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For questions about identity, I’ve written my own haggadah J. – The Jewish News of Northern California

Posted By on April 18, 2022

As a Bay Area teen, I am lucky enough to live in a community that contains bountiful diversity in all forms, but particularly religious diversity within the Jewish community.

As a longtime attendee of Camp Tawonga, a camp that encourages campers to find their own spiritual paths however they affiliate with Judaism, I have grown familiar with the beauty and complexities that come with modern interpretations of inclusive religious practice.

At camp, I have befriended everyone from Modern Orthodox Jews to Jewish atheists to people who dont identify as Jewish in any regard, but still find meaning in the rituals and community that they have found.

It was, in part, this acceptance that inspired me to pursue my own understanding of how Judaism fits into my life and identity; the knowledge that I could question and grapple with my faith and still be embraced unconditionally in my Jewish community.

Not unrelated to my questions surrounding modern Jewish identity has been my journey into social justice work.

In mid-2020, at peak pandemic boredom, I applied to be a fellow with the Kol Koleinu Teen Feminist Fellowship, now called the Meyer-Gottesman Kol Koleinu Teen Feminist Fellowship (and run by the Jewish nonprofit Moving Traditions). Through this fellowship, I have learned what it means to be a feminist, an activist, and a Jew, all with the same aforementioned acceptance that makes this growth possible.

Integral to the Kol Koleinu Fellowship is the yearlong social-change project, in which an individual or small group is paired with a mentor to create something to better our world.

I have been fascinated by ideas of intergenerational traumas, conflicts and legacies, so I decided to begin a project focused on legacies within the Jewish community. My project became a reimagined Passover haggadah focused on legacy and inheritance from a deeply intersectional viewpoint.

For this haggadah, called Yerushah (inheritance), I collected interviews, writings and art pieces dealing with inheritance to connect Passover, a holiday that is intrinsically history-oriented, with a legacy and continuation of the Judaism that plays out around me today.

I am deeply proud of this haggadah. Perhaps my favorite piece is the one that I created for maror, the part in the seder in which we eat bitter foods to remind us of the suffering of our ancestors.

I felt called to think of bitterness in a new way; that is, bitterness that one may feel toward religion, or religious practices in general. In addition to interviewing my atheist Jewish twin brother and a Presbyterian pastor who is the father of a close friend, and researching residual religious perspectives of Holocaust survivors, I spoke with my unofficial step-grandfather, John.

Despite having no connection to me by blood or marriage, John has always been a close grandfather figure, and I wanted to speak with him due to his late introduction to Judaism.

Religion has never been a part of my focus, he told me. In fact, I have a very bitter approach to most formal organized religions that seem to wind up killing lots of people because they dont wear the right-shaped hats.

The section on maror continues thus: In addition to bitterness towards the oft-misused power and legacy of the religious structure, the loss of faith that may come after witnessing intense tragedy can evoke intensely bitter resentment towards the divine being that was supposed to protect its followers from harm I have come across a phrase over the course of my research that was anonymously carved into one of the cell walls at the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria: Wenn es einen Gott gibt mu er mich um Verzeihung bitten, which translates as If there is a God, he must ask my forgiveness. Grappling with bitterness gives us an environment in which to question, disagree, or even resent faith, but it does not necessarily preclude faith itself, in environments where questioning is permitted. There is hope and dialogue in the grappling, whereas bitterness itself is a brick wall.

By bringing new voices to the seder table to grapple together with these intense questions, I hope the haggadah I have written makes the seder more accessible and approachable to those who may have felt left out or disconnected from traditional Jewish practice.

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For questions about identity, I've written my own haggadah J. - The Jewish News of Northern California

Reform movement sends mixed messages in response to harassment report – Forward

Posted By on April 18, 2022

Photo by Getty Images

The Union for Reform Judaism pledged this week to make improvements to the way it handles sexual harassment, but some members of the community say the announced changes do not go far enough.

The URJ, the congregational arm of the largest Jewish denomination in North America, released an investigation in February detailing its past failures to properly respond to incidents of sexual harassment at both summer camps and its head office. But in the weeks since, the organization has tangled with a group of current and former employees calling for faster action

The critics have organized under the banner ACT, and their dispute with URJ leadership underscores how institutions aiming for transparency and accountability around misconduct risk opening the floodgates to demands for deeper change.

Last month, several hundred current and former URJ employees wrote to the organization asking for more urgency in its response to the investigation, and making a series of specific demands: release former employees from non-disclosure agreements; state that they believe survivors of sexual harassment; and create a concrete plan for further changes.

There seemed to be a lot missing from the response to the investigation in terms of action steps to remedy the abuse that was outlined, said Ronit Zemel, one of ACTs leaders.

Responding to the group in late March, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, URJs president, and Jennifer Kaufman, who chairs its board of directors, seemed to meet all three requests.

Please know that we, and todays URJ that we represent, believe victims and survivors, take all reports and allegations seriously, and will treat all parties with fairness, Jacobs and Kaufman wrote. There is no position too important and no person too powerful to escape accountability for misconduct or abuse.

They said they would hire an independent ombudsman to handle future complaints and would not enforce existing NDAs if those who signed them came forward with reports of misconduct. The pair also promised to communicate these steps to the broader Reform movement community within two weeks.

Did you experience inappropriate behavior at a URJ summer camp, program or in a URJ workplace? If youd like to share your story or perspective contact Forward reporter Arno Rosenfeld at arno@forward.com

But when that message came Wednesday evening, in an email blast to summer-camp parents, donors and other supporters, it was missing two of ACTs three requests.

In that email, Jacobs and Kaufman dropped the language around believing individuals who come forward, instead stating that victims and survivors are centered. The agreement to release the dozens of staff members who signed non-disparagement clauses in severance agreements or other contracts was removed altogether.

Those differences between the two documents fosters confusion and distrust, said Zemel, a former employee of URJ Camp Harlam, because theres no transparency.

Jacobs declined an interview request.

In a statement, Melissa Johnson, a URJ vice president, said that the organization is sending a communication directly to those who signed severance agreements releasing them from the non-disparagement clauses. Separately, URJ officials have said previously that the release only applies to those former employees reporting misconduct directly to the URJ or Debevoise & Plimpton, the law firm it worked with on the investigation; they are not free to speak with the media, post on social media or otherwise share their accounts of sexual misconduct.

(Disclosure: This reporter worked for the URJ in 2019 and 2020 and signed an NDA upon leaving.)

The URJ also shared a spreadsheet detailing its response to the investigation in the community-wide email. It announced plans to conduct updated staff training, revise policies for youth programming and create a centralized reporting system for misconduct claims by July. Late in the year, it said, the organization expects to begin publishing names of synagogues that have adopted its ethics code.

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Reform movement sends mixed messages in response to harassment report - Forward

What is Pesach? A guide to the Jewish Passover holiday – EWN

Posted By on April 18, 2022

The Jewish holiday Pesach, or Passover, is the celebration of the Israelites' liberation from slavery in Egypt.

FILE: Passover candles. Picture: Pixabay

JOHANNESBURG - Pesach or Passover is one of Judaism's most significant and widely observed holiday.

Pesach in 2022 takes place from the evening of 15 April until 23 April.

It is celebrated on the 15th day of the Jewish month Nisan and is the celebration of the Israelites' liberation from slavery in Egypt..

The historically and agriculturally significant holiday spans seven days.

The Pesach story

Pesach's primary observances are related to the exodus from Egypt after 400 years of slavery as told in the biblical book of Exodus.

The name Passover is derived from the Hebrew word Pesach, which refers to the fact that G-d passed over the houses of the Jews when he was slaying the firstborn of Egypt during the last of the ten plagues.

Food during Passover

A strict diet is followed by those who practice Judaism during Pesach.

This includes removing leavened products (food that has fermented or risen from the use of yeast) from the home, known as _chametz, _which is anything made from the five major grains such as wheat, barley, rye, oats and spelt and that has not been cooked within 18 minutes.

The removal of matzo signifies the plight of the Hebrews who left Egypt in such haste that they did not have enough time to let their bread rise. The practice also exemplifies the removal of pride and arrogance or "puffiness'' from the soul.

Matzo or matzah, which is a flatbread made from flour and water and cooked very quickly, is consumed instead of bread.

During the first two nights of Passover, families and friends participate in a religious feast called _seder, _which is prepared according to strict regulations.

During the meal, the story of the exodus is read out loud from a special text called the Haggadah, which is Hebrew for "telling".

Note: G-d has been hyphenated in respect of a Jewish rule about honouring the Holy one's name.

Sources: History.com, Jewish virtual library and teen vogue.

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What is Pesach? A guide to the Jewish Passover holiday - EWN

For Jews fleeing Ukraine, Passover takes on new meaning – The Associated Press – en Espaol

Posted By on April 18, 2022

Good morning! Happy morning! Rabbi Avraham Wolff exclaimed, with a big smile, as he walked into the Chabad synagogue in Odesa on a recent morning.

Russian missiles had just struck an oil refinery in the Ukrainian city, turning the sky charcoal gray. Hundreds were lining up outside his synagogue hoping to receive a kilo of matzah each for their Passover dinner tables. The unleavened flatbread, imperative at the ritual meal known as a Seder, is now hard to find in war-torn Ukraine amid the war and a crippling food shortage.

But the rabbi wanted no challenge to get him down be it the lack of matzah or that he was missing his wife and children who had fled the Black Sea port for Berlin days ago.

I need to smile for my community, Wolff said. We need humor. We need hope.

Tens of thousands of Ukrainian Jews have fled while about 80% remain in Ukraine, according to estimates from Chabad, one of the largest Hasidic Jewish organizations in the world. Inside and outside Ukraine, a nation steeped in Jewish history and heritage, people are preparing to celebrate Passover, which begins sundown on April 15. Its been a challenge, to say the least.

The holiday marks the liberation of Jewish people from slavery in ancient Egypt, and their exodus under the leadership of Moses. The story is taking on special meaning for thousands of Jewish Ukrainian refugees who are living a dramatic story in real time.

Chabad, which has deep roots and a wide network in Ukraine, and other groups such as the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) and the Jewish Federations of North America, have mobilized to help Ukrainian Jews celebrate Passover wherever they have sought refuge. In Ukraine, Chabad plans 52 public Seders welcoming about 9,000 people.

In Odesa, Wolff is preparing to host two large Seders one in early evening at the Chabad synagogue for families with young children and a later Seder at a hotel where participants can stay the night, obeying a 9 p.m. curfew.

Hes been waving in trucks loaded with Passover supplies matzah from Israel, milk from France, meat from Britain.

We may not all be together, but its going to be an unforgettable Passover, Wolff said. This year, we celebrate as one big Jewish family around the world.

JDC, which has evacuated more than 11,600 Jews from Ukraine, has shipped more than 2 tons of matzah, over 400 bottles of grape juice and over 700 pounds of kosher Passover food for refugees in Poland, Moldova, Hungary and Romania, said Chen Tzuk, the organizations director of operations in Europe, Asia and Africa. In Ukraine, their social service centers and corps of volunteers are distributing nearly 16 tons of matzah to elderly Jews and families in need, she said.

Passover is something familiar and basic for Jewish people, Tzuk said. For refugees who have left everything behind, its important to be able celebrate this holiday with honor and dignity.

JDC is organizing in-person Seders in countries bordering Ukraine and elsewhere in Europe, she said, and is facilitating online Seders where its too dangerous to gather in person.

The Jewish Federations of North America has set up a volunteer hub in support of refugees fleeing Ukraine; its a partnership with the Jewish Agency for Israel, the JDC and IsraAID. Russian-speaking volunteers, such as Alina Spaulding, will help organize a Seder for 100 refugees at a hotel in Budapest.

Spaulding, a resident of Greensboro, North Carolina, fled Kharkiv, Ukraine, as a 5-year-old in the 1970s with her parents. She said the war has rekindled strong connections to Ukraine.

My mom showed me a photo of me with my grandpa on a street that was recently bombed, Spaulding said. We talked about the university in Kharkiv where my mom and dad went, which was also hit. Suddenly, it all felt so personal.

Spaulding believes spending Passover with refugees will be an experience to remember.

Part of the magic of Passover is finding your own story, she said. Were in the middle of a modern-day exodus. I cant even imagine the stories I will hear.

Celebrating a holiday can give people a rush of hope and happiness even in grim situations, said Rabbi Jacob Biderman, who leads Chabad activities throughout Austria, including a center in Vienna that is sheltering about 800 Ukrainian Jews. Days after refugees reached his center, Biderman led a joyous celebration of Purim, a festival commemorating the deliverance of Jews from a planned massacre in ancient Persia.

The look on their faces changed from sorrow to joy... Their eyes lit up, Biderman said. It gave them a sense of normalcy, dignity and the belief that their spiritual life is something no one can take away from them.

That fueled Bidermans determination to provide a memorable Passover Seder for the refugees.

Dr. Yaacov Gaissinovitch, his wife, Elizabeth, and their three children ages 11, 8 and 4 will be part of that celebration. They fled the Ukrainian city of Dnipro by car on Friday, March 4. Gaissinovitch, a urologist and mohel who performs the Jewish rite of circumcision, said it pained him, as an observant Jew, to drive on Shabbat a forbidden act on the day of rest and prayer except when lives are at stake.

I drove nonstop for 12 hours to Moldova to save us all, he said. We sang all the Shabbat songs in the car. It was very, very hard.

In Dnipro, Gaissinovitch had his offices in the sprawling Menorah Center, which serves as a center of Jewish life, housing a synagogue, shops, restaurants, museums and the office of the citys chief rabbi.

After a month of being severed from everything familiar, the Chabad center in Vienna has been a blessing, Gaissinovitch said.

Weve been accepted here very warmly, he said. After being disconnected for days, the children have been able to see that our life hasnt stopped.

A similar community at the Chabad center in Berlin is housing about 1,000 refugees, including Rabbi Avraham Wolffs wife and children from Odesa. The center plans to host eight Seders citywide and has distributed matzah and other food to community members. Refugees, including 120 children from an Odesa orphanage who arrived in Berlin along with Wolffs family, distributed the items to locals, said Yehuda Teichtal, the chief rabbi of Berlin.

To me, this is extremely touching, he said. That people on the receiving end are able to give and not be viewed as victims. Its empowering and energizing.

As they prepare for Passover, Teichtal, Biderman and Wolff said they have been inspired by Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, known as the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who was among the most influential global leaders in Judaism in modern times. April 5 marked the Rebbes 120th birth anniversary, a special number in Jewish tradition.

The Rebbe built a strong foundation (in Ukraine) so were able to do what were doing now, Wolff said.

Schneerson grew up in Ukraine during a challenging time in the former Soviet Union, Teichtal said.

In spite of all the darkness, his focus was selflessness, dedication, love for all humanity and the unwavering faith that we are going to overcome, Teichtal said.

___

Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the APs collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

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For Jews fleeing Ukraine, Passover takes on new meaning - The Associated Press - en Espaol

Can an all-Mormon cast pull off ‘Fiddler on the Roof’? J. – The Jewish News of Northern California

Posted By on April 18, 2022

For the people involved in these productions and for many of the BYU students I spoke with this line about the messiah was particularly poignant, almost as though they saw their faith in Jesus shared by the Jewish characters they were playing. But for me, it was slightly uncomfortable to see them reading this Jewish cultural text through the lens of their own Christianity.

Christianity has a particularly delicate relationship to Judaism because it emerged from it Jesus was a Jew, after all. Historically, that process of emergence took place via supersessionism, the belief that Christianity overrode Jewish teachings and law, replacing them with something better. Add in a few thousand years of violent persecution, including forced conversion of Jews, and you have a pretty uneasy coexistence between the two traditions.

Today, theres a growing trend of Christians interested in Judaism, searching for connection and legitimacy through ancient practices, but its often still supersessionist. When Catholics hold seders, for example, they frequently reinterpret the traditional rituals and story to focus on Jesus, which most Jews find disrespectful and antisemitic. Its hard not to be suspicious that a similar impulse is at play when non-Jews see their traditions in Fiddler.

And though every Christian production of Fiddler I researched had made efforts toward authenticity, there were also cultural missteps. Drulinger, the Nebraska director, had consulted a local Torah Center, which he described as a place where Christians studied Jewish law; that center is connected to a controversial Messianic Jewish preacher, a place most Jews would not consider a reliable resource.

So when BYU stages Fiddler, is the production about Jews, Jesus, Latter-day Saints or something else entirely?

Justin Bawden, the actor playing Perchik, the shows revolutionary romantic interest, is sitting on the floor, paging through a bible, for a scene in which he tutors Tevyes youngest two daughters.

So you see, children, he says after recounting the parable of Jacob being tricked by Laban, the Bible clearly teaches us: You can never trust an employer.

As I watch, it occurs to me that he should be turning the pages of the prop bible the other way Hebrew is read left to right. I whisper as much to the director, who tells the actors. Bawden looks abashed and quickly flips the book around.

Is it OK to call it a bible? he asks earnestly. Isnt that Christian?

Westin Wright, a blond first year in athletic shorts and glasses, smiled sheepishly as he and five other ensemble members talked to me about what theyd learned about Judaism through putting on the show.

I wasnt clueless about Judaism and their practices, but I guess modern Judaism is what Im more ignorant about, he said. From both my Old Testament and New Testament studies Ive learned about ancient Judaism as it was practiced in Jerusalem in the time of Jesus Christ and the prophets prior to him, so thats where most of my knowledge has come from. I know practices have changed a lot since then.

Modern Judaism has, indeed, changed a lot, given that ancient Israelite practices revolved around a temple that no longer exists. But Latter-day Saint practices are deeply tied to the ancient Judaism Wright spoke of; the most holy events, such as the endowment ceremony where participants are anointed into the priesthood, among other things take place in temples conceptualized to mimic the ancient ones in Jerusalem. Many people I spoke to at BYU see baptism into the LDS church as an adoption into the covenant that Jews hold with God as the chosen people.

The original doctrine of the church, which was founded in 1830 by Joseph Smith, teaches that its members are descendants of two lost tribes of Israel, Manasseh and Ephraim. The Book of Mormon says that those tribes migrated to the Americas before Jesus time. (Today, Latter-day Saints believe they represent multiple tribes of Israel, and each member is told their tribe during a ceremony.)

When I chatted with Adam Dyer, the shows choreographer and a convert to LDS from Catholicism, he kept excitedly touching me on the forearm to emphasize the deep connection he feels to the people of Israel. Dyer repeatedly mentioned his excitement for the gathering of Israel, an event Latter-day Saints believe will happen before the second coming of Jesus in the end times, and asked at one point: How does that affect the people of China? What tribe of Israel are they?

This connection to Israel and the Hebrew Bible in many ways defined the birth of Smiths church. He founded it during a period of American Christian revival known as the Second Great Awakening, during which many Christian movements were seeking a sense of greater authenticity. Smith claimed his sect was the one true Church, positioning it as a restoration of original Christianity, which he said had been lost centuries ago in the Great Apostasy, a belief that the early Christians fell away from Jesus teachings.

Smiths church and other parallel movements, categorized as Restorationism or Christian Primitivism, see themselves as reviving a more ancient, and thus more authentic, form of Christianity, often looking to the time of Jesus for cues. Since Jesus was a Jew, many of these restored practices derive, at least in theory, from the Hebrew Bible.

For Latter-day Saints, the desire for authenticity manifests, in part, in a focus on temple practices, including garments often derogatorily called Mormon magic underwear that supposedly resemble the priestly garments described in Exodus. (Though they didnt have wicking fabrics back then.)

These practices give Latter-day Saints a sense of deep connection to Jews and Judaism. But for Jews, that connection can feel fetishistic and paternalistic, especially given the churchs emphasis on proselytizing. These contrasting perspectives have led to some offensive and unwelcome acts, such as Latter-day Saints posthumously baptizing Holocaust victims.

I know people who have felt persecuted by members of the Church of Jesus Christ, which is not our goal at all. But they just feel that way because theyre part of other religions, said one cast member, Gabrielle McCarter, 19, a sophomore in the music, theater and dance department.

They do have a lot in common with us, she said of practicing Jews, and even where we dont line up with our beliefs, theyre still amazing people with beautiful beliefs.

Its a Saturday night and Ive found a stool in ABGs, one of two grungy bars in downtown Provo, where Im perched over a lager. About a dozen grizzled older men are also nursing beers in the sparsely populated bar. As the night wears on, a few 20-somethings come in for a pitcher, but when I leave around midnight, there are still a lot of empty tables.

A cafe down the street, open late for a popular karaoke night, also serves alcohol, though the menu is kept behind the counter and is only available upon request; I dont see anyone with wine or beer in hand.

Yet lack of alcohol does not mean lack of nightlife. A country dancing venue on Center Street has a line down the block, and through its plate-glass windows I see some 200 people doing line dances; it seems to be a hot date night spot.

Outside a dry comedy club, a lively crowd has formed a line and theyre encouraging passersby to run down it for high-fives; on my way home, I slap a bunch of strangers hands to boisterous cheers.

Sometimes I forget theres an outside world, said Marion Pack, who grew up in Denver; her family traces its roots back to the earliest days of Mormonism.

Pack, who was playing Yente the matchmaker, was talking about Provo, where the LDS influence is dominant and obvious; the four commercial blocks of Center Street feature a bookstore with an entire wall of Latter-day Saint tomes as well as an imposing temple topped with a golden statue of the Angel Moroni. There are also a wide range of foreign cuisines on offer, appealing to palates expanded by years spent abroad as missionaries.

Experts estimate that some 90% of Provos 100,000 residents are Latter-day Saints. Its easy to grow up without meeting any other type of Christian, much less a Jew, making the Fiddler production an almost anthropological experience for cast and crew.

Though studies show that increasing numbers of millennial Latter-day Saints occasionally drink coffee or alcohol or otherwise bend the rules, Pack said she often forgets that not everyone observes in lockstep because at BYU, they pretty much do. It is the churchs flagship university, with astrict honor codethat forbids coffee, alcohol, extra-marital sex and even beards. Those who transgress risk expulsion. (The men in the Fiddler cast were given an artistic-expression exemption to grow beards for the show.)

I spoke to a few students who admitted skirting the rules for example, driving to Salt Lake City to go to bars where they wouldnt be recognized, or even just drinking coffee but they are extremely careful and paranoid about getting caught.

Despite the homogeneity of their environment or perhaps because of it most involved with the show saw similarities between its portrayal of Jewish practices and their own. The emphasis on marriage in Fiddler in particular was a focus of many of my conversations; within the church, marriage and family life are essential to attaining salvation and reaching the highest echelon of heaven in the church, so short courtships and young married couples are common in Utah.

A keen sense of historical persecution is also central to the LDS cultural identity, and to their sense of common ground with Jews; in the BYU art museum, a painting of beleaguered Jewish refugees arriving in New York Citys harbor hangs near a depiction of Mormon pioneers fleeing American cities.

The early saints in Missouri, they experienced very similar things burning their homes down, raping their women, Garner, one of the ensemble members, pointed out. The cast sees Fiddler as a parallel to our religious experience, and I think thats why its so popular with our audiences. Its a reason why we can sort of see ourselves in that situation, even if we dont authentically portray the Judaism.

Indeed, several other students echoed this sentiment. But others said they felt it inappropriate for LDS audiences to view Fiddler as a parable about their own persecution and maybe even inappropriate for them to put on the show at all.

Its a conversation that needs to be had, like is it OK for us to be doing this? said Spencer Fields, the shows earnest, bespectacled dramaturg. And were in it, were already doing it, so its a little uncomfy to be having that conversation now.

I meet Sage Patchin, who plays Hodl, at a hipster, crystal-filled cafe a bit outside of the towns main drag. She orders avocado toast without the avocado. (So, just toast? the barista asks.)

Im curious about Patchins experience as the only cast member who is not a church member, though she was raised in an LDS-dominated town in Idaho and has a lot of experience with the church. She chose to attend BYU after doing a summer theater program run by the university, but has struggled with feeling at home at the school. We speak for nearly three hours.

I didnt feel like I was effectively prepared to play my role, Patchin confides. I could do research on my own, but I only know what I know. Theres some things I didnt research right because I didnt know what I didnt know.

We had such a long rehearsal process, she adds. I think we shouldve done two weeks of table work. Being culturally informed affects everything.

The morning after a rehearsal that ended at 10 p.m., I chatted with the students playing Chava, Tevyes middle daughter; Fyedke, the Russian she marries; and Tevyes wife, Golde. They were chipper and I was gulping my contraband coffee as they explained how the play landed differently across the different generations in the church.

Theres this divide between people believing that this is a story about retaining tradition and people thinking its a way to buck it, said Nikole York, a double major in theater and womens studies from Las Vegas, who plays Golde.

The group said they see in Fiddler a parable of dynamics playing out in their church today: Their generation is pushing for more progressive stances on race and sexuality and womens status within the religion, while older members worry about their way of life slipping away in the face of modern pressures. And both generations see the show as endorsing their own position.

I think there are a lot of people in our community who are really digging their heels in to say, This is the way it has always been done and it cannot change. But it can, said York.

The tension between tradition and change is a pressing one within LDS, as in American Jewry. Sometimes that tension plays out in seemingly prosaic issues such asthe design and material used for temple garments women in the church have complained that the synthetic fabric and tight fit causes yeast infections. But there are also major theological debates over, for example,whether Adam, as the first man, is one and the same as God.

The church, still relatively young compared to other religions, has made some major changes; in 1978, for example, it began allowing Black people to become priestsafter previously teaching the racist beliefthat dark skin implied a divine curse. These days, Reddit forums like r/BYU and r/Mormonism are full of talk about whether the religion might someday fully acceptLGBTQpeople.

Many of the BYU students saw their hopes for a more open-minded and inclusive church in Tevyes eventual acceptance of his daughters untraditional choices. And they related deeply to the push and pull between tradition and progress that is so core to Fiddler clearly, each person I spoke to had personally struggled with the same questions and choices as the characters in the play.

In fact, the show maps so neatly onto the LDS church that one member of the theater faculty told me the departments professors often ask each other: When will someone write our Fiddler?

Fiddler director David Morgan, who bears a striking resemblance to a lean Bill Clinton, is watching rehearsal with his arms crossed. The cast is running a scene where members of Tevyes family enter and cross the stage, all talking at once.

It just died right there, Morgan complains, snapping his fingers and urging the actors to pick up the pace.

Why are you going over there? he asks one of the daughters.

The actress hazards a guess maybe her character is getting wood or doing a chore?

You just need a reason, Morgan says. Even if its just walking across the stage. You need to know why.

They run it again.

Morgan calls his directing philosophy minimalist.

I didnt want to put some concept over the top of it that would take away from just trusting the script, he explained. That script is going to say what it needs to say. My approach with actors is just to let how they feel about their character and how they feel about each other dictate their movements on stage. I want it to come out of them.

That means, he said, that early rehearsals were chaotic; he didnt tell actors where to stand or when to move or how to gesture, so they had to fumble through on their own. Once things come together, he said, this approach yields a more realistic, human show.

This was not the original conception for BYUs production. Megan Sanborn Jones, now the chair of the theater department, was originally slated to direct. She had wanted to experiment more with the political message of Fiddler, seeing parallels between the children in cages in the U.S. immigration system and the Jews at Auschwitz, and also considered having a few characters put on hijabs during the final number to reference Syrian refugees. But the pandemic delayed everything, Sanborn Jones was promoted to department chair, and Morgan took over, teaching the cast a very different relationship to the show.

Its not our job to interpret for the audience, York (Golde) told me. We can interpret for ourselves in how we play our characters, but all we can do is be honest within the characters were playing. When you have a live audience, it becomes a dialogue, understanding the energies that are in the space and responding to it.

Morgan, who described himself as a weird dude, is surprisingly blunt and risqu, at least by Provo standards. At one point, he referred in an offhand manner to the history in Mormonism of people getting married in polygamy and all this weird crap, and he often drew big laughs from his cast for using phrases such as go to hell and youve all worked your asses off the closest thing to swear words I heard over five days on campus.

He sees Fiddler as a show that pushes the boundaries of Provo life, just as he himself does in his own speech and mannerisms.

Most of the audiences here do not want to have to think about whether what theyre doing is right or wrong they want to be told, they want something didactic, they want a show thats going to tell them how to feel, he said. They like stuff thats pretty, they dont like things that are messy or dark or uncomfortable. And those are all the things that I like.

Of Fiddler, he said: I hope it challenges them. I hope that they look beyond, because theres a lot of close-mindedness here its hard to be here, and Ive been here 30 years.

When I asked why he has stayed so long, Morgan said he wants to ensure theres a home at BYU for the misfits struggling to navigate nuance within its often-rigid world. He thinks theater is where the black sheep flock, and he hopes to provide them a safe place to explore and challenge themselves.

It seems to be working: Playing Fyedke has been kind of a source of therapy for me, Bangerter told me. Its so hard to be trained in black and white thinking and then start to learn how I can not see it that way anymore.

I have a few free hours, so Im wandering through the BYU art museum, where theres an exhibit of French posters and another, titled Becoming America, that showcases landscapes and paintings of Mormon pioneers migrating west.

In the entrance hall, an imposing Carl Heinrich Bloch oil painting of Jesus caring for the ill takes up an entire wall. Next to it is a basket of pencil nubs and scraps of paper with a sign encouraging visitors to share how the painting affects them.

Numerous personal testimonies are tacked to the wall. Some describe feeling Jesus love as they look at the painting, others exhort whoever is reading to open their hearts to the messiah.

Jesus will save us all! proclaims one.

Peter Morgan, the productions Tevye and no relation to the director said his characters direct, conversational relationship with God is one of his favorite parts of Fiddler. They always have discourse. Theyre always talking and questioning, Morgan explained. His way of speaking to God is the way that I personally do a lot of people have told me Im too casual.

Morgan grew up in Boston, in a household where religion was a taboo topic. (Id read the Scripture under the sheets with a flashlight, he told me.) As a child, he, like Tevye, leaned towards the dogmatic. Now, he is pushing the churchs boundaries; an an openly gay man, Morgan is outspoken and critical about BYUs restrictive policies on sexuality.

Ive always been open to change I used to be totally homophobic and Im gay, Morgan told me. Im the friend who people come to in the middle of the night, suicidal, because theyre gay, because theyre having doubts about their religion.

Navigating the tension between queerness and the strict doctrines of BYU has been challenging. I joined the church in Boston and I loved it I felt like it helped me to be a good person and do good in the world, Morgan said. But then I came here and was immediately met with judgment and shame for just being me.

He said all of this casually, sitting in the middle of the rehearsal room as the rest of the cast streamed in. But being openly gay, and openly saying he hopes to marry a man someday within the church, is a big deal at BYU. The church does not recognize same-sex unions and condemns all extramarital sex as sinful, meaning acting on what the church terms same-sex attraction in any way is forbidden.

The attraction itself is not a sin but acting on it is, says the churchs LGBTQ+ resource web page.

The church currently allows gay people to receive blessings and even leadership roles in the church if they remain chaste. But it also holds that marriage between a man and a woman is essential to reaching the highest echelon of heaven, and so, at least tacitly, encourages gay LDS members to enter into heterosexual unions; some church resource sites even state this stance explicitly. (This is a change from the churchs earlier doctrine, which said queer peoples sexual orientation could and should be changed.)

Sage Patchin, the only student I met at BYU who is not a member of the LDS church she played Tevyes second daughter, Hodl said she struggled with the rigidity of the churchs stance on issues of identity in particular.

They teach things on exams like True or false, you wont get into the Celestial Kingdom if youre LGBTQ, she told me. And I have to say true even though thats something that I fundamentally, as a human being, disagree with.

For Peter Morgan, BYUs music, dance and theater department has been a haven from this kind of judgment. By contrast, he said, some professors in the commercial music department had made homophobic remarks to him and tried to censor his capstone project. (He wrote a musical about gay students at a Christian university.) But the music, dance and theater faculty were more supportive.

Theater departments are among the more progressive enclaves at many universities, so the students I spent time with are likely not representative of BYUs broader student body. Still, its worth noting that nearly every cast member I spoke with said that the churchs stance on LGBTQ people was their primary complaint. These students are devoted to the faith and the church, but see a difference between the will of God and cultural practices put in place by humans.

And they see this as exactly the distinction Tevye is trying to navigate; like them, he believes, human traditions can be easily discarded, but Gods will cannot. The trick is to find the line between the two.

Larsen, who described herself as really strong in my faith, said she was using her experience of playing Chava to help navigate real-life challenges.

It feels really timely to me playing this part because I have quite a few really close family and friends who have been recently deciding that they dont believe what their families believe or what they had been believing for a long time, she said. Getting to be in their shoes has been really significant for me.

Everyone in the cast has straggled into the rehearsal room, eating takeout and chattering, when the stage manager asks for an opening prayer. A tall guy in a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt volunteers, and the others bow their heads.

Dear Heavenly Father, Pooh Bear Guy begins. He prays for the cast to work together, to act lovingly, to tell the story well and to be professional. There are no giggles or sidelong glances. No one looks up.

In the name of Jesus Christ we pray, he concludes.

You may have noticed, we pray over everything, Megan Sanborn Jones told me.

I had.

Every event I attended during my five days in Provo opened with a blessing, all extemporaneous. Some were flustered and giggly, some rambling, others basic and almost utilitarian. The topics were usually related to the event at hand, but not always; York (Golde) dedicated one rehearsals opening blessing to praying for the victims of human trafficking.

Frequent prayer reflects a key part of LDS theology a belief in a continuing process of revelation that gives each member of the religion access to a close, personal relationship with God. Its also why the cast members see themselves in Tevyes chats with God.

Dear God, did you have to send me news like that today of all days? Tevye groans upwardly at one point in the show. I know, I know we are the chosen people. But once in a while, cant you choose somebody else?

When the students talked about the changes they hoped to see in their church, this type of personal prayer played a big role in their own understanding of what to discard from the churchs teachings and what rules are truly Gods will. Just as they see Tevye praying to God for help deciding what to do about his daughters, they also pray to discern Gods will on LGBTQ+ relationships or womens roles.

This idea that culture and faith can be different things that the traditions and the culture that youve created are not necessarily tied into the faith, mused Larsen. Its really hard for people to separate that.

Many students said they use prayer to navigate when to criticize church dogma and when to obey it. But its a delicate balance, especially within a religion with strict rules delineating how to live, down to ones underwear.

There are still lines and there are still people who cross those lines, Garner told me. Its trying to determine whether those lines are doctrine like if they are the will of God or if they are practice, just something that humans have been doing for so long.

One afternoon at a theater departmental lunch a taco bar with pork and beans and assorted garnishes my vegetarianism inspires a lively debate over whether Joseph Smith, the churchs founder, endorsed eating meat. (Apparently, the answer hinges on the placement of a comma.)

Then Michael Kraczek, an associate professor, cuts through the chitchat over course schedules and Covid to ask me bluntly if I think the BYU production of Fiddler on the Roof is appropriative.

Should we be doing this? he wonders aloud.

I dont know the answer. Its a good question, I reply.

Given that Fiddler was meant to appeal widely, and make Judaism legible to non-Jews, restricting who can put it on would defeat that purpose. And historically, it hasnt been limited to Jewish casts; even in major Broadway revivals, Tevye has often been played by non-Jews.

On the other hand, the Jewish community now treasures the show, often using it to teach and reinforce identity. It feels intimate and personal, which makes having an entirely non-Jewish cast feel problematic especially when every actor is a member of a proselytizing Christian sect.

Nearly all Latter-day Saints are called as missionaries at some point, but in Fiddler, conversion is a tragedy. Fyedke who marries and converts middle daughter Chava is, at least in Tevyes eyes, a villain. But this particular parallel seemed to elude the cast.

See the original post:

Can an all-Mormon cast pull off 'Fiddler on the Roof'? J. - The Jewish News of Northern California

No Invitation to a Passover Seder? Youre Not Alone. – The New York Times

Posted By on April 18, 2022

There should be a JSwipe for Passover Seders, said Pamela Rae Schuller, referring to the popular Jewish dating app. We will show you pictures of the food we cook, and you swipe if you are into it.

Every Passover Ms. Schuller, a New York City comedian and speaker who focuses on disability advocacy, has to figure out where to go for the Seders last minute.

Her parents live in Toledo, Ohio, and her sister and her family live in a suburb of Chicago. She never has the time or desire to fly to the Midwest for the holiday, and they never come to her. They know I am not coming, so they dont even invite me anymore, she said, laughing.

She would host a Seder herself except, I cant cook, and I live in a shoe box, Ms. Schuller, 35, said. She also has a lot of Jewish friends, but the invitations to their homes arent always a sure thing.

You have to do this thing where you tiptoe around it: Oh, what are you doing? At your house? That sounds so fun! she said. I have tried to get invited so many times. You have to remind people you dont live near family.

Its hard being vulnerable and doing that, she added.

Every year it usually works out about 24 hours before the event, and she ends up in someones home. But the hustle to find a Seder can be stressful.

It would be nice to always know where I am going to be, or have an invite consistently in the area where I live and not have to think about it, she said. The problem is, I do have to think about it.

Many Jews have family and friends they spend the Passover Seders with every year. But for others, Passover, which begins on Friday, can feel like the ultimate game of musical chairs, with everyone rushing to score a seat.

Those without family nearby, or who are recent converts to Judaism, often struggle with finding a seat at someones Seder table. They know they can go to communal or ticketed events, but signing up for an event doesnt feel the same as being welcomed into a home. Some people want an invitation so badly that they are turning to social media to advertise their desire to attend a Seder and hopefully find their Passover match.

It is Hannah Purdys dream to attend a private Seder. I know there are communal ones in synagogues, but I dont have to be invited to those, so it isnt the same, she said. Being invited to someones home is like: Im in. Ive made it.

Ms. Purdy, who is 25 and works in public relations, recently converted to Judaism. That means she doesnt have her own family to do a Seder with, as many other Jews do. She also just moved to Nashville, so she hasnt yet had a chance to get involved in the Jewish community.

She posted on Twitter that she needed an invitation, but no bites so far. I think I fell through the cracks for no reason because no one knew I needed to be invited to a Passover Seder, she said. Its no ones fault, but I was honestly just kind of hoping that somebody would be like, You poor soul, you just moved here, come to my house.

This year she is resigned to doing her own thing. My plan is matzo pizza, and The Prince of Egypt, she said. But as soon as this holiday is over, she is going to start doing the work to make sure she is never again alone on the holiday.

My goal for the next year is to get more involved in the Jewish community, she said. Ill have a whole year to find a Passover Seder for next time.

Jess McLaughlin, 29, who is in a postdoctoral biology program at the University of California, Berkeley, and who uses gender-neutral pronouns, also turned to Twitter to try and find a Seder.

In early April, they posted that they needed to find someone in the Bay Area who would adopt them for a Seder, because they were clean out of bandwidth to plan anything myself lol.

Hey, still dont really have Passover plans, they posted six days later. If an invitation materialized, they would cook something to bring, promise!

They even approached the local synagogue to see if anyone had an extra seat at a Seder, but at that point it seemed that everyones plans were already set. Reaching out to a group of college and graduate students to see if anyone wanted to do anything together also produced no results.

A lot of people were doing things with their families, Mx. McLaughlin said. Its sad because this is something I really want to do. I am very extroverted, and I love doing things with people in general.

Mx. McLaughlin is also a recent convert to Judaism and has found Passover to be a particularly hard holiday to fit into. Other holidays are done in a synagogue. Like, Purim is super easy because it isnt something you just do with you and your family, its everybody celebrating together, they said. The Seder is one where it is a lot more family focused, and if you dont have Jewish family, you kind of end up flailing.

Ms. Schuller, who thinks about ways to make the world more inclusive as an advocate for disabled people, said the pandemic seemed to make people less welcoming. I think there is some fear still around Covid, she said. I would love to see a world where anyone hosting things for themselves would add two chairs and post on social media that they have extra spots.

For others, the pandemic put an end to longstanding traditions, and they now have to figure out where to spend Passover and with whom.

Simma Lieberman, 72, a consultant in Berkeley who helps companies with diversity, equity and inclusion, used to host huge Seders for 40 to 50 people. I had a partner who was African American and was totally into the holiday, and we would do these big interracial, multicultural Seders, she said. We had the event that people would say, Hey, when is the Seder? Most people who came werent even Jewish.

This year, as Passover approached, she found herself full of dread. With many work forces back in full swing, she didnt have the time or the energy to host a Seder. And after a few years of having Zoom or very small affairs, a large Seder didnt seem right anyway.

She asked friends what they were doing, and they all had other plans. She knew she could go to a Seder hosted by Chabad, a Hasidic movement known for hosting inclusive Shabbat and holiday meals for anyone who wants to attend, but it would be about a 30-minute drive in San Francisco.

I had Seders for so many years, and to not get an invitation felt really bad, she said. It can feel kind of lonely, like, What am I going to do? I care about community and this holiday so much.

She spread the message on social media and through contacts that she was looking for a place to go for herself and her 27-year-old son, who lives with her.

She now has an invitation from a neighbor whom she hardly knows.

I dont know if they are traditional or what it will be like, she said. I am looking at it like it is an adventure, and its four doors from my house, so I can always leave, I guess. The host is a chef, so she is certain, at least, the food will be delicious.

It feels a little weird because its like, Oh do they really want me? she said. But sometimes you have to let people know that you want to go. You have to put yourself out there.

And, of course, theres always next year.

Go here to read the rest:

No Invitation to a Passover Seder? Youre Not Alone. - The New York Times

Douglas Todd: Can Easter, Passover and Ramadan ease the pain of war? – Vancouver Sun

Posted By on April 18, 2022

Breadcrumb Trail Links

Opinion: What do Christianity, Judaism and Islam which are all marking holy festivals this week have to offer during the destruction wrought by Russia's invasion of Ukraine?

Publishing date:

Tanks. Missile bombardments. Twisted bodies. Molotov cocktails. Shattered apartment blocks. Millions of refugee women and children. Counterattacks. Bravery. Fear.

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What do Christianity, Judaism and Islam which are all marking holy festivals this week have to offer during the cruel destruction wrought by Russian President Vladimir Putins invasion of Ukraine? Can distressed people find support in Easter, Passover and Ramadan, which are, in a rare event, coincidingthis year on the calendar?

Adding to the chaos, Russias invasion of Ukraine is pitting some of the worlds 300 million Orthodox Christians against each other. In better times, they are brothers and sisters in the faith. But Russias most powerful church leader, Patriarch Kirill, has fanned the flames of hate and violence against Ukrainians.

Religion plays a key role in other ways in the midst of the bombs and blood. A Russian-speaking Jew, Ukraine president Volodymyr Zelenskyy is emerging as a hero to the West. Ukraines small Muslim population is also under siege, as are Muslims throughout the Middle East who are finding food and energy sources broken because of the conflict.

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It will be a very difficult Easter for every Ukrainian, says Pavel Gavrilyuk, a theology professor who spoke last month at Vancouvers St. Marks College. Hes scrambling to collect humanitarian aid for Ukraine, including more than 2,500 tourniquets, which can stop bleeding. His efforts are among thousands launched by Canadian churches.

In Ukraine, dozens of churches have been bombed and an untold number of religious artifacts have been confiscated by Russian troops, said Gavrilyuk. Even the Holocaust Memorial near Kyiv, which is a testament to the massacre of Ukrainian Jews during the Second World War at Babyan Yar, has been damaged by bombs, leaving five dead.

This April, following two years of coronavirus restrictions, Christians, Jews and Muslims were looking forward to gathering in person for their festivals.

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But war has cast a different dark pall over this Easter season, as well as over Passover week, which is celebrated April 16 with a seder meal. The holy month of Ramadan, which began April 2 with devout Muslims fasting during daylight hours, is also affected.

Easter will be especially tragic and profound this year, said Gavrilyuk, explaining how the Easter festival is a time for Christians to share in the suffering that Jesus, the Christ, endured when he was crucified before being resurrected.

While the worlds two billion Catholics and Protestants mark Good Friday and Easter this weekend, Orthodox Christians follow the movable Julian calendar and will this year observe Good Friday on April 22. They are in the midst of preparations for it.

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There are roughly 100 million Orthodox Christians in Russia, with another 30 million or so in the Orthodox Church of Ukraine, which in 2018 gained independence from the Russian church. Canada is home to more than 1.4 million people with Ukrainian origins.

Gavrilyuk blames the war against Ukraine on how Putin has become drunk on his power for 22 years. And he condemns Patriarch Kirill for abetting the dictator by claiming Russia is not the aggressor and criticizing Ukraine. The patriarch has turned this into a distorted holy war, said Gavrilyuk. He believes both Putin and Kirill should go on trial for war crimes.

In Chilliwack, Orthodox priest Matthew Francis is this weekend trying to help his multicultural congregation make sense of the war in the context of the Easter season.

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Like everyone, as human beings it breaks our hearts to see the images of tragic violence and suffering. The human suffering is devastating, especially for some parishioners who have family and friends in Ukraine, said Francis, whose Holy Apostles Mission belongs to the Orthodox Church in America, Archdiocese of Canada.

The joy and faith we have in Jesus Christ will provide consolation and hope, even in the face of this terrible warand uncertaincircumstances.

Orthodox Christians in Ukraine will be singing Easter hymns this week even in the midst of bombs and great danger, he said. They will not be singing alone, because Orthodox Christians all over the world will be lifting their voices.

For the worlds Orthodox Christians, April 16is Lazarus Day, which commemorates the account of Jesus raising his friend from the dead. It is a story, Francis said, that even in a time of immense grief can give hope.

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Weve heard that Ukrainians who are escaping are praying in their cars as they go through checkpoints, the priest said. They are experiencing everyones worst nightmare. Theyre saying, Lord have mercy. But they have a hope that death is not the final story.

Jewish Orthodox Rabbi Andrew Rosenblatt, of Vancouvers Schara Tzedeck synagogue, says, Its super-interesting that the poster boy for this invasion is Jewish, referring to Zelenskyy, whose ancestors both fought the Nazis and were murdered by them during the Holocaust.

Although the worlds Jews have a very complicated relationship with Ukraine and Russia because of the Holocaust, Rosenblatt said there is almost universal outrage over Putins invasion.

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Today, Ukraine is home to 60,000 to 150,000 Jews, much less than the more than 1.5 million who lived there at the beginning of the Nazi occupation during the Second World War. Another 150,000 Jews live in Russia.

The Jewish tradition, Rosenblatt said, is inherently sensitive to oppressed people. And thats particularly true now of the 44 million citizens of Ukraine.

Rabbi Rosenblatt said the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, frequently reminds Jews: Do not oppress the stranger, because you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.

The phrase is repeated during the ritual Passover meal, which celebrates Jews liberation from the land of the pharaohs.

When the rabbi was asked if he sees any significance in the way that Christianitys Easter, Islams Ramadan and Judaisms Passover overlap in this troubled time in 2022, Rosenblatt said not really. Despite sharing outrage over the atrocities Russia is committing in Ukraine, he quipped that Orthodox Jews, who comprise just one stream of the roughly 400,000 Jews living in Canada, spend a lot of time ignoring other traditions. We stay in our own lane.

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Still, he emphasized that Jewish tradition has long taught that nation shall not raise sword against other nations.

Similarly, Vancouver Muslim Farida Bano Ali says Islams holy book, the Quran, teaches followers to care about the death and suffering of all humans, no matter their creed or religion. Any kind of disaster, we feel it.

The worlds 1.8 billion Muslims have been looking forward to marking their first Ramadan without COVID-19 restrictions in two years, said Ali, who has headed the womens council of the B.C. Muslim Association. She was ecstatic the month of daytime fasting and communal prayer was finally arriving. But the festival has taken on a more sombre tone because of Russias attack on Ukraine.

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Its not that we overlook whats happened to (Muslim-majority) Syria, Afghanistan and Yemen. But we are very concerned about the people who are dying in Ukraine. We are shocked at the atrocities. Its no different. Its just the name of the country is different. People are dying for no reason.

Ali, who works with the B.C. government to combat domestic violence, said Ramadan is meant to be a time of peace, meditation and strengthening the inner self for Canadas one million Muslims, as well as those in the Middle East who are struggling with rising food and energy prices caused by the conflict.

Ramadan is for thinking of how we can ease the pain of others. When one of us is affected, were all affected.

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As Russian bombs continue to destroy lives and cities in Ukraine, Gavrilyuk, who is based at the University of St. Thomas in Minnesota, laments how Ukraine is becoming the worlds sacrificial lamb, a bulwark against evil in which brave soldiers give up their lives to, in effect, stop further Russian encroachment into the West.

But Gavrilyuk, who was born in Kyiv and baptized in the Russian Orthodox tradition, is also aware that Easter brings a message of hope.

The universal symbol of Easter is the mythological phoenix, he said, a bird that rises from the ashes of death. It embodies the rebirth of the soul and, for Christians, the resurrection.

The phoenix symbolizes the rebuilding of Ukraine.

And thats why, every day, every waking hour, Gavrilyuk and his 10 staff are toiling non-stop to send tourniquets, life-saving prescription drugs and other humanitarian aid to the determined people of Ukraine.

Im involved in this 24/7. But if I could I would give 1,000 hours a day.

dtodd@postmedia.com

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Original post:

Douglas Todd: Can Easter, Passover and Ramadan ease the pain of war? - Vancouver Sun

The rebbes simple but genius recipe – The Jewish Standard

Posted By on April 18, 2022

Last week I met Mike. We spoke about Passover and everything that comes with it (you know how it is! Its a lot of stress making sure all the preparations get done.)

Before I left, I offered to help him do the mitzvah of tefillin.

Rabbi, you know Im a secular Jew, he said. I dont do this.

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First of all, I told him, labels are for shirts and not for people. Dont label yourself. A Jew is a Jew, and thats all that matters.

Secondly, a mitzvah is a mitzvah. When we do a mitzvah, regardless of what we know or believe, it just feels right.

Much ink has been spilled over the vision, leadership, and impact of the rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory. Still, I believe that not enough has been written about the challenge he faced.

It was a unique and unprecedented challenge, the challenge of life is good.

Much of the Jewish peoples history was filled with tzuris. You name it: Poverty, persecution, blood libels, pogroms the list goes on. Jewish leaders in every generation dedicated their lives to protecting, defending, and caring for the Jewish people.

When the rebbe assumed leadership of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement in 1950, the world had changed. The shtetls were gone; the tight-knit Jewish enclaves of the Old World were out of fashion. The Jewish people had found their way into the Western world, embracing the opportunities it provided and looking forward to finally being treated equally.

Life was good.

Yet the very survival of the Jewish people was at risk.

This time, the threats were not from Cossacks or evil inquisitors. It was a threat from within. The threat of apathy and assimilation; the threat that the new generation would care more about climbing the ladders of financial and social success and less about Jewish continuity and peoplehood. About being Jews.

The rebbe cared deeply about this issue. From the first moment of his leadership, he spoke about it. Not as a problem that we needed to kvetch and worry about, but as a calling that should inspire us to find new ways to connect our fellow Jews with Judaism.

So, what next?

Perhaps youd have expected the rebbe to launch an ad campaign in all major newspapers, explaining why assimilation was terrible.

Or perhaps raise a few million dollars to establish a body to research the topic of Jewish apathy.

He did none of that. Instead, he had a simple and genius suggestion. Get Jews to do more mitzvot.

On its face, doing a mitzvah doesnt always seem so valuable. Someone put on tefillin or lit Shabbat candles once. Whats the big deal? Is that what is going to save Judaism?

So the first answer is a resounding yes. Because as Maimonides taught, people must always see themselves as if the entire world is on balance, and one good deed can tip the scale for the better.

The second answer is another resounding yes.

Actions are usually an expression of our deep desires. We work because we care about being financially secure. We cook (or buy) food because the flavors and smells will bring us great satisfaction, but also because food sustains us. We follow the news because being knowledgeable makes us feel powerful.

In the rebbes eyes, every Jew has a profound and unbreakable connection to God and Judaism. When you offer a Jew the opportunity to do a mitzvah, its not about merely going through the motions; its an expression of their deepest essence. Its like putting a spark next to a barrel of oil. That little spark is going to kindle a flame that will only grow brighter.

And now, looking back at the last few decades, we can see how the rebbes idea sparked a revitalization of Jewish life all around the globe. We can easily assume that every Jewish person alive today was significantly impacted by the rebbe.

This past Tuesday (the 11th of Nissan, corresponding this year to April 12) marked 120 years since the rebbes birth. Allow me to suggest that the best way to mark this milestone is by adopting the Rebbes novel idea and applying it in our daily lives.

Lets do a mitzvah.

Lets commit to integrating one more holy act into our schedule. It can be a mitzvah between God and us or something we do to help and inspire others. Either way, this mitzvah will change our livesand the world around usfor the better.

Our souls will be happy we did.

Our minds will be happy we did.

And the Jewish people will be happy we did. Because our additional one small mitzvah is one of the greatest contributions to ensuring that our people will survive and thrive.

Mendy Kaminker is a member of the Chabad.org editorial team and the rabbi of Chabad of Hackensack.

Original post:

The rebbes simple but genius recipe - The Jewish Standard

Lego rabbis, Hasidic coloring books: How toy makers and publishers created an alternative Jewish universe – JTA News – Jewish Telegraphic Agency

Posted By on April 18, 2022

(JTA) I grew up on Encyclopedia Brown, a series of books about a grade-school Sherlock Holmes who solves one-minute mysteries. You know the type: If you didnt steal the bicycle, how did you know it was blue?

Encyclopedias world looked just like mine: white, suburban, middle-class. If he had a religion, it wasnt obvious which, except when we peeled off on the major holidays or for Sunday school, was also true of me and my friends. I later joked that there should be an all-Jewish version of the books, in which the hero solves highly specific Jewish mysteries. I even proposed a name: Encyclopedia Judaica Brown.

It turns out, there is such a thing: Gemarakup (roughly, Talmudic brain) is a childrens book series created for the haredi, or fervently Orthodox, market. Its hero, according to Volume 2, loves solving mysteries, almost as much as he love[s] studying Torah (note that almost).

I learned about Gemarakup inArtifacts of Orthodox Childhoods (Ben Yehuda Press), a new collection of essays edited by Dainy Bernstein, who teaches childrens and young adult literature, among other things, at CUNYs Lehman College. Written by scholars and writers who grew up immersed in books, toys and songs created for the religious Jewish market, it is an introduction to a world that a non-Orthodox Jew like me may only have glimpsed through the window of a Borough Park Judaica store.

Its titular artifacts are an alternative universe of pop culture: Lego-like sets featuring tiny rabbis in their studies and modestly dressed moms making challah; childrens songs that rework secular genres to teach sexual restraint and the power of prayer; a coloring book in which even Adam and Eve are fully dressed in the clothing of Hasidic Jews.

The B.Y. Times is a series of books, intended for the Orthodox young adult market, that is clearly inspired by the secular The Babysitters Club series (sans boyfriends, writes Meira Levinson, a professor of education at the Harvard Graduate School of Education). (Courtesy Ben Yehuda Press)

It is also, for many of the contributors, a reckoning with a strictly Orthodox upbringing that many of them have left behind. The books, toys and songs are meant to reinforce values many of the authors find stifling, including strict gender segregation, narrowly prescribed roles for boys and girls and distrust of outsiders. Haredi book and toy stores, writes Shlomi Eiger, a Tel Aviv-based toy designer, serve as gatekeepers, preventing secular consumer culture from infiltrating the community.

Except when the gates dont hold. Bernstein told me about the ways Orthodox publishers and creators cant escape the culture that they are countering.

This is a community that is not separate from non-Jewish America or from American politics, Bernstein said. They actively participate in American culture and American politics, for all their protestations to the contrary. If you actually look at the books, they are influenced by trends in American publishing.

Examples include The B.Y. Times, a haredi version of The Babysitters Club books (sans boyfriends, as contributor Meira Levinson points out) and the Devora Doresh mystery series, a cross between Nancy Drew and, yes, Encyclopedia Brown.

For Orthodox parents and educators (and Bernstein acknowledges the wide range of philosophies and values within even the strictest Orthodox communities) the test of a childrens product is whether the creator has the right intentions. If they dont believe in the correct kind of Judaism, that will filter through in their work, and you will be influenced by that and you will therefore leave the correct kind of Judaism, said Bernstein, characterizing the community ethos. So its this idea of being very careful not to allow outside influences even if they seem harmless.

And yet, as Levinson explains in her essay on the Devora Doresh books, (gently) subversive messages can slip past the gatekeepers: Created by Carol Korb Hubner, the books feature an Orthodox Jewish girl having adventures of the kind that were otherwise normally limited either to Orthodox Jewish boys or non-Jewish girls.

The Marvelous Midos Machine was a series of story albums released in the 1980s, featuring a rabbi-scientist who uses his knowledge of science to teach Jewish children to behave properly. The series holds a special place in the canon of Orthodox Jewish story tapes, writes a contributor to Artifacts of Orthodox Childhoods. (Courtesy Ben Yehuda Press)

Bernstein is a product of such boundary-crossing. Growing up in Borough Park, Bernstein attended Bais Yaakov schools, where Orthodox girls have to abide by strict dress and behavior codes. I had to sign a list of things, saying that I will not go to the public library. We do not have a TV in the house. There is no internet in the house except if you have permission from a rabbi for your work. You will not go ice skating. You will not go to visit Florida on midwinter vacation.

At the same time, Bernsteins parents both had college degrees unusual for the community and allowed a limited diet of books from the public library. I was as far as anyone could tell a model Bais Yaakov student, said Bernstein, who nonetheless dove stealthily into books and even movies no haredi parent could ever allow.

Bernstein went on to Yavneh Seminary in Cleveland and came back to teach language arts at Bais Yaakov of Boro Park. And then I went to college, which was a break from what was expected. And eventually I went on to grad school, and now I teach in college and research and hopefully publish. Bernstein, who has a PhD in English and a certificate in medieval studies from the CUNY Graduate Center, left the haredi community while in grad school.

I shared with Bernstein my own qualms as an outsider who often writes and edits articles about the haredi Orthodox community for a largely non-haredi audience. Is Artifacts of Orthodox Childhoods meant to expose the community, and lead it to reform its insular ways? Are readers being invited to gawk at the peculiarly dressed men and women and their distinctive way of raising children?

As a person, theres a lot I would want to change about the community, said Bernstein. As a scholar, I know that it is useful to have things written about this world in a non-judgmental but still analytical lens. I want the non-haredi world to understand that these are complex people and to stop seeing it as such a completely foreign, exotic thing. And what I think it can do for the community is give them the tools that the leaders dont always give them to look with a critical lens at these texts and artifacts and not just view them as inevitable.

The graphic art in The Katz Passover Haggadah, published in 2003 and illustrated by Gadi Pollack, reinforces a haredi Orthodox worldview, writes Yoel Finkelman: the outside world is not to be trusted, Jews can only rely on God, and sacrifice and suffering are part and parcel of Jewish experience. (Courtesy Ben Yehuda Press)

In fact, the tone of most of the essays is wistful. Even in the scholarly essays the writers tend to look back with nostalgia on the moral certainty and idealized worldview they absorbed as children. A few writers share their childhood books and music with their own children. As a mother, writes Miriam Moster, in an essay about popular haredi boys choirs, I want to raise my children in the tradition in which my personal narrative is rooted, but I also feel responsible to shield them from the facets that drove me to leave the Haredi community in the first place.

Her solution could stand as a good description of Dainy Bernsteins project: And so I pass on to my children a potpourri of Haredi traditions, stories, rituals, and tunes that we interrogate and challenge together.

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Lego rabbis, Hasidic coloring books: How toy makers and publishers created an alternative Jewish universe - JTA News - Jewish Telegraphic Agency

My obsession with my Hasidic fathers handwritten letters – Forward

Posted By on April 18, 2022

My father was a storyteller. I dont mean that he told stories for a living or in a professional capacity of any kind, but rather that he knew how to tell a good story. And he took such conspicuous pleasure in the telling. On winter Friday nights, when the Shabbos meal was over but it was still too early to go to bed, we my sister, brother and I would spread out on the blue velvet couch that sat against a wall of the dining room in my childhood home and listen to my fathers stories.

Some of them were fairy tales. Chassidishe maasehlech, he called them, Hasidic little tales. Most of them featured a porets, a feudal landowner, who was cruel to the Jews in his jurisdiction but eventually received his comeuppance. They were magical stories, with dancing monkeys that swallowed gold coins, or ghosts that haunted an evil poretss dreams or angels disguised as paupers whod appear in town and perform miracles. Till today, though I dont remember all the details of those stories anymore, I can still when I close my eyes and concentrate feel exactly how I felt then, listening to my fathers words, the rooms light taking on a shade and glow particular to winter Friday nights, the ashy scent of Shabbos candles flickering down to their nubs wafting in the air around us. My mother was usually in bed by then, and my fathers voice took over all other sounds in the room.

I think the reason my fathers stories were so good was because no matter how often he retold one, he said it with the same pleasure and relish as if he were unfurling it in front of us for the first time. He himself had lost his father when he was ten, so perhaps he was reenacting a role he imagined his father would have played, had he lived long enough. Or perhaps it was simply his love of an audience, which manifested in other areas of his life too. Who knows? While he was alive, I never thought to ask him.

My father was not like the fathers of today. By that I mean that he wasnt our buddy or even very involved in his childrens lives. He didnt know much about my friends or the routines that comprised my daily life, nor did he think he should be interested in them. In the 1970s, many fathers were that way. Loving, but uninvolved. At least, most of the fathers I knew in my community were like that.

But he told good stories.

Nature and nurture those winter Friday nights! are what predisposed me to my career as a writer and translator, which is how I found myself one afternoon last fall at YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, reading the personal correspondence between famed Yiddish writer Chaim Grade and his wife, Inna famous in her own right for so fiercely guarding her late husbands works that until her death, they could not be accessed, let alone published. The file included typed and handwritten letters and several Valentines Day cards with handwritten love poems that the couple had exchanged over the years of their marriage.

I was privileged to see these papers, I knew. And more than that, to have been asked to translate some of them. The Yiddish literary world had waited decades to unpack the contents of this extraordinary writers archive, while Inna whod outlived her husband by 28 years toyed with their hopes, dangling the prize of his papers, yet ultimately refusing access to them.

Yiddish is my native tongue, my first language, as it is for all who, like me, are born into Hasidic Satmar families in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Yet despite being a voracious reader even as a child, I had never read anything by Chaim Grade until well into my adulthood when I was in graduate school. Books by prewar Yiddish writers, nearly all of whom had abandoned religion (or did not come from religious homes in the first place) were taboo in my community. Yet years later when I discovered the Grade oeuvre, I found that the world he wrote about was not very different from the world in which I lived.

The Grade novel I had been hired to translate which will be published in English as Sons and Daughters had been unearthed by YIVO, who, along with the National Library of Israel, was granted the Grade estate a few years after Innas death. When YIVO gave me the job, the manuscript was on galley sheets; it had been readied for print right before Chaim Grades death but had never been published in book form, not even in Yiddish. Based on the number of galley sheets, I expected the novel to come to about 350 pages.

To keep myself motivated, I didnt read Sons and Daughters ahead of time but read and translated simultaneously. I became enamored of the characters. And the plot, with its complex family relationships and its characters struggles between tradition and modernity, held me in its grip. But beyond the characters and plot, the real magnet for me was the familiarity of Grades world. Somehow, it felt like home.

Which made no sense, if you thought about it. The storys setting was a fictional Polish town, and its attitudes and values, its mores and taboos, were inspired by those of Grades beloved Vilna, the city of his youth, the city that had been stolen from him by the Holocaust but which he could never, to his dying day, stop loving.

Where are you, grandfathers with your thick flaxen beards / Where are you, mothers in your pious-covered shawls, Grade bemoaned in his ode to Vilna in one of his poems. But I myself had never lived in Vilna, nor been alive during the era Grade wrote about. And the characters problems, though still relevant to religious Jewish families today, were cloaked in different details and specifics. Yet as I read and translated his novel the last one he would write the setting and its people, their perspectives, fears, conversations, arguments, critiques, their synagogues and gathering places, all felt recognizable and identifiable. For me, Grade might as well have been writing about my own Williamsburg.

Yiddish, too, played a role in this feeling of familiarity. In fact, when I would become lost in the hum of translating the Yiddish words, I would sometimes imagine strangely! that it was my father regaling me with this story. My father, whose devotion to religion, Hasidism and Satmar had likely made him unaware of Chaim Grades very existence, let alone his books. Still, as I read, it would seem to me that I could hear my fathers voice his expressions, his inflections emanating from the page.

That afternoon at YIVO spent perusing Chaim and Inna Grades letters was not my first experience with Chaim Grades personal correspondence. That had happened a few years before as I was working my way through translating Sons and Daughters. The more progress I made in my translation and the closer I drew to the end of the book, the more worried I became. There were too many dangling subplots. Too many loose threads in each characters story line. How could they all be resolved in the pages that were left?

At about the same time, I received an email from Yehudah Zirkind, a graduate student at Hebrew University. He had heard that I was translating Grades unpublished novel the finding of it had generated significant buzz among academics and since he was doing research on Grade for his dissertation, he thought hed let me know that hed discovered a file of personal correspondence in the National Library of Israel. The letters in the file had been written by Grade to his friend and patron, Abe Bornstein. The letters, Yehudah wrote, include several discussions about the book youre translating. Would I care to see those letters, he wanted to know?

Would I! Thrilled at this development, I wrote back expressing my eagerness. And sure enough, a short while later he sent me scanned copies of about twenty letters. And that is how I learned that the book I was translating was actually half a book. It was volume one of a two-volume novel.

The story of the search for the second volume merits an article in its own right, but for me, the most wonderful upshot of the mix-up was my introduction to Grades letters. If Id thought his novel had held me in its grip, his letters just about hypnotized me. Theres something about handwritten letters that exposes vulnerabilities, that reveals truths, often unwittingly on the letter writers part. The Grade-to-Bornstein letters bared Grades anxiety about Sons and Daughters: his fear that he wouldnt live to write its ending, that it wouldnt sell, that it wasnt good enough. This, even as he also wrote Bornstein that he believed Sons and Daughters was his magnum opus.

The letters bared Grades vulnerabilities: his envy of, and contempt for his peer and rival, Isaac Bashevis Singer; his desperate need for validation and constant reassurance; his inner struggles over his abandonment of his former piety; his mixed feelings for his wife who was both the love and bane of his life. And it exposed his brilliant mind: his philosophies about literature and art, his introspective musings on the human condition and life in general, his perceptive insights into the minds of Inna and others in his life.

Its a shame that people no longer write handwritten letters to each other. Texts and WhatsApp messages, emails, even phone calls none of them can express yearnings, emotions and introspection quite like longhand or typed letters do. Letter writing requires a specific kind of discipline, one that forces a person to set time aside, to treat writing as an official task, and the results, therefore, are different from what one puts down in an email. Later, I would realize this again when after my fathers death, I discovered a cache of letters that neither I, nor anyone in my family, had known about.

Ive already said that my father was a wonderful storyteller. But as we, his children, grew older, my father stopped telling chassidishe maasehlech and instead offered us true stories, stories that had happened to him. And as he told us those stories, he was without us realizing it gifting us with a world. Our world. The early days of our Hasidic Williamsburg community. The story of its pioneers.

My father was born in Kiskunhalas, Hungary, in 1940, and arrived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in 1950, with his parents and siblings. Williamsburg began to coalesce as a Hasidic community in 1946 with the arrival of Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, the Rebbe of Satmar. Gradually, the community became solidified, as men, women and children, survivors of the Holocaust, made their way to New York, either to follow the Satmar Rebbe or simply to settle in a place where a Hasidic community had been established. They trickled in gradually, family after family who had secured the necessary papers to leave Europe and start fresh here. They were, as we say in Yiddish, the sheyres hapleyte, the surviving remnant a term possibly first used in an official capacity by Rabbi Yekusiel Yehudah Halberstam, the Rebbe of Klausenburg, to name the yeshivas he established in postwar DP camps.

The surviving remnant. The term is somewhat romantic, with its elegiac undertones and its allusions to a certain pluck and pertinacity. And it is true that I myself possibly because I grew up with this term have retained a romanticized image of the nascent Hasidic Williamsburg community of the 1950s and 60s; I view them as the little engine that could. Determined, pragmatic, these early settlers plodded ahead, pushed forward. Despite what theyd been through, and despite the obstacles and challenges facing them in their newly adopted land, they kept chugging along: they endured, they adapted, they built, then endured, adapted and built some more.

I was born into this world. But throughout my childhood and teenage years, when this was the only world I knew, I didnt realize that it was unique. It didnt seem strange to me that the grandparents of nearly every one of my classmates, friends, and neighbors were born in Europe. It didnt seem strange that in the shops of Williamsburg in the midst of the modern metropolis of New York, the gritty urban borough of Brooklyn you heard people conversing in Hungarian or Yiddish more often than in English, or that the various Hasidic sects and synagogues that comprised the Williamsburg community were named after European towns or cities, or that my grandmother, great-aunts and uncles, and quite a few of my neighbors had blue numbers tattooed on their arms.

These tattoos were so ubiquitous, they were like white noise, unnoticed, unacknowledged. Oh, we knew the numbers were from Auschwitz, imprinted by the evil Nazis. But Auschwitz itself was just a vague concept in our minds. Even romantic, in a way. After all, our grandparents had survived it. And the stories we were fed were only those of courageous people, those whod risked their lives in the concentration camps for the sake of Judaism and piety. We were told how theyd traded their rations of bread for the privilege of praying with the one siddur that had been smuggled into the camps. How theyd insisted on fasting on Yom Kippur. How theyd traded their meager food for a bit of oil and a match to light a single Chanukah candle. How despite freezing weather, theyd shared their measly blankets with others who had none. It had not yet become commonplace at least, not in our community for survivors to speak in public about the persecutions, degradation and humiliations they had undergone.

I remember once I must have been about nine or ten innocently telling my blue-numbered maternal grandmother that she had surely eaten only kosher food in the camps, right?

She looked at me with an odd expression: disdain mixed with anger and even pity. Yeah, sure, kosher in Belsen, she muttered, shaking her head at my ignorance.

I remember my shock. The very thought! That my grandmother, a devout Jew, a Hasid, could have eaten food that wasnt certified kosher! Thats how unknowing I was. When I remember the expression on my grandmothers face, I feel my own face turning hot. I am ashamed.

Still, eventually I would learn how the six million Jews of my fathers and grandmothers generation had died. And I would learn what the camps were really like. There is so much literature on the subject that it would have been nearly impossible for me to remain uninformed. But without my fathers Friday night stories, I would not have known much about the beginnings of the community into which I was born and raised.

Here is one true story my father told me:

One week after he arrived in America, his father passed away from a surgery gone wrong, leaving behind my grandmother, who was in her ninth month of pregnancy, and seven children. The tragedy seems particularly unjust. Here was a man who had survived the Holocaust, had spent nearly two years in a Displaced Persons camp in Leipheim, Germany, had undergone the difficult work of securing the papers for his family to immigrate, and finally reached American shores, family intact, only to die right after from medical negligence. At any rate, the family hed left behind needed food on the table. In the 1950s, without a male breadwinner, among a fledgling community most of whom were poor, this was a significant challenge.

One day, my grandmother was told by a friend that there was a way for her to receive bread free of charge. A Williamsburg bakery owner named Shloyme Weiss, a Holocaust survivor who had originally owned a bakery in prewar Vienna, donated bread to any widows or orphans who came to his store. (As an aside, the bakery Mr. Weiss founded on Lee Avenue in Williamsburg still exists today.)

Receiving free bread, my father explained to us, wouldnt solve the big problem, which was that wed lost our father, but it would at least solve the problem of our going hungry. So one Thursday morning, my mother gave me a chore. Lazerl, she said, go to Shloyme Weisss bakery on Lee Avenue, tell him who your father was, and then hell give you some bread.

But Mameh, I said, I dont have money.

Never mind, she said, hell give you bread. Youll see.

I was ten years old, my father told us, a catch in his voice. What my mother was asking me to do terrified me. Just walk into a store and ask for something without money? I was scared the man would laugh in my face. And I was embarrassed. Wed been a respected family in my hometown, and now I was asking for charity? Every bone in my body protested. But listen, when my mother told me to do something, I obeyed. So I put on my coat and went. My heart was pounding for entire walk down Lee Avenue. I got to the bakery, and what do I see? Customers. Packed with customers. Paying customers. I could barely breathe. I almost turned back. But of course, I didnt. My mother had given me a job to do. I couldnt not do it.

I slowly pulled open the door of the bakery, and before Id even dared to step inside, Reb Shloymes eyes caught mine. He was in the middle of packing up some cake for a customer, but he spotted me standing there, and I dont know, he saw something epes hot er gezayn in mayneh oygn, there was something he saw in my eyes and he stopped what he was doing, gestured to me to come close, and as I did, he told the paying customer: Just a minute. Ill finish your order in a minute. Then he took a huge brown sack, the kind the bakers used to place their rolls of bread in and began to fill it. Bread, some rugelech, some kokosh cake, they all went into the sack. He handed me the sack, it was almost as big as me, and said, Loz grisn di mameh Send regards to your mother.

What did he see? my father asked. How did he know?

How did he know who you are, you mean? I asked my father.

But he shook his head. How did he know how I felt.

My father told this story more than once. And each time I would imagine my father as a boy, shuffling down Lee Avenue, hesitantly grabbing hold of the handle of the heavy shop door, peering inside with his big, round sad eyes.

How did he know who I was, what Id come for, how scared I was? What would make a businessman drop a paying customer and rush to serve a child? Those were the kind of people we had then. You dont find such people anymore.There were many stories like these that my father imparted to us. Like an offering, like a prize. And I swallowed them and retained them deep in my marrow, so that my image of those early years of Williamsburg was of an idyllic world, where people aided each other and store owners were charitable and unbelievably kind.

These were, as I said, true stories. I have since heard from others about the humble compassion that the baker Shloyme Weiss possessed. My grandmother wasnt the only widow he helped, and my father wasnt the only child that his thoughtfulness touched. But like the anecdotes of Holocaust victims who shared their blankets and food, these stories told only part of the history. There is, after all, a reason why some anecdotes get passed on, retold, become part of the oral tradition of a community. These anecdotes have a beginning and end. They usually have a punchline. They leave a listener either moved or amused. The man who traded his ration of food for the privilege of praying from a siddur is a story. The bakery owner who had such a gentle soul he could intuit a childs terror and shame is a story. And a community is built, and thrives on such stories.

But what these stories fail to convey is the prosaic, the routine lives of people in any given community, their comings and goings and troubles and joys and fears and habits, all of which comprise the days of a life, both of a self and of a community. The feel-good stories, the heartwarming anecdotes of shared blankets and free bread for widows, are the surprise, like a neon pink pillow in the middle of a traditional living room. Daily life, on the other hand, is the beige couch in that room. The thing you use most and notice least. Such pieces do not make for a good story.

What I had received from my father was the bright pink pillow. The fabulous stories. The idealized vision. It is not that the pink pillow is a lie it is there, in the room; it exists but its only a part of a much bigger whole. An incomplete portrayal. And an incomplete portrayal is a false one.

Then, in August of 2020, my father passed away. A short time later, as I was organizing his papers, I discovered a cache of letters that had been sent to my father before he was married. Most were from friends who had been temporarily living in South America and Belgium until they could secure permanent visas to the U.S. Some were from relatives. One bundle of letters, rolled into a rubber band, were actually my fathers that he had written to a friend. Apparently, that friend had saved the letters and, at some point, given them back to my father.

A few years before, when Id first encountered the file of Chaim Grades letters that Yehudah Zirkind had sent me, I found in addition to the letters to his patron, Abe Bornstein a letter to journalist and lexicographer, Yehuda even-Shmuel. In that letter Grade had written: I now feel akin to that romantic seafarer who sends a letter in a sealed bottle over the waves. Why exactly Grade had felt that way at that particular time I cannot say, but as I began to read my fathers letters, it was precisely such an image that came to my mind: a sealed bottle that had been sent over the waves into a vacuum. A time capsule. And I was the finder! I got to melt the wax sealing the bottle. I got to unpack the time capsule.

What I unpacked slowly, letter by letter was not a world of stories. There were no heroes intuiting a childs pain, no acts of compassion that become the stuff of legends. What Id stumbled upon instead was the beige couch. Here was the world of the pioneers as they had actually lived. Here were the original teenagers and young men of Hasidic Williamsburg, the first group to attend the postwar Williamsburg cheders, summer camps, yeshivas. Here was the stuff that had interested them, that they talked about, fought about; here was their heart. Ah, I kept muttering silently in my head, so this is how it was.

Of course, other than a few letters from my fathers mother and my fathers oldest niece, with whom he was very close, the world I encountered in these letters was limited to the male domain. In the gender-segregated Hasidic community, my fathers friends and hence the letter writers were all men. Still, I found that this realm was surprisingly similar to what my own teenage world had been in the female domain. (Perhaps, in fact, it is similar to teenage worlds everywhere). Petty gossip among friends. Misunderstandings. Pranks. But also, deep friendship. The letters were filled with communal politics that its writers felt so passionately about, it was hard not to view the letter writers as ridiculous when read in hindsight, now in 2022 when so much of what they were writing about was no longer relevant. Indeed, most political arguments communal or national quickly become outdated.

I discovered that the young men in the letters were image-conscious in a similarly foolish way and about similarly foolish topics as we young Hasidim are today. Y. took his driving test today but failed it, my father wrote to his friend. And I know youre going to ask, why is a bokher [an unmarried man] driving? Well, first of all, hes already engaged. And secondly: dont tell anyone!

I laughed when I read that. Plus ca change. I had not realized that even during the communitys nascent years, such societal norms had already been established. An unmarried man must devote his days to studying the Talmud, not to such mundane endeavors as driving, or he risks not finding a match. Luckily, Y. had already found his match, so he could cheat the system. But despite Y.s engagement, my father still fell it important to warn the letter receiver not to tell anyone. Underlined, no less. A persons reputation must be protected at all costs.

More communal politics: M., in his usual way, refused us bokherim access to the Rebbes room, my father wrote to another friend who was living in Buenos Aires at the time. But D. went behind his back and got us in.

I chose these passages to excerpt because I found them funny and real, typical as Id said of the petty gossip and politics that churn among groups in their teens and twenties everywhere, albeit about different topics than those that concern this particular community. But in truth, most of the letters were anything but catty. In some, the caring and love and devotion these people had for each other was so palpable on the page, they brought tears to my eyes. They validated my idealization of the tender early years of my community.

Over the course of writing this essay, I have been attempting to understand my fascination a better word might be obsession with these letters, both Grades and my fathers. Part of the allure is simple. I miss my father, and being surrounded by his letters is comforting. My absorption with Grades letters is understandable too. I spent more than two years translating a novel of his. Naturally, Im intrigued by his life.

But its not just that. I think that what makes the reading of such letters letters by people who are gone so satisfying is that we get to see a story come to an end. We get to see a life after its over. We get hindsight. We get to look back at something complete as we ourselves wrestle with our own partly-lived life and try to find meaning in one that already has an ending. Ultimately, it all comes down to story. The story of a life. Of a community. The story that is told and the one that is read. The story that appears on the pages and the one that actually occurred. Through Chaim Grades novels, I learned about the prewar life of communities such as mine. Through my fathers letters, I learned about the community that had spawned me. In both, I found myself.

Rose Waldman teaches writing at NYU. Her translated works include Pioneers: The First Breach by S. An-sky (2017) and the forthcoming Sons and Daughters by Chaim Grade (2023-2024).

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My obsession with my Hasidic fathers handwritten letters - Forward


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