Kibur Asres died last month at 61 in Bahir Dar, Ethiopia, and was buried in Addis Ababa. Thousands cried for him, Jewish and non-Jewish. We, in Toronto, were honoured to have known him.

Kibur was born on May 12, 1950, in Dabat, Ethiopia, to Qes Asres Yayehe and Amarach Denku. He was known to his close family as Wondemalem, translated as “my dearest brother.” According to his daughter, Beth, he was a wise, kind, generous, courageous and complex man.

Like many great leaders in training, Kibur spent his early years tending sheep. In the 1960s, he graduated, with honours, from Addis Ababa University with a degree in chemistry and mathematics and received his diploma from former Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie.

Kibur spent the next eight years working as a professor. While teaching at Bahir Dar University, he met the lovely and gentle Walelign Fanta. They had three children, Joseph, Eyassu and Bethlehem (Beth).

In 1983, following the Ethiopian revolution and with a bounty on his head, Kibur and family fled to Montreal with the help of JIAS. They were among the first Beta Israel families to leave Ethiopia and arrive in Canada. He completed a master’s degree in social work at McGill University, while he continued working as a chemist and researcher for the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal, specializing in AIDS research.

Later, the family moved to Toronto and Kibur worked as a social worker with Jewish Family & Child. He was the president of the Toronto Ethiopian Association, and created a very successful parking-lot management enterprise called Globe Park Ltd. Kibur was also the dean of the Ottawa School of Business.

His true passion in life was community service. “Any person who had the opportunity to know him can attest to his genuine passion to improve the lives of all those he encountered,” Beth said.

Kibur was the founder of Horn Refugee Foundation, which assisted more than 3,000 African refugee claimants. He established the Re-Med Foundation, which provided medical supplies to underprivileged people internationally. He also created the Addis Hope Foundation, which assisted in community development in Ethiopia.

Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “I submit to you that if a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” This was not the case with Kibur Asres. He helped dozens of Ethiopian Jews immigrate to Canada. He was an executive member of the Canadian Jewish Congress and served on its race relations committee. He travelled to Israel in 2000 on an exclusive trip for the national executive of the CJC. While there, he spoke with then-prime minister Ehud Barak about the plight of the Falash Mora.

Kibur was quoted saying, “Apart from the fact that not enough is being done to bring them to Israel, not enough is being done simply to keep them alive. They have so many relatives here [in Israel] and are going to come at some point, so why extend their pain and suffering.”

He is survived by his grandchildren, Rebecca, Abigail and Matthew; his siblings, Etzuvdink, Sara, Kokobie, Mulualem, Mintiwab, Addisalem and Paulos, and many nieces, nephews, cousins and lots of people he saved.

Kibur was a kind of Ethiopian royalty, in his own unique way. More than 1,000 people came to his shivah in Israel, and hundreds more in Toronto. He died young and was very fit to live. Zachreinu L’ivracha (Rest in Peace Righteous Man).

I write this still exhausted from the demands of schlepping boxes and scrubbing floors.  I’m feeling as you all were when you moved.

I’ve had a lot of time to consider what these last four years have meant to me; how this sukhah, this temporary home, affected my life.

Over the last four years my boy, Noah River, began sleeping in 130 Neptune sukhah. Those days, those nights were o’ so glorious. I loved watching Noah sleep. I giggled wildly with pride at his childlike practicality and spirit.

“When 2 yawns come at once I push 1 away and yawn with the other.”

I looked at his empty room and thanked the walls for protecting him from the often bitter winter winds allowed to fly freely because of the 401 on the north side of the building. 130 Neptune sukhah and its walls was like the animal skin that protected the Jewish people in the dessert.  

Three years ago I had a heart attack.  I scrambled back to 130 Neptune from the eatery where my heart stumbled and unlocked the door for Emergency services to come in unhindered.

As they rolled me out, through the foyer, out the front doors, I saw a child who shared 130 sukhah with me. He seemed so frightened by my circumstances, so I winked at him and gave him the thumbs up as if to say “I’m okay, don’t be afraid. “. That was a nuance I will never forget about 130 Neptune sukhah. I saw me in him; him in me.

 The community at 130 sukhah was eclectic – young and old: frum and secular; newcomers and veterans. My neighbors across the hall were Moroccan; down the hall, was a Polish family and upstairs – Indian. Our superintendent is Russian, the assistant super, Eastern Canadian. Down the hall were Serbs. 

 In 130 sukhah there was a Shabbos elevator and a little red car in the playground. I waved to it and thanked the plastic vehicle for safely carrying my boy around the walkways, where he learned how to fill up its imaginary gas tank with rocks and stones.

 130 Neptune sukhah was my royal palace of creativity. It was my protective cave.  There I painted more than ever and wrote dozens of articles for this fine newspaper and others.

 I loved Joan there.

 My boyhood friends and I watched the highway traffic with great interest.   I finished a book on Doctor Rick Hodes, a true-blue Jewish humanitarian, and studied 12 pages of Tractate Rosh Hashanah with my soul friend, Yudi. This was my home. 

 130 Neptune sukhah was indeed temporary, just as all of our homes will be. When I walked out the door for the last time, I realized that someone else will soon move in. I knew there was another person living there before me, and before her.

 And finally 130 Neptune sukhah was the place where I was me, and me entirely. Within these walls, when I was alone, I had the absolute luxury of just being at peace, at ease with myself -  singing aloud, prancing about, wandering from room to room, late at night, just thinking.

 I thank God for my time there – my very first property, and the fruit that hung from its roof.

 130 Neptune sukhah was temporary, but so are we all.

 Chag Samayach. Happy Sukhot

(Please comment. Should we celebrate at the death of an evil person?)

After the Jews crossed the Dead Sea, the waves swooshed back and destroyed the Egyptians on chariots. The Children of Israel then began to dance and sing in celebration of the death of their former slave owners.

After 400 years of humiliation, it made sense. I have felt a similar emotion in my heart, excitement knowing that someone who has demeaned me was suffering. It’s not the nicest character trait, but it is inevitable.

Yet, God felt differently. She sent an angel to the Jewish People to say, “Stop the festivities. The Egyptians, those who whipped you and threw your children into the pyramids as bricks and mortar, they too were My creation.

“I am saddened by the choices the Egyptian people made allowing them to be so devastatingly cruel. But they were Mine.”

When Osama bin Laden was executed and celebrations sprang up in the streets of America and the world, I considered the Jewish position on this. I wondered whether we should be joining those festivities with millions of others, knowing that an evil man is no longer in this world and more babies are safe.

Shouldn’t we place the proverbial hat of Haman on our head and spin the gragger of anger and pleasure as loudly as possible because bin Laden lies at the bottom of the sea?

I then read an article about an Israeli mother who had lost her son to 9/11. She was not excited at bin Laden’s assassination. In fact, quite the opposite – the hunting down of bin Laden and destruction of this terrorist leader meant very little to her.

She simply said, “I want my son back, and the death of bin Laden doesn’t give me that.”

She added that she felt almost disconnected from the event that occurred in Pakistan on May 1.

I thought about the time my brother-in-law, David Rosenzweig, was murdered and how my sister and her family responded when the murderer went to jail for many years. Were they joyous?

In fact, like the Israeli mother, my family did indeed feel a disconnect, somewhat, between the murderer and the murdered. They were satisfied that a level of justice had been served, but then closed the door to further discussion about the disappointing human being who committed the murder. It made sense to all of us that he was separated from society. He should be in jail. But there were no kiddushes. We wanted David back.

Osama bin Laden was a destructive force in the world, like the Egyptians. He was responsible for the death of thousands of people. He is gone and few will argue that this is bad.

However, this chapter of history is anything but reason to send streamers into the air. Bin Laden was a miserable example of God’s creation, but he was shaped in God’s image. His life was an absolute tragedy, and he went out of it with cauldrons of blood on his hands. The events that made him that way were disastrous.

The story of Osama bin Laden is a horror story, but at the end of the day, it seems wiser, perhaps more Jewish, to contemplate how such a man could exist, and then fight those dynamics that shaped him.

When the day has turned to dark, we as Jews grieve over the murdered. We do not drink wine at the death of the murderer.

May all good people be safe. May all wicked people change their ways.

Israel Isadore Rubenstein
January 31, 2011, Clanton Park Synagogue, Toronto

As I stand here in Clanton Park shul, a place where my brother and I stood and davened with my father on so many Friday nights and Shabbat mornings, and on so many chagim, my memories drift back to my childhood, when my father stood ramrod straight, over 6 feet tall, and his voice was strong and clear, his handshake firm and steady.. I remember walking to shul with him on countless occasions, from our house on Bonnacord Drive, then from our home on Faywood Ave, standing next to him in the front row, being covered by his tallis during the duchaning on Yomim Tovim or watching him recite Pesukai D’zimra during the Yamim Noraim.

But I want to begin remembering my father, by talking about his beginnings, his humble origins.

My father’s father, Nechemia or Charles Rubenstein, was born in a small shtetl, called Tarlow near Ozarow in the Galicia area of Poland. My grandfather came over to Canada in 1913 and became a well known figure in the Toronto Jewish community. He was a founder of the Chevra Shas, and the Agudath Yisrael in Toronto. He established the Rubenstein Insurance Agency in 1924 and, during the 1920 and 30s, was very active in helping bring over Jews from Poland – and helping them get on their feet in Toronto – until the borders were sealed in WWII.

My grandfather married Dobra Laufer from Ozarow, Poland, and together they had 3 children, Sam who was born in 1910 and Simi who was born in 1913, both in Poland, and my father, Yisrael, who was born in 1921 in Toronto, and who was named after his mother’s late father.

Throughout his life, Charles Nehemia Rubenstein supported numerous charities in Israel, including Rabbi Meir Baal Hanes and Bais Yaakov.

For his entire life, my father held his father in the greatest esteem, and in so many ways, followed in his footsteps. Besides for leading a deeply religious life, like his father, my father was one of the founders of the Agudah shul in Toronto – he was the first treasurer of the Agudah, co-signed on the Agudah’s original mortgage on Brunswick Avenue (he cosigned the mortgage with his good friend (Rabbi) Faivel Rosensweig), and he actively collected for the Meir Baal Haness Tsedaka well into his 80s.

My father’s teen years were not easy ones – the Great Depression took place when had barely turned 9. Times were tough and most of his clothes were hand me downs. When he was still a boy, his mother became sick with an illness she would never recover from.

But my father persevered.

My father was very athletic as a young man – apparently he was a champion handball player and had a terrific arm – but he was also good at math. 

In fact, his uncle by marriage, Max Dale, worked with one of the tailors on Spadina Avenue. At the end every week or two he would bring my father paper tickets (each ticket meant that he finished a garment) which my
father would add up and give him a total to charge his employers. My father was so quick with numbers, he could do it all in his head.

As a child, my siblings and I remember being able to ask our father to multiply almost any two numbers –and without pen or paper, his answer was always instantaneous and correct.

As a young man, my father actually wanted to be an accountant, but at that time you had to take the test on Shabbes, and my father would not compromise his principles, and so ended up joining his father in the insurance business.

In early 1953, my father met a beautiful young woman in New York, a refugee from the Holocaust in Hungary, while on a trip collecting Tsedaka. My father married my mother, Esther Greenblatt, in October of 1953, a union that was to last over 57 years.

In my childhood years, I remember my father as a towering figure, but one who had a soft spot for children. He had huge, strong hands, with which he could easily pick up any of us children, and he was always ready to entertain us – the children and our friends – with a variety of activities.

My father had a beautiful tenor voice, and on every Shabbos in our home, he would be leading any number of beautiful Shabbat melodies, with all of the children singing along. My father would often end musical pieces with a cantorial flourish, and could hold the final note of a given song long after the rest of us were out of breath.

For about 3 or 4 years I sang in the choir at Clanton Park Shul, and many of my father’s grandchildren have also inherited his love of and talent for singing. I also remember my father’s fondness for stories – for many years he would read to us stories and midrashim at the Shabbos table, from the Jewish Press, or from the  Bais Yehuda Chumash with the Yiddish commentary.

My father also had a gift for language. He had an excellent English vocabulary, he was a master speller, had a beautiful penmanship, and spoke a perfectly fluent Yiddish. Even though he was born and raised in Canada, and never attended a day school or a yeshiva as a young man, Yiddish was the language his parents spoke at home, and my father spoke the language with the ease of a native speaker from the old country. Taking after his father, he was also an avid stamp collector, and assembled a stamp collection that became one of the family’s most cherished possessions.

One of my father’s greatest loyalties was to be found right here, at the Clanton Park Shul, his second home. He had tremendous admiration for all the rabbonim who served here – Rabbi Gorelick, Rabbi Rabinowitz, Rabbi Kerzner (who became a close personal friend) and of course, Rabbi Weber. For years my father would stand here, right in the front row of the shul, and was one of the most recognizable people at Clanton Park.

After shul, if you came to wish my father a Good Shabbes and to shake his hand, you would be greeted with a smile, a twinkle in his eye, a humorous quip, and the firmest hand-shake you could possibly imagine.

My father was all smiles after davening. But for those who liked to talk during davening, my father had no qualms about reminding people about the appropriate decorum during davening. It is my understanding that since my father stopped coming to Clanton Park on a regular basis, the ambient noise at shul has gone up by at least a few decibels.

My father had a very strong and honest work ethic – he worked every day of the week, including Sundays, except for Shabbos, and brought home work in the evenings as well. But every year, we would take off two weeks, and the entire family would go to Wasaga Beach, a tradition my brother Shmuel still adheres to.

After my father retired, his work ethic still held strong. But he channeled his energies into spending more time learning – Daf Yomi became his passion, along with collecting more tsedaka for Rabbi Meir Baal Haness. (My father began his Daf Yomi minhag with Rabbi Uri Mayerfield with whom he studied for many years, and also attended a shiur with Rabbi Pam after he retired.)

And, up until only a few months ago, as most visitors can attest, my father’s handshake was as firm as ever.

The last number of years of my father’s life were not the easiest. He began to lose his independence, eventually being confined to a wheelchair. Finally, in October of last year, his health had deteriorated to the point where he required the full time care that only an institution like Baycrest could provide.

I remember observing that each time my father had a visitor, whether at home or at Baycrest, he would invariably make a point to thank them for coming.

So in my father’s tradition, I would like to express my thanks for all those who made my father’s life easier over the last number of years:

To Rabbi Weber, who has been such a source of unwavering support to my parents, since assuming the role of rabbi at Clanton Park.

To the staff at Baycrest – the nurses and the doctors – too numerous to mention, whose care for my father was exemplary. It has been said, a society is judged by how it treats its most vulnerable members, and I think the Jewish community should feel proud that it has created an institution that provides such kind and compassionate care to its elderly population. (Prior to Baycrest, my father received treatment at numerous hospitals, including Mt. Sinai, North York General, Sunnybrook and Etobicoke General, where Dr. Jack Sandler, also a member of Clanton Park, took such excellent care of my father.)

To Judy Clodman, who over the last few years, has been helping my mother take care of my father, and, with her charm and humor, somehow would always manage to get a smile out of my father.

To my siblings, Debbie and Shmuel, and their spouses, Michael and Laya, who were there for my father every step of the way, even though they had their own large families to take care of.

And, of course, our greatest gratitude, needs to be expressed to our dear mother, upon whose shoulders the lion’s share for the care of my father fell.

For 5 plus decades my mother basically oversaw the day to day running of the family home, took care of the children and looked after all of my father’s needs.

When my father became increasingly ill, and required more and more medical attention, my mother accompanied my father to every doctor’s appt, to every hospital visit – even while she was battling her own health challenges – and while he was still at home, arranged for a steady stream of care-givers to attend to all of my father’s growing needs. About a year ago, my mother single-handedly packed up the entire family home on Faywood Avenue, and moved her and my father to the condominium on Covington Rd. And, once my father moved into Baycrest a few months ago, my mother was there every day except for Shabbos, making sure every one of my father’s medical requirements were taken care of.

Since his early 80s, my father had multiple illnesses and was in extremely fragile state for a number of years – that he lived as long as he did, is a tribute to my mother’s dedication, commitment and – there are no other words for it – simply superhuman efforts. (I was thinking of using the phrase Eishes Chayil, but even that would have been an understatement.)

About a week or so ago, my father suffered a turn for the worse. The last time I was able to communicate with him, he was clearly struggling, but I knew he could hear me. Knowing his love of stories and singing, I asked him if he wanted to hear a Chasidic story, or listen to me sing a Jewish song.

My father still had enough strength to say one word at a time between breaths…so he would gather his energy, and say either: “story” or “song”. My father first asked me for a song, and when I finished, he asked for a story, and then asked for another song.

Amazingly as I approaching the end of the last song – I think it was “Borchi Nafshi” by Shlomo Carlebach – my father joined in with me for the last lines of the song with his usual finishing flourish, with his own voice, still beautiful and authentically his, after all these years.

When I went to say good-bye, before I shook his hand, I asked him to squeeze a little more gently than he usually did – for his sake and mine. And my father obliged, and shook my hand, still firmly, but a little lighter than usual.

My father passed away some time after sundown last night, but I will always remember and cherish his smile, his firm hand-shake, his clear, unmistakable voice, and his commitment to the religion and faith of his father, to Torah and to the Jewish people.

These memories and values will live on in me, and in all of us who knew and loved him.

May his memory always be for a blessing.

The following article (scroll down) was written in Xtra this past week (February 5, 2011).  It describes a situation in Toronto, within the Jewish community, whereby an Orthodox rabbi spoke out on Shabbat (the Sabbath) in his Synagogue against a gay and lesbian lifestyle and support of Pride Day participation, when anti-Israel groups would be present and vocal.

Read the article and the email that follows it. It gives insight into the Jewish community, one could almost say, a view of ‘our dirty laundry’, and the dynamics that occur when community leaders, such as Rabbi Mendel Kaplan and Bernie Farber, approach this issue from completely different perspectives. then, thrown into the ring is Justine Apple, the executive director of Kulanu, and Jewish gay and lesbian activist group.

It is a fascinating perspective on the layers and complexities any community would have to deal with when religious values collide with security issues, and questions of human rights. Read about Justine’s bid to have Rabbi Kaplan tossed out of his position of chaplain for York Regional Police (YRP). Think about Justine’s point: how could a gay Jew in need of a rabbi go to Rabbi Kaplan after he had spoken publicly, from his pulpit, on Shabbat, against such a lifestyle? Her feelings are powerful, and why wouldn’t they be. Gays and lesbians have been marginalized for years by the Jewish community.

But life is not a straight line – never. The Rabbi’s position is predicated on the language of the Torah describing homosexuality, as ‘abominatable’.  His belief,  and that of many other Jews, is that homosexuality goes against God’s will and cannot be condoned or supported through attendance at a Pride Parade. Why wouldn’t he take that position? The wording in the Torah is clear. He is a relgious man. It makes sense through his eyes.

And then there is Bernie Farber, the chief executive officer of the Canadian Jewish Congress who stated in his emails back and forth with Rabbi Kaplan that 

“…regardless of the nature of the parade, this is a major event on our city’s calendar and the step we took represented a defense of Israel and the Jewish people that is playing out in the general media.”

Bernie attended “Pride” in support of Kulanu, but more so the Jewish community and Israel. He is an individual who has faced down such Jew haters as Ernst Zundel, once the biggest distributor of hate literature in the world? That’s his job. It’s what he does well. Why wouldn’t he perceive ‘Pride’ in a dramatically divergent way than Rabbi Kaplan, and encourage the entire Jewish community to attend the event in support of Israel, in defense of the Jewish people? The Bernie Farbers of the world are enormously important to the safety of the Jewish people. Few Jews today in our community are as brave. 

Read this article and determine your thoughts on it. I’m sure your feelings will be strong either way, but it is far more important to come at it from a rational point of view. Emotions only dilute and confuse the challenge. Who do you think is right? Is everyone, or is nobody? If God says homosexuals are acting against Godliness then shouldn’t we hold back our support of our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, as painful as it might be? Maybe Rabbi Kaplan is right and there really was no need for Jewish participation at ‘Pride’. We’re being dumped on everyday, everywhere. 

Or does everything get tossed out the door when Jewish/Israel security is at risk? No matter what you think about the Torah precept, shouldn’t we walk hand-in-hand or at least together with, any and all Jews when the cry erupts for our support?

And on the other hand, isn’t Kulanu right? Homosexuality. Abomination? Really? What is so incredibly horrible? Abominable! Are you kidding. Somewhat archaic, no?

Read this ( http://www.faqs.org/faqs/judaism/FAQ/06-Jewish-Thought/section-29.html) :  The term (abomination) is typically used in the Torah proper (the first five Books of the Bible) to refer to extremely serious offenses which completely undermine the basis of any conceivably sound religious or moral society from G-d’s standpoint. Among the offenses are male homosexual acts, idolatry, and child sacrifice. Idolatry and child sacrifice are particularly identified with the Canaanites, and are cited as grounds for their being dispossessed by the People of Israel in the Land of Israel after the Exodus from Egypt.”"

Child sacrifice. A man with a man. Are these two really equal in the eyes of Rabbi Kaplan and other Jews who subscribe to the belief that homosexuals are abominable?

Consider the facts. Read the article, and of course don’t believe all of it. There is a forth player in all of this – the media.

Let me know your thoughts. Interestingly, this is not a new debate, and it won’t end tomorrow. Such is life – Layers upon layers upon dimensions and brushstrokes of truth.

 http://www.xtra.ca/public/Toronto/York_Regional_Polices_rabbi_under_fire_for_antigay_comments-9731.aspx#pComment

How many times have you sat quietly while one of our local organizations, leaders or community members accused someone of antisemitism or anti-Israel sentiment when, in fact, the motivation of the speaker, writer or non-Jewish leader was anything but?

The situation this month involving the Bay stores and Ahava cosmetics from Israel was a good example of this. As you might recall, Ahava products were pulled from the Bay’s shelves at the same time a virulent anti-Israel group, Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East, was calling for a boycott of Israeli goods. Ultimately, we learned from Bonnie Brooks, CEO of the Hudson’s Bay Company (in a joint statement with the Canada-Israel Committee) that the products weren’t selling well and were being re-branded, and, therefore, the chain was curtailing sales, for a while.

The Bay’s timing was poor, but clearly there was no anti-Israel motivation in its decision. And while the shelves were cleared, a well-oiled machine – consisting mainly of hard-right bloggers and others caught in the maelstrom – began to churn. Unresearched communiqués flew through cyberspace, calling for a boycott of the Bay and the destruction of its high-interest-rate credit cards.

Individuals and groups such as B’nai Brith accused the chain of caving in to anti-Israel boycotters. Even after statements were made clarifying the situation, B’nai Brith continued to criticize the Bay and said it should consider advertising in B’nai Brith’s newspaper to make amends for its bad judgment. It was embarrassing to the entire Jewish community.

It was also wrong.

So we jumped the gun. It happens. In a world of instant communication, in which many don’t hesitate for a moment to vilify the Jewish state, one can understand the motivation. But at the end of the day, we sullied the reputation of a chain that has been carrying Israeli products for years. The Bay stated clearly that it had no interest in joining an anti-Israel boycott, a stance that could have a great impact on other retailers. It did exactly what we expect of it.

We screwed up.

So what do we do now as a people that pursues what is just? We apologize. We publicly call for our community members and others to shop at the Bay. As people who know what it’s like to be falsely accused, we declare that it’s time for our family to buy a new towel set at our local Bay store. But if we decide that we will stand firm and believe that the Bay is anti-Israel, we are doing a tremendous disservice to the company, and even more so to ourselves. Effectively, we are alienating our allies, blaming our friends and humiliating ourselves by taking a position that stores such as the Bay are guilty even when proven not guilty.

B’nai Brith would have acted in our interest, and done what was right, by being contrite and stating loudly that it misread the situation and responded incorrectly. When antisemites clash the cymbals of hatred in our ears, we should be grateful that goups such as B’nai Brith exist. They, like Canadian Jewish Congress, do a fine job, mostly. We are fortunate to have them watch out for us.

 But when they’re wrong about a group, company or person – when someone has no intention of weakening Israel – let’s accept that reality and act like menschen. Shop at the Bay. The company deserves our apology.

“It’s because I’m a Jew isn’t it?”

Now think deeply about you as a kid, or what your child is like when he/she is scared. It moves you almost like no other image, eh? It’s not surprising. A scared and unsettled child touches the most sensitive place in our heart. Sometimes it reminds us of our own childhood loneliness.  

Take all of these feelings and thoughts and act on them. You have the opportunity to help a child. Jewish Family & Child (JF&CS) – a government-mandated children’s aid society, and an outstanding one at that – has in its jurisdiction 93 Jewish children waiting to be fostered.  

In a recent statement, JF&CS said: “There are currently 93 Jewish children in the care of JF&CS. Unfortunately, that number only continues to increase. We welcome Jewish foster parents of all levels of religious observance across the GTA. Remuneration: minimum $1,000 per month; training will be provided. Contact the JF&CS intake department at 416-638-7800.”

While these children’s are not orphans they cannot stay with their families. Being parentless must be brutal. May I suggest you call JF&CS. I know families who have fostered a child, and one that fostered more than 60 Jewish children, and they advise people to foster a child.

Sometimes their experience was magical. Sometime it didn’t work out. But they did it. They opened their hearts and homes. Give it a try. (JF&CS can hook you up with a foster family to get more information and learn what fostering a child is like.)

A Jewish child is alone here in Toronto. Show them love. Hug them. Make them feel safe. Foster a Jewish child. Your children will grow. You will feel like an important part of our world. Think about what you’ll do for that child.

Once again, remember what you think about when you read about or hear of individuals doing incredible things for children? Do not discount the “you” within this formula. The only difference between those who foster and those who don’t is initiative, not will. I have heard from individuals who truly want to assist children, but are not sure how to, or afraid that they might screw up.

Do something different. Open your heart and home, or at least call JF&CS and get information. Share it with your family, your loved ones and give it a go. If fostering a child works, it will make a world of difference to everyone. If it doesn’t – well, you can try again later!

Yasher koach. Let’s foster all 93. Let’s make the Toronto Jewish community an example to other communities through the statement, “We leave no children behind.” Please.

Let me know if you have fostered a child or are thinking about it. Ill encourage you. E-mail me at avrum@veahavta.org This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it or drop by my blog at http://avrum.net. You have the resources, both materially and soulfully. Share your love. Do it. 416-638-7800.

They are Jewish children.
]]> http://avrum.net/2010/12/22/they-are-jewish-children-avrums-cjn-article-december-23-2010/feed/ 0 avrum http://avrum.net/2010/12/17/christian-envy-avrums-cjn-article-december-16-2010/ http://avrum.net/2010/12/17/christian-envy-avrums-cjn-article-december-16-2010/#comments Fri, 17 Dec 2010 18:54:35 +0000 avrum http://avrum.net/?p=2943 ]]>

Christian envy. Does it exist? When I was a child growing up in Kitchener, Ont., this time of year was particularly hard. While our family celebrated Chanukah with zeal and excitement, for some reason, it wasn’t enough.

I wanted presents, and the big trees and the lights. Or did I?

I spoke to my friend Bela Middleman, who grew up in a traditional Jewish home in Oak Park, Mich., to gauge my feelings and memories and determine if there are other Jews who felt the same envy.

“I couldn’t understand why the Christian culture seemed so much more important to society than the Jewish one,” the 20-year-old said. “Everything turned into Christmas. The stores, radio, TV – even the way people dressed and raised money for charity.”

When I pressed her on why all of this remains so powerful in her memory, she replied quite honestly. “I guess it was the only time in my childhood when I felt I was a minority,” she said. “It made me feel foreign, and displaced.”

I understand Bela’s feelings. Really, Christmas time wasn’t dramatically different to me than Chanukah. There was just more of it. They’re similarly festive holidays, children get presents on both, and, overall, the two can be fun and meaningful.

But what I really remember – what really bothered me – was when my classmates at Shepherd Public School sang Silent Night while I sat quietly on my own. I also recall Miss Darling giving me math equations to do while the other kids glued sparkles, sequins and pipe-cleaners on construction paper to create Christmas decorations.

I stood out, and I didn’t like it.

I was different. I was the Jew, and I felt everyone’s little eyes upon me, even when they weren’t. (I’d felt that same feeling in kindergarten when I wore a kippah to school and was chased by bigger kids yelling antisemitic epithets at me. That changed, however, when I told my father at the end of the year that I would no longer wear my kippah to school. I was too fearful.)

I wonder if any readers feel the same way.

Living in Toronto, Canada, in 2010 is not at all similar to living in an early 1900s shtetl in Poland. We’re not frightened by sleigh bells ringing or carolers singing O Tannenbaum. We’re not scared of midnight mass and its profound rituals. The empty streets, cul de sacs and avenues on Christmas Eve don’t make us anxious.

Christmas is, however, a reminder of the dominant Christian culture we live in. I do recall clearly Ian Dunbar and his five siblings opening their presents and the Christian envy I had, particularly when he received an awesome bumper-pool game.

But what was most difficult was that I wasn’t part of it all – the prevailing festivity – because I was the Jewish kid.

Like my friend Bela said, it was that time of year when Christians were Christians and Jews were Jews.

“Christmas makes me feel that the community I come from doesn’t have a voice in popular culture,” Bela concluded.

So what does a Jew do on Christmas to feel less “foreign”?

If you’re a doctor, you’ll likely take an extra shift so your Christian colleagues can celebrate the holiday with their loved ones.

Others will eat Chinese food, take in a movie and joke to the Jew standing in line next to them, “Maybe after the flick we can pop open a bottle of shmaltz herring.”

Christian envy? Does it exist?

 Shul (synagogue) was most compelling tonight. I went to Torah  Va’avodah, a very old minyan (group of men) held in a large room on Wilson Avenue in Toronto. The leader, Mr. Zlotnick, a man of 92 just died, and so there was certain sadness there. The few men, who watch over the shul and ensure it continues to run, are people I went to Yeshiva (private Jewish school) with. 

 One of my dearest friends, Menachem, prays (davens) there so that is one of the main reasons I pop by that particular shul from time to time.

Tonight we read Megillat Eichah. It is about the destruction of the Temples and a very melancholy book to read. When one reads Eichah they get the true sense of what mourning. “Weep” is commonplace in Eichah, as is God’s dissatisfaction with the Jewish people, and a description of what happened to the Jewish people after the Temples were destroyed. 

 On Tish B’av the men and boys sit on the floor as is the custom of mourners. Eichah was sung by four different men, all of whom captured the trop (notes) of the Eichah recognizing the extreme tragedy within each one of them.

 It was sad tonight, on Tish B’av, because it speaks to the tragedy of the Jewish people throughout history. Life is demanding. Life is harsh. Tish B’av 2010.

Eichah – Lamentations – Chapter 1

Chapter 1

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 There is something particular about being Jewish.

 We celebrate what know other people can, such as the fact hockey is played in Metulla, Israel and nowhere else in the Middle East. Being Jewish means we are exclusively proud of Daf Yomi – a process whereby an individual studies one page of Talmud a day, for seven and a half years, until all tractates are completed.

We rejoice about the fact more than 22% of people who have received the Nobel Peace Prize were Jewish or of Jewish decent. We are excited Jews were dominant in the clothing industry and about 25% of the peoples on average, on Forbes Fortune 500 list are Jews.

Being  Jewish means we have contributed and cheered while valiant and plucky Israeli and Diaspora Jews – our home team – flew on the wings of eagles, saving Jews from Yemen, Ethiopia, Uganda, Odessa, the Baltic, and and and…… 

To be Jewish is to be a member of a clan with a voracious appetite for curiosity, compassion, and intent on self-development and the enhancement of our existence and world.

Of course we Jews have our foibles, and we have our migraines.

Being Jewish means when we see someone with a gold tooth we think of the Holocaust, when our family’s teeth were painfully and hatefully extracted for profit, theft, greed. Our memories, because we are Jews, are littered with sinister and serrated images from every century.

Being Jewish means when your little boy – say one who is four years old – is pretending to be a monster and tries to scare an older woman sitting on a bench in front of your condo, she responds, ‘you can’t scare me zees’ala (sweetheart), I was in the Holocaust.’

Being Jewish means (as funny as it may seem being parodied) – ten Jews around the table really does make for eleven opinions (if we’re lucky) and cause great ethical and practical bottlenecks. (An example: should the unearmarked donation be used to buy more prayer books or redesign the cloakroom? Another example is, should we build settlements in the territories?)

Being Jewish, or more so, being chasidish, means it is difficult to be seen on Friday night, while walking home from shul on a side street. A bekesheh, a man’s silken black cloak, does not reflect light and therefore puts the wearer in danger. (Perhaps our many entrepreneurs in the clothing industry should design a luminous bekeshe strip).  

One morning my boy said mo’de ani ( the prayer thanking God for returning his spirit) by heart. He had heard me all those months. That instance was important because I worry if I am imparting enough to him about Judaism. I glimpsed a success. Being Jewish at that moment meant my son was expressing appreciation, was identifying with creation and the Creator, and stating his place in the world.

Being Jewish at that second was also troublesome as it meant my son is a Jew, was committing to being so, and what parent of our faith doesn’t worry about our safety as a people, particularly our children?

Henny Youngman joked: a Jewish woman had two chickens. One got sick, so the woman made chicken soup out of the other one, to help the sick one get well.

That is the challenge and conundrum of being Jewish. We celebrate our chickens, and then they always get sick. We care, sometime to our detriment. Some Jews are wise, and like Mark Twain said about people in general, “some are otherwise”.

I have such a headache now, but so proud. I’m going to bed. Good night.

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The seder was about to begin. The chandelier on the ceiling in the dining room illuminated the table and its finery. A bulbous white pillow had been placed on my father’s armchair, waiting to be creased by his recline, and sweet and tearing Pesach smells intertwined with the aromas of the rest of year. Eliyahu would accept our invitation, wholeheartedly.

The Pesach plate was prepared. So was the delicious meal. Egg. Bone. Maror. Karpas. Charoset. Chazeret. The fish heads my mother loved, stared up at us as if disappointed. Everyone had chosen their favourite wine-stained Haggadah.

The guests had arrived.

Nobody was ever turned away from our seder. Indeed, if an artist were to paint it, it would look like a busier Last Supper. As a little person, I saw layers upon layers of company, some of whom were familiar, others who were newcomers, and still others who were mendicants, living on alms.

From time to time, my elbows resented the fact they had nowhere to rest on the table, but mostly I was in wonderment at the exaggerated “space versus people” formula these holidays allowed. Old ladies living alone; zestful, ideological university students debating Hegel; Jews and non-Jews. They were all present. Lots of them.

It was the opening night of the Exodus, and like Jerusalem, which expanded during the three pilgrimage festivals, so too did our home. It was awe-inspiring.

 My father welcomed us all to the seder: “Family, friends, once we were in Egypt. Today we are free.

“History is now,” he would say. “We are Nachshon ben Aminadav. We are the Jews who escaped Egypt. Dive into the sea,” he would shout.

My father continued: “We are the Jewish People, and tonight Moses sits at our table and so does the sweet Jewish sexton from Kiev. We are they, and they are us.”

And he never forgot the Holocaust, even in good times. Nor did he forget the Inquisition, the pogroms or the Jewish community leaders hanged in Iran in our times.

“Let us remember our kedoshim tonight, those Jews who courageously broke the middle matzah in Auschwitz to remember Yitziyat Mizrayim [the Exodus from Egypt].”

 My mother was the hero, though. She was the chief chef, the general, the industrial engineer navigating, and adjusting the Passover table and its place-settings, in order to squeeze one more person around the table. Our seder was chaos contained. And my mother made sure those who were hungry came and ate.

 We poured the wine. We blessed it and drank. (I was tipsy. It’s great to be a Jew. I’d been drinking since my bris.) I stood and sang Ma Nishtanah (the Four Questions) in Hebrew and Yiddish. Father was perturbed when I said Mr. Been in place of “misubin.” But I had too. I was a kid.

 Rabbi Tarphon and Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah sat and learned in B’nei Brak. We said Dayeinu, ate, sang about a goat and talked Torah until 2 a.m.

 By then, most of the guests had gone home. Much of the family slept, their heads resting on folded arms at the table. But I was awake and ever so proud. Tomorrow I’ll be asked how long our seder went. I will say till 2:30 in the morning. Nobody would beat that.

Today, years later, some of us are gone. But that Passover grandeur and camaraderie will forever be ours. It will be mine – because I was a kid and everything was 10 feet taller. I was free.

Chag Samayach. Happy Pesach. Next year in Jerusalem?

___________________________________________________________________________

I have a friend who has recently become friends with some Jewish people.

It is refreshing to hear what she has to say about these relationships and what they mean to her, and in general. It is because as a Jew it is often difficult to see the trees from the forest – to see the character traits we have as a people, some of which are solid and others wilting, versus our overall self-image and historical accomplishments.

She says that the Jewish people are warm and compassionate and those whom she has met exhibit that regularly.

Are we warm and compassion though? Or better yet, are we to each other? I would hazard to guess that when Jews talk amongst ourselves we are probably critical of the lack of warmth that exists.

A good example is what many of us have to say about our synagogue experiences; that they have been very cold and not welcoming places, and as soon as we were able we’d split. Well that was not her perception.

She says we’re warm, and that’s good to hear even if it’s only to the new comer. Just kidding.

She says that Jews are very growth oriented and always considering ways and means of getting better, or making the world a better place. Hmmm. Are we upwardly mobile? Of the Jews you know, have they accomplished greatness or are they on the road to doing so? Or is that what she means really.

I think if you look closely at the cloak of forward movement we wear you’ll find that it is quite impressive.  Perhaps not every one of us the Jewish people will start a franchise, or read the shas (all the Talmudic books), or write a novel, or run a marathon or direct a movie. But the State of Israel in its glory and our Diaspora communities are really quite something – they are sophisticated with great depth of possibility and grandeur.

And if you introduce yourself to individual Jews you’ll find that most have books in their homes, read the newspaper out of concern for the world, and often try to enhance it. We Jews give  life a shot, I believe.

It’s hard to know the experiences of a barber or a baker unless you ask them. It’s difficult to know who we are completely unless we probe and ask others. Well one other person is impressed and although she sees our foibles – God knows they are there, she likes us. She really really likes us.

I that just makes me even prouder to be a Jew. I think we are quite something as a people, and good folk in general.  Those who do not know us write a script about who they believe we are  – but so often they are wrong. Read our script folks.

Thank you. Good night.

Tony Blair is a good man and a friend of the Jewish people.

The objective of the committee is to encourage our respective communities to engage in humanitarian work, together, more specifically to underwrite malaria nets for Africa.

It has been an interesting process, one that has put me at the table with Imams, Priests, Ministers, Native Canadians and spiritual leaders of all backgrounds. The truth is I was born for this; born into this. What do I mean? Read below.

Make friends with peoples of all backgrounds. It serves the Jewish people well. It strengthens the world we live in!

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http://www.tonyblairfaithfoundation.org/blog/entry/my-motivations-as-a-faiths-act-volunteer-in-canada/

My father, Rabbi Shragah Phyvle Rosensweig, of blessed memory, was an Orthodox Rabbi. I therefore grew up in a home which was imbued with state-of-the-art Judaism — an environment which was multi-cultural at its very core equipped with all the spiritual bells and whistles a Rabbi’s son would want.

As a child, it was not unusual for our home to be packed with activists, hippies, yippees, yuppies and seekers of truth. I would frequently sleep under our dining room table so that a stranger, a guest, would have a comfortable mattress to rest their weary back on. My Father and my dear Mother, she should be well until 120, taught us that all men, women and children are creations of God and deserve respect and a share of our resources.

Therefore when I sit around the Faith Acts Table, I am at home. I feel warmth. Therefore when an Imam sits next to me, and a priest, minister or spiritual leader is across the table, I am excited about the possibility of carrying forward the lessons my Father, taught me – the idea that inherent to each one of us regardless of our where our faith is anchored is that we are creations of God, or at least equal in the eyes of good people. And I am delighted to teach my colleagues and friends something about my beloved Judaism.

Thank you for including me in this movement and allowing me the opportunity to share my enthusiasm with my Jewish brothers and sisters. The work we do is lofty and holy and I hope and pray that one day soon, all peoples will be healthy, free and have the ability to actualize themselves to the fullest and live lives that glow like the fruit of the Garden of Eden. I wish great success in the coming year. 

B’shalom, Peace

Avrum Rosensweig, President Ve’ahavta: The Canadian Jewish Humanitarian & Relief Committee

On October 30^th at 8:15 p.m. Ve’ahavta and Congregation Habonim will honor Chief Rodney Monague of Christian Island for his courage to speak open and candidly about Residential Schools in Ontario.

It is believed that up to 50,000 Native children were disappeared/murdered/molested/abused in our provinces residential school.

Please share this with others and consider attending the Friday night Shabbos service.

We have much to answer for the atrocities that happened in the residential schools. There is much mending to do. Please stay involved by being aware of the history of our Native people and how we can share our resources to respond to our commitment of ‘Never Again’.

Thank you to Eli Rubenstein and Habonim for bringing this program to us! It is appropriate.

There are close to 200,000 Jews in the Toronto, yet it’s possible that Jewish children who need foster families will be placed in non-Jewish homes.

This cannot happen!

Consider the following: at any given time, Jewish Family and Child Service of Greater Toronto (JF&CS) has about 100 Jewish children in Toronto and York Region who need foster care for various reasons, including physical abuse, drug and alcohol addiction, an inability of parents to care for a child, etc.

JF&CS does a magnificent job of working with client families, foster parents and the Ministry of Community and Social Services to ensure that these children are cared for, and that they usually end up back in the homes of their biological parents.

Who are these children? Stereotypically, we might think that they come from low-income immigrant families, but that’s not always the case. Children in foster care cross all social barriers, be they economic, religious or cultural.

Last year, JF&CS placed an ad in this paper seeking a foster home for a 14-year-old girl. The ad described her as “artistic and semi-independent, someone who would benefit from a home with teen siblings.”

JF&CS was also seeking a home for three siblings ranging in age from eight to 14.

As with the 14-year-old girl, the ad said JF&CS’ goal is to place these children in a Jewish home, but if that’s not possible, they’ll be placed with a family outside the community.

This is not right, my friends. This is not good.

The Jewish community prides itself on taking care of “our own,” and we’re mandated to so by Jewish law. We’re also perceived by others as being a role model for ensuring that Jews in need are always looked after.

The thought of placing a Jewish child in a foster home outside of the Jewish community is sad – not because the child wouldn’t be well taken care of, but because it’s anathema to our very essence as Jews – and it requires a powerful reaction from everyone reading this column.

It’s very unfortunate that these children must be taken away from their biological families, and it’s even more tragic that they will potentially be taken away from their culture and religion as well.

Consider becoming a foster parent. It’s not easy, but it can be most enriching. Extensive training is provided, and the foster family works as part of a JF&CS team.

I used to attend a shul where some of the members were foster parents. I recall how infatuated they were both with the children themselves and with the opportunity to fulfil the mitzvah of helping a fellow Jew. I was told by one foster mother that her biological children benefited from having a pair of siblings, as well as another little girl, in their home at various times, knowing they were doing something very important for the community as well as developing a wonderful and responsible relationship with the foster kids. She added: “There were more people in the house, which made it more lively.”  

There are both long-term and short-term options for foster parenting, and JF&CS compensates foster families financially for their material needs through grants from the Ministry of Community and Social Services and UJA Federation of Greater Toronto. JF&CS also accepts same-sex foster parents and single-parent foster families.

If you don’t have the resources or ability to foster a Jewish child, consider becoming a big sister or big brother. The same need exists. We simply don’t have enough community members interested in this rich volunteer opportunity. You commit to being a companion to one child, and to act as a role model to that child in the way your actual big brother or sister did for you.

The need is enormous!

Please explore these possibilities by contacting JF&CS’ foster care co-ordinator, at 416-638-7800, ext 298.

The shofar is a fascinating little thing. I have blown the shofar a number of times over the years, and I delight in the opportunity to do so. I do because, like a blues guitarist playing a haunting melody in a hall, where the lights are low and a collective feeling of introspection and wonderment is prevalent, the moment I wrap myself in a tallit and blow the shrill notes of tekiah, truah, shvarim, a spiritual quiet envelops the shul.  

Sometimes I will peak out from underneath my woolen shawl as I blow this Jewish horn and watch as others close their eyes, tilting their head ups at the sound of the tekiah and truah – described in the Mishnah, as the “wavering cry.”

The shofar is blown every day during the month of the Elul, the 30 days leading up to the High Holy Days. It is said that Moses ascended Mount Sinai and blew the shofar so that the children of Israel would not fall back into idol worship and forget the important meeting that was happening between God and their leader.

According to the Encyclopedia Judaica, the shofar is considered to be one of the earliest musical instruments known to humankind. According to the American Heritage Dictionary, fourth edition, the word shofar is related to the Akkadian word sapparu, meaning wild sheep, and to the Sumerian word segbar, meaning fallow deer. It is mentioned sixty nine times in the Torah and regularly in the Talmud.

Anthropologists say the shofar was blown to scare off demons, the Satan and evil spirits, so it is, therefore, appropriate that we blow it on the High Holy Days to frighten away the prosecuting attorney.

The great Jewish philosopher Saadiah Gaon listed 10 reasons we blow the shofar, including to proclaim the sovereignty of God; as a reminder of the Akedah (Abraham’s near offering of his son, Isaac), since the ram that was substituted for Isaac was caught in the thickets by the horns; to inspire awe; as a summons to the heavenly court to be judged on the Day of Judgment; and as a reminder that the shofar will call together Israel’s scattered remnants to return to Israel.

Maimonides (the Rambam) says that we blow the shofar to, “Awake O sleepers from your sleep, O slumberers arouse ye from your slumber, and examine your deeds, return in repentance and remember your Creator” (Yad Teshuvah 3:4).

On the High Holy Days, listen closely to the blowing of the shofar. Some say it is a crying instrument, each note signifying tears that have rolled down the faces of millions of our people over years of suffering.

That may be, but watch the face of the ba’al tekiah, the shofar blower, once he has completed his task of blowing that little horn.

Frequently, he will express a joyous look, one of great triumph. Could it be that between the cries, he has heard the sounds of happiness emanating from the great accomplishments of our people despite the pogroms, destruction of the Temples and the Holocaust.

Wake up, oh Jews! Wake up all nations!

Learn from the shofar and understand that there have indeed been reasons to cry, then and now, but even more reasons to embrace the bliss and exhilaration that exists around us, within us and within every moment of our existence.

Tekiah, shvarim, truah. Wake up from your slumber and examine your deeds.

Avrum@veahavta.org. This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it Sedrot? Sudan?