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A Complicated Pesach

Orly & Solly Dreman

By ORLY DREMAN We marked a Leil Seder but there was no happiness.
We left an empty chair with a yellow ribbon and I cried as I read the prayer for the hostages- that G-D should have mercy on the few who are still alive and to those who are not among the living that they should at least have the right to be buried in their land.
How can we talk about the holiday of freedom, about redemption and being free? Our hearts ache. Two hundred days with no freedom. Even Hollywood could not come up with a more terrifying script. Our hearts are embedded in Gaza.
Every Israeli recognizes the photos and the names of the hostages. Everyone is praying and expecting them to return. Their families want to embrace them and we want to see them back home. Soldiers who come back from reserves cry that they have not succeeded in returning them. Roommates of students who were kidnapped still keep their rooms for them. Birthday presents are kept for them, their friends keep their favorite university library chair awaiting their return. Children draw pictures for their fathers who are held in captivity.
The adult hostages who returned half a year ago describe how they were in the tunnels suffocating with no air while the terrorists were residing above them in their homes and the hostages were begging for oxygen. Once in three days they got a little water with half a dry pita. Today, those who returned have not recovered, they are thankful for every breath they inhale and are so grateful for every glass of water and food. The children who were released and initially came back happy – with time have to process what has happened. Some have lost family members, some still have relatives in Gaza. They lost friends, they lost their homes and are still residing in hotels in the center of the country- whole families in a twenty square meter room.
In the past the psychologists took care of teenagers who were anxious and depressed. Now however, they have to take care of children as young as eight year olds. People feel they have lost control of their lives. Everything we viewed as “safe” has been shattered. Millions of Israelis are or will be in need of psychological treatment and mental health services will require more psychologists. The pressure and the loss affects all parts of society and we still do not know if the worst is behind us. Many families do not want to return to the south or to the north when the time will come and it is possible the damages are irreversible. Hizballah in the north is much stronger and better equipped than Hamas. The country has shrunk towards the center. We as a nation are used to short, victorious wars, but we have been fighting on several fronts for seven months.
In three weeks we will mark Independence Day. On this day we have the ceremony of the “Israeli Prize”. This year one of the prizes goes to the Director of the National Pathologic Institute- for civil bravery. At the beginning of October the institute was swamped with 1500 body bags. They were unidentifiable. Nowhere in the world were there so many bodies that had to be identified and so quickly. There was never a catastrophic event of that magnitude without a list of people who were there.
At the Twin Towers 2,700 people died, but only 1,680 were identified. In Israel only 11 people are still unaccounted for. Bodies and body parts were burned, tortured, beheaded and often only remnants of body parts were left -scenes reminiscent of Auschwitz. Just last week a family found out their son was buried beheaded. The authorities did not want to cause additional grief to the family so they buried him with a head of a doll until the family demanded to open the grave.

The night we were attacked by over 330 missiles from Iran we were very proud of our defense forces, which downed 99 percent of them. This will be remembered and taught for generations to come in military academies. Seventy five percent success is due to the Israeli air force and our protective systems. Israel owes considerable thanks for the remaining 24 percent to the coalition formed by the U.S, England, France and other countries in the region.
That night, our intelligence was great – together with our active military system. We personally witnessed this success through the booms of intercepted missiles while sitting in our shelters. Of course the danger from Iran is a thousand times greater than that transpiring in Gaza. In most countries people would probably stay home for some days to recover, but here we go through dozens of events in a few months but – being a resilient nation, we managed to get back to almost a normal routine very quickly in spite of the traumatic events.
Personally, my grandchildren tell me they are not able to distinguish between the sound of an ambulance siren and that of an air raid siren, so they are afraid they will not know when to run to the shelter. To illustrate how precarious life is in Israel – when we participate in daily activities such as going to a shopping mall, which is not a safe place because it is crowded, we do not stop for ice cream because of the fear of being attacked.
On another level, our political perspective has changed immensely. For example, there is the issue of the orthodox (Haredi) community, who refuse to serve in the army. In the past we could afford to accept their refusal and they were exempt from conscription in order to study Torah. This present, elongated war and the losses demand a large increase in the size of the IDF. The army is offering adjustments to create small Orthodox regiments along the borders where they can keep their order of the day- pray and protect. However, they still refuse to help us with this burden.
Today, our democracy is severely in need of a new leadership which places its citizens and its country before politics. To date, our leaders have been making empty promises to us. They refuse to plan for the future of how Gaza will be governed when the war is over. They promise us “complete victory,” which now we understand is nonsense and the threat is still there. For the government – as long as the war is going on, they think they can avoid new elections, they are only interested in their political survival. We feel like orphans with no responsible adult.
Even though we are hurting today, l believe in our resilience and better days will come.

Features

I Speak “Jew”

Morrocan Jewish fish dish

By MARK E. PAULL I grew up in Montreal. Born in 1956. Anglo by birth, sure. But that never quite fit. I don’t speak “Anglo” the way they mean it. My real language is Jew.
And I don’t mean Hebrew or Yiddish. I mean the language of reading the room before you enter it. The code-switching, shame-dodging, laugh-first-so-they-don’t-pounce dialect we pick up early. It’s a language built on side-eyes and timing and ten generations of tension.
I speak French—enough to make myself understood. Enough to charm a dinner table, crack a joke, get someone’s uncle to nod. I’m not fluent, but I’m fast. Doesn’t matter. In Quebec, language isn’t grammar—it’s inheritance. It’s who your grandfather cursed out in a hardware store.
To the Francophones, I’ll never be one of them. My accent betrays me before I say a word. I’m just an Anglo. And not even that, really. Because when the lens tightens, when they look closely, I’m just un Juif. Just a Jew.
And to the Anglos? Same thing. I can wear the suit, speak the Queen’s English, order the wine properly—still a Jew. Even in rooms where I “pass,” I don’t belong. I’m not invited in to be myself. I’m invited in to behave. To be safe. To not say the thing that makes the air stiff.
We’re the only people still called by our religion. No one says “Orthodox” for a Greek. No one says “Vatican” for an Italian. No one calls a Black man “Baptist” before they see his face. But “Jew”? That sticks. That’s the label. Before passport. Before language. Before hello.
I’ve mostly made peace with that. But there’s still this ache—knowing you can live your whole life in a place and never really be from there.
Let me tell you a story.
We had this block party once—the folding-table, paper-plate kind. Kids zipping by on scooters. Music low. Everyone asked to bring something from “your culture.”
The Greek guy brought lemon potatoes and lamb—felt like it came with a side of Byzantine history. The Italians brought two lasagnas—meat and veggie—with basil placed like confetti. The Vietnamese couple brought shrimp rolls that vanished before they hit the table. Even the German guy—built like a fridge—brought bratwurst and a six-pack with gothic lettering.
And then us.
My partner made Moroccan fish. Her grandmother’s recipe. Red with tomatoes, garlic, cumin. Studded with olives and preserved lemon. I brought a bottle of white wine. Dry. Crisp. From the Golan Heights. Not Manischewitz. Not even close.
We laid it out. Someone leaned over: “Moroccan? But I thought you were Jewish.”
We smiled. “We are.”
Then: “So… where’s the brisket? Isn’t Jewish wine supposed to be sweet?”
That’s when it hits you. No matter how long you’ve lived here, how many snowstorms you’ve shoveled through, you’re still explaining yourself. Still translating your presence.
Because they don’t know. They don’t know Jews came from everywhere. That “Jewish” isn’t one dish—it’s a whole map. That we had Jews in Morocco before there was even a France. That some of us grew up on kreplach, some on kefta. That some of our mothers sang in Yiddish, others in Arabic, and some in both—depending on who was knocking.
They don’t know. And worse—they don’t ask.
And that’s the part that gets you. Not the slurs. Not the graffiti. Not even the occasional muttered cliché. It’s the blankness. The shrug. The image they already have of you that’s built out of dreidels and sitcoms.
“Jewish” as nostalgic. As novelty. Something they saw once on a bagel.
Sometimes, when those questions come, I float. One version of me walks out. Another turns into a mouse. One turns into a Frisbee. Just gone. Not mad. Just tired.
Because being a Jew isn’t cute. It’s not nostalgic.
It’s ancient.
Before Montreal.
Before France.
Before Poland. Before Spain.
Before pogroms.
Before ghettos.
Before Hitler.
Before even the word Europe.
We were there.
Go back to the 5th century. 2nd century.
Go back to Jesus—our kid, by the way.
Go further—Babylon. Persia.
Keep going—Temple. Exile. Wandering.
And still, after all that, I’m at a table in Quebec explaining why our fish has cumin in it.
It’s almost funny. If it didn’t wear you down a little.
I’m not looking for pity. This isn’t a complaint.
I’m proud. I know what I carry. I walk into any room with five thousand years behind me. I come from people who kept the lights on through every kind of darkness—and laughed through it, too.
But sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to explain so much.
All I want is to put down my dish…
…and hear someone say:
“That smells amazing. Tell me the story.”

That’s all.


Mark E. Paull, C.A.C. is a Certified ADHD Coach – IPHM, CMA, IIC&M, CPD Certified
Writer | Lived-Experience Advocate | Type 1 Diabetic since 1967

He has been published in:
The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, Folklife Magazine, Times of Israel, CHADD’s Attention Magazine, The Good Men Project

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Features

At 104, Besse Gurevich last original resident of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence

By MYRON LOVE At 104, Besse Gurevich is the last of the original residents of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence. She may also be the oldest member of our Jewish community.
Although her vision and her hearing have diminished considerably, her mind and memory are still intact.  A few weeks back, this writer sat down with her in her suite as she recalled a life filled with highs and lows and her many  contributions to her community, both in Winnipeg and Fort William before that.
The daughter of Jack and Rebecca Avit, her life’s journey began in 1921 in a home on Carlton Street near Ellice Avenue, near her father’s furniture store.  He later operated a cap factory.
When she was ten, the family – she had two brothers and a sister – moved to Manitoba Avenue in the old North End. “My father had put a deposit down on a house on Scotia,” she recalls.  “But my parents didn’t feel that the neighbourhood was Jewish enough.”
Her schooling included Peretz School and, like so many of her generation, St. John’s Tech (as it was known back then.)  “I was actually supposed to be going to Isaac Newton for high school,” she says.  We were living on the wrong side of the tracks for St. John’s.  After one day at Isaac Newton, I found a way to transfer to St. John’s.”
In 1940, 19-year-old Bessie Avit married Jack Gurevich, a young man from Fort William.  The wedding was marred though, by the sudden, untimely passing of her father.
Following the wedding, Besse moved with her new husband to Fort William where Jack Gurevich worked in retail clothing sales.  “We lived in Fort William for 20 years,” she says.  “Our three children (Judy, Richard and Howard) were born there.”
She recalls that there were about 200 Jewish families – including her sister and one of her brothers for some years – in town, during the time she lived there. “We were very well known in the community,” she recalls. “I was involved in everything.”
Her community activism continued after the family’s return to her home town. While Jack went to work as a salesman for Western Glove Works, Besse became an indefatigable community volunteer. At one time or another, she served as vice-president of ORT, Hadassah and National Council of Jewish Women in Winnipeg. She was also a long time B’nai Brith member.
In the business world, the highlight of her career was the building of Linden Woods.  “I became involved in real estate development for a time,” she recalls. “I was hired by Genstar to develop Linden Woods.  The company estimated that it would take about 20 years to complete.  I got it done in two.”
She also taught hair dressing for a while. “I worked with many young Jewish brides,” she says.
Recent years have not been kind to Besse Gurevich. Her beloved husband, Jack, died in 2016 – after almost 65 years of marriage.  Older son, Richard, passed away in Vancouver in 2018 and, most recently –six months ago – younger son, Howard, followed.  She notes that there were 200 mourners at Howard’s funeral.
(Howard Gurevich was in marketing for many years before turning his talents to the art world. In recent years, he was best known for Gurevich Fine Art in the Exchange District and his support of local artists.)
Besse Gurevich celebrated her 100th birthday – which took place at the height of the Covid shutdown – quietly. 
While she used to enjoy reading. she is unable to do so any more. She can still listen to television.
And while she has few family members to visit her any more, she does have a group of friends interesting enough from the local theatre scene.  For many years, she was a close friend of the late Doreen Brownstone, one of the leading figures in theatre in Winnipeg for more than half a century.  Besse became part of the group that would visit Doreen every week and, since Doreen passed on three years ago, the members of the group have continued to visit Besse on a weekly basis.  

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Winnipeg author’s first novel gripping tale of romance, action and intrigue, set in 15th century Spain and Morocco

“The Chronos of Andalucia” author Merom Toledano

By MYRON LOVE “The Chronos of Andalucia”, a novel just released by first-time author Merom Toledano, is a historical romance set in late 15th century Spain and Morocco, filled with passion, action, intrigue, unexpected twists and turns – and, of course, with the requirement of any medieval story – a quest.
The easy-to-read, 190 page book follows the adventures of Catalina, a young woman living by her wits on the streets of Granada in the year 1487, (just after the Christian armies of Ferdinand and Isabella had recaptured all of Spain from the Moors) – while trying to evade the agents of the Inquisition, who had murdered her Jewish mother and Christian father 10 years earlier.  She was left with an insatiable desire to learn about astronomy, along with a mysterious map and an astrolabe (an instrument formerly used to make astronomical measurements) – the importance of which will only be unveiled if she can get to the city of Tangier in Morocco.
Early on, there is a reference to Abraham Zacuto, a prominent Spanish rabbi famed for his knowledge of astronomy and astrology.
The action begins when she has a casual interaction with a former Spanish soldier, Diego.  When the forces of the Inquisition approach, she flees with the soldier – who is also her love interest – and who helps her to escape.  They turn for help to a childhood friend of Catalina’s – Roberta, a nun, who helps them on their perilous  journey to Tangier – a journey that includes being captured by pirates, surviving a shipwreck, being separated for a long period of time and, of course, finding each other again and realizing the success of their joint quest.
In his writing, the author paints vivid word pictures of the different characters and beautifully invokes the colour, sights, sounds and scents of the time and the places. 
What I found truly remarkable about the writing of “The Chronos of Andalucia” is that English is not Merom  Toledano’s first language.  The Israeli-born author – he grew up near Haifa – came to Winnipeg with his young family just eight years ago.
“I have had this book in mind for several years now,” says the satellite engineer whose working career takes him to many different parts of the world. 
He notes that he has always felt a connection to Spain, Spanish music and literature – a reflection of his family’s modern origins in that country.  His great-grandparents, he relates, lived in Toledo – hence the family name, Toledano.  His parents lived in Meknes in Morocco while his father attended university in Tangier before making aliyah.
Toledano just published “The Chronos of Andalucia” in April on Amazon. He reports that the book – which is available here at McNally Robinson – has been selling well –close to 100 copies – with orders coming from a bookstore chain in England, a bookstore in Denmark, and one in Italy.
“I have had between 30 and 40 positive reviews so far,” he reports.
Toledano adds that he envisages “The Chronos of Andalucia” to be the first in a series – a la the writer Danielle Steele.  He is already working on a sequel – which is hinted at the end of “The Chronos” and, he reports, he is establishing his own independent publishing operation.        

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