewer beds, and to justified fears of confined spaces. Veahavta outreach worker Kelly Bouchard said hes met at least a handful of people who have recently lost their jobs and wound up on the street.

Theres a lot of people that are like, What are socks gonna do? And I get that. But do something or do nothing, said Sheff, who worked for a large sock manufacturer for five years before starting her own business. I cant change the world. I can only do what Im good at.

Digital davening

A screenshot from a recent Kabbalat Shabbat service held by the Beth Tzedec congregation. (Courtesy of Beth Tzedec)

Like everything else, prayer has gone digital. But in the true fashion of two Jews, three opinions, the citys spiritual leaders have approached this in divergent ways.

Rabbi Yossi Sapirman has been using a PTZ HD camera to livestream Shabbat services from Beth Torah, a Conservative 500-member synagogue once known for having a waiting list.

We want people to be passive, and enjoy and listen. Like in shul, theyre not obligated to think about whats next. Its just delivered, Sapirman said. I couldve done a green screen and had a background and so on, but the idea that I could hold down the fort for everybody its very powerful for the [congregants] to feel themselves in the space.

On the flip side, Rabbi Elyse Goldstein of City Shul, a small Reform congregation located downtown, is strongly against livestreaming from a synagogue in this moment.

I am role modeling the stay-at-home guidelines and I feel like even though I can walk to my synagogue and be the only one in the sanctuary, the minute I do that its not fair because Im telling my congregants to stay home, she said.

Goldstein has been leading Shabbat services from home over Zoom. She said her goal is to make the experience less passive: Viewers follow along on a screen, a gabbai is assigned to answer amen so theres always an additional voice, and they use the breakout room feature after the kiddush and hamotzi to say Good Shabbos.

We make a lchaim and I bring my little scotch into every room, she said.

Beth Tzedec, the largest Conservative synagogue in the world with its 5,000 members, is doing a combination of Zoom and broadcasts via Facebook and YouTube, depending on the service or program. Streaming on Shabbat and holidays is still under discussion on the basis of it being shaat hadehak, a crisis situation, according to Rabbi Steven Wernick.

Moving online hasnt been without challenges.

Shaarei Shomayim, a 90-year-old Modern Orthodox congregation, experienced a Zoombombing incident during its nightly prayers on April 19. Rabbi Chaim Strauchler said hackers shouted slurs and streamed pornography as he was about to recite a prayer for front-line workers.

It was traumatic for everyone who was on the call, Strauchler said.

Police are investigating the incident as a hate crime.

Since then, Shaarei Shomayim has heightened its cybersecurity, and Strauchler said many Canadians, including members of Parliament, have reached out with well wishes and support.

Participation has increased across the board at the citys synagogues. Goldstein said that comes with apprehension.

Its terrific, but theres a lot of surfing going on, the rabbi said. There are people who in September will say, Why bother rejoining when I can go to all the big names in L.A. and New York for free online? [The alternative:] This is my community. This is my hometown. This is my rabbi, and I want to be there. What really is driving people to us? We need to start analyzing that.

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Novelty socks, HD cameras, an online film fest: How Toronto Jews are keeping traditions going during the pandemic - JTA News

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

A tech CEO has resigned over his former KKK membership that included drive-by shootings. Damien Patton evaded scrutiny because his name was misspelled on court filings. Photo: Twitter

Damien Patton, a tech CEO and founder of Utah-based surveillance company Banjo, has resigned news media reported that he had been a member of a white supremacist group Ku Klux Klan (KKK) and once participated in a drive-by shooting.

Patton, 17 at the time, was involved with a Tennessee neo-Nazi group and pled guilty to being a getaway driver in a drive-by shooting of a synagogue in 1990.

Pattons neo-Nazi history had largely evaded scrutiny, in part because his name was misspelled on two court filings related to the crimes. He has been profiled by media outlets includingThe Wall Street JournalandThe New York Timesin recent years without his past KKK affiliations surfacing.

I am deeply ashamed of this time in my life and feel sincere remorse and deep regret for my affiliation with hateful groups whose actions and beliefs are completely despicable, immoral and indefensible, he wrote in a blog post announcing his resignation.

Listen to GHOGH with Jamarlin Martin | Episode 70: Jamarlin Martin Jamarlin goes solo to discuss the COVID-19 crisis. He talks about the failed leadership of Trump, Andrew Cuomo, CDC Director Robert Redfield, Surgeon General Jerome Adams, and New York Mayor de Blasio.

Banjo, which Patton co-founded in 2010, hasraisedmore than $120 million from backers including SoftBank. The Banjo app aggregates social media posts to help police predict and respond to potential crimes in real time.

The startup has a $20.7 million contract with the state of Utah. The University of Utah, which paid $500,000 a year for Banjos services, hasterminated its contract.

He is out here hiring people and getting $500K state contracts with a history of doing drive-by shootings for the KKK, digital media entrepreneur Jamarlin Martin tweeted.

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Tech CEO Resigns After Reports Of Former KKK Membership That Included Drive-by Shootings - Moguldom

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Posted By admin on May 15, 2020

Hasidic Jews in Montreal gather for morning prayers on their front porches, on May 4, 2020.

Lewis Cohen (not Globe and Mail)

Joseph Rosen teaches at Dawson College in Montreal.

I live on a Montreal block in Mile End, once the neighbourhood of Mordecai Richler, which is now 50-per-cent Hasidic Jews an ultra-Orthodox sect that pray three times a day, and wear black hats imitating 18th-century Polish aristocracy.

While I live among them as a secular Jew, and have friendly relations with some neighbours, the Hasidim separate themselves from me and my social world. For many in the neighbourhood, including me, social distance with our counterparts is nothing new.

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But COVID-19 quarantine protocols, while physically distancing me from secular society, have brought me socially closer to my Hasidic neighbours. Morning and night, their voices sing out in prayer: ancient Middle Eastern melodies float through the pandemic-emptied street, bringing archaic echoes of spiritual yearning to the urban streetscape. Fathers, sons, grandfathers and grandsons (its only men) cluster together on front stoops, lean out from balconies and dot the sidewalk. Melancholic songs ring up and down the street in passionate call and response, and passersby stare in wonder. After weeks of this outdoor synagogue, I see that the Hasidim have something to teach us seculars about what it means for a community to reconnect in a COVID-19 world.

My first response wasnt so romantic. Hearing noises coming from my balcony, I stepped outside and was surprised to see four Hasidic brothers praying on the adjacent balcony. I went downstairs to see that my neighbours front stoop was the centre of the service, and immediately worried that this religious ritual might increase my familys risk of infection.

Years ago, my neighbour put up a green plastic fence to separate our front stoops. I felt rejected. Since COVID-19, the same neighbour brings out a Torah (a ritual Bible scroll) on a portable table, and I find the front of my house at the heart of their religious services. Because Orthodox Jews must pray communally in a minyan" of at least 10 men, the Hasidim were in a bind when the government shuttered all religious buildings and forbade religious services. Rabbis, in accordance with government directives, forbade having minyans in person. Improvising, as Jews have often done living under regimes that forbid Jewish practice, my Orthodox neighbours took to the streets so that, while remaining two metres apart, they could continue to pray together. Instead of hiding in caves and basements as Jews sometimes had to do in centuries past the new coronavirus has driven them outdoors.

One morning my curiosity overcame my fear and I walked out to the sidewalk when I heard them chanting. As much as I enjoy secular life, I found myself missing a sense of spiritual connection. It was cold, with a smattering of April snow on the ground. In addition to COVID-19, we have to survive what Montreal calls spring together.

My neighbour had started praying with his son, and he watched for others to emerge from their front doors. White tallit prayer shawls embroidered with silver and blue covered their heads. They wore tefillin: black leather boxes containing parchment inscribed with Hebrew verses, which are wrapped with leather straps onto the forehead and arm. My neighbour walked up and down the sidewalk looking to connect with other Hasidim as they came out across the street and down the block. Silent, so as not to interrupt the order of prayers, they made hand gestures to each other like third base coaches, holding up fingers to indicate how many were praying. My neighbour signalled to a man a few houses away who peeked into his neighbours window: two fingers. When they identified a minyan of 10 they said Kaddish. The prayer is recited by mourners for 11 months after a close relative dies. In Judaism, one doesnt mourn alone but surrounded by community.

The first Montrealer to die of COVID-19 was a 67-year-old Hasid who went to a synagogue two blocks away from me. Online news articles about the community became a hotspot of anti-Semitic ranting. The Hasidim felt immediately targeted. The level of hatred, the level of focus, of scapegoating, has gone beyond anything we have seen before, said one Hasid. When a janitor was seen cleaning a synagogue, a neighbour called the police and eight cop cars showed up. There are reports of verbal attacks on the street, and Hasidim being told to stick with Jewish stores.

A few unfortunately timed weddings, big families and travel back and forth may explain why my co-religionists were initially hit harder than other communities. And as friends and I joked, after Justin Trudeau warned against speaking moistly, energetic schmoozing might have been a factor in the Jewish transmission rate (JR0).

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Some argue that they have been socially irresponsible, but the Hasidim are not libertarian yahoos: It is their communal commitments that have made them and potentially my front yard more vulnerable to the coronavirus. We worshippers of the secular indulge in unnecessary COVID-19 risks, too. Some go for runs in busy parks. Others order delivery from Pizza Pizza. My COVID-19 vices are social: ringing a friends doorbell to sing happy birthday to their child, midnight scotch drinking with friends (at two metres) and visiting my girlfriend across town (at nowhere near two metres). The risks we take are based on what we value most.

The Hasidim pray together. And my neighbours, facing the green fence, sing loudly right onto my stoop, potentially increasing my viral exposure. The coronavirus highlights how permeable the borders are between our bodies, and how much our private choices affect everyone around us.

After stepping onto the sidewalk that morning, I strolled up and down the block, seeing a Hasid every three or four houses. The silver embroidery on their tallit flashed brightly in the sun, imparting a splendour one does not see indoors. One man shouted his prayer from out of his open window on the second floor. I didnt understand the words, and the singing wasnt classically beautiful like the choirs in more mainstream synagogues and churches. But his voice rang out with a pained yearning that resonates in this time of uncertainty. At various points congregants yelled, so that all can hear, Amen, pronounced Oh-MAIN, meaning so be it!

And then they all simultaneously went quiet. They prayed the Amidah, a prayer said silently on ones own. Closing their eyes they turned east in the direction of Jerusalem and began to bob up and down, swaying back and forth. Their fervour infected me, and I took a moment to stand, in the stillness of morning, feeling the weight and uncertainty of the pandemic that led to this outdoor synagogue. So many things seemed less important, and something although Im not sure what felt more important.

They know what theyre praying; I dont. They know what brings them together; we dont. To what will we seculars say Amen?

On Saturday morning, the Jewish Sabbath, I decided to join their minyan. I feared they wouldnt count me as a Jew, but I put on a tie, a black jacket and my yarmulke the religious head covering that, along with hijabs, Quebec has banned from public office. They saw me with surprised but welcoming eyes. My neighbour whisked a Torah out of his house, like it was a famous celebrity and he was a security detail. They signalled back and forth silently to determine who would read and sing which parts. I let go of my insecurity and joined the chorus shouting Amen!

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After the service everyone met one anothers eyes to congratulate each other. They looked at me too, smiling, and said Good Shabbos! Infected by their communal warmth, I felt connected to these previously distant neighbours.

Later that afternoon, walking down the street I asked a Hasid about the Parsha HaShavua the section of the Torah they read that week. It addressed impurity: how to purify women who have given birth and men who have wasted an emission meaning an ejaculation that has not landed in the divinely sanctified receptacle. Then it addressed how to purify someone with leprosy after a seven day quarantine. Just like now! the Hasid said enthusiastically: It was a disease that no one knew how to heal. If a leper gets better, but their house remains unclean, concludes the Torah portion, it must be rebuilt using new materials.

The Hasidim have already figured out how to reorganize themselves, during COVID-19, based on their deepest values. And we one of the most privileged societies in human history, who have known neither drought nor famine, war nor plague need to do the same. The Sabbath is the day when we pause all forms of labour; it provides an opportunity to reconnect to the deeper values guiding our work week. COVID-19 has provided us seculars with just such a pause. In this time of physical distance and suspended labour, we must reimagine how we will reorganize our society. How we will restructure our economy to come together, productively, without wasting emissions? Given the plague of global warming, we cannot just return to business as usual: We need to discuss whether we must rebuild our house from scratch. We must rediscover the values that guide us. This is the conversation we need to have now: passionately, but not moistly.

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For years I felt rejected by my Hasidic neighbours. But COVID-19 brought us together - The Globe and Mail

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