The Blogs: What Happened to You, Canada?

You’re three months too late.

Those were the words Rabbi Sam Taylor reportedly directed at Prime Minister Mark Carney as he left a gathering with Jewish community leaders.

Whether one agrees with the sentiment or not, those four words struck a chord with many Canadian Jews.

Not because they were disrespectful.

Not because they were political.

But because they captured a frustration that has been building for months.

According to B’nai Brith Canada, more than 6,800 antisemitic incidents were recorded in 2025, the highest number since tracking began. Synagogues were firebombed. Jewish schools were targeted by gunfire. Holocaust memorials were vandalized. Jews were physically attacked in the streets.

These are not merely statistics.

They represent Jewish Canadians who have watched their sense of security erode in a country that once prided itself on tolerance, diversity, and inclusion.

The Prime Minister recently acknowledged that Canada is failing its Jewish citizens.

The statement was important.

It was necessary.

But for many Jews, it felt as though the acknowledgment arrived only after the crisis had become impossible to ignore.

And that is why Rabbi Taylor’s words resonated so deeply.

For many Jews, they reflected a painful reality: the alarm bells had been ringing for months, yet too few seemed willing to listen.

I grew up in Canada.

I went to school in Canada. I built my career in Canada. I cared for my parents there. For more than fifty years, Canada was home.

And I was proud to be Canadian.

Was Canada perfect? Of course not.

But compared to so many places throughout history where Jews faced discrimination, exclusion, and persecution, Canada felt different. It felt welcoming. It felt safe. It felt like a country where Jews could openly live as Jews while still feeling fully accepted as Canadians.

Today, I struggle to recognize that Canada.

For the first time in my life, I find myself embarrassed by the response—or, in many cases, the lack of a response—to rising antisemitism.

Not because antisemitism exists. Sadly, it has existed for thousands of years.

What troubles me is how often Jewish concerns seem to be minimized, postponed, explained away, or treated as something less urgent than they should be.

The truth is that my aliyah was never a reaction to what is happening in Canada today.

The seed was planted in the summer of 2014.

Like Jews around the world, I found myself glued to my phone, desperately hoping for updates about three missing Israeli teenagers: Naftali Frenkel, Gilad Shaer, and Eyal Yifrach.

I remember the prayers.

I remember the hope.

I remember the feeling that complete strangers had somehow become our boys.

For days, Jews around the world waited, hoping they would be found alive.

And like so many others, I was deeply moved by the extraordinary faith, dignity, and strength displayed by their families, especially Naftali’s mother, Rachel Frenkel.

When the devastating news finally came that the boys had been murdered, it felt personal.

At the time, I couldn’t fully explain why.

I had never met them.

Yet I grieved for them.

Looking back, I think that was one of the first moments I truly understood what it means to be part of the Jewish people.

Years later, on October 7, I experienced that same feeling again.

Once again, we found ourselves glued to our phones.

Once again, we prayed.

Once again, we waited for news about Jews we had never met.

We hoped the hostages would come home alive.

We celebrated every release.

We mourned every loss.

And once again, complete strangers felt like family.

Looking back now, I realize those moments were shaping me long before I ever boarded a plane to Israel.

The seed had been planted.

In 2024, before I made aliyah, I was interviewed about Canadian Jews who were choosing to move to Israel.

I remember saying something that was deeply important to me.

I said that in Israel, I knew people would have my back.

At the time, I wasn’t talking about politics.

I wasn’t talking about governments.

I wasn’t talking about military strength.

I was talking about something much simpler.

Belonging.

Knowing that if something happened to the Jewish people, the people around me would care.

Not because they agreed with me on every issue.

Not because they voted the same way.

Not because they shared the same background.

But because we are family.

Less than a year after making aliyah, that feeling has only grown stronger.

Israel is not an easy place to live.

We are fighting a war on multiple fronts.

Our enemies openly seek our destruction.

Soldiers leave their families every day to defend our people.

Sirens can interrupt ordinary life without warning.

Yet despite all of that, I feel safer here.

That statement may sound strange to some.

But the difference is simple.

In Israel, the people who hate us are our enemies.

In Canada, Jews are increasingly wondering why so many leaders, institutions, and ordinary citizens seem unwilling to confront the hatred growing within their own society.

That is a heartbreaking realization for someone who spent more than fifty years proudly calling Canada home.

As Jews, we know that our ultimate security does not come from politicians, advisory councils, or government announcements.

As King David wrote:

“אֶשָּׂא עֵינַי אֶל הֶהָרִים מֵאַיִן יָבֹא עֶזְרִי.

עֶזְרִי מֵעִם ה’, עֹשֵׂה שָׁמַיִם וָאָרֶץ.”

“I lift my eyes to the mountains—where will my help come from? My help comes from Hashem, Maker of heaven and earth.”

Still, governments have responsibilities.

One of the most basic responsibilities of any government is ensuring that its citizens can live safely and openly as who they are.

Canadian Jews deserve that.

Perhaps that is why those four words resonated with so many Jews.

“You’re three months too late.”

Not because they were angry.