Features
Anita Jacobson: The return of the native (sort of)

By GERRY POSNER Flexibility is an important quality as chiropractor Martin Gurvey (about whom you can read at http://www.jewishpostandnews.ca/8-features/836-martin-gurvey-a-very-flexible-guy) has demonstrated, but then in another related way, so has Anita Jacobson. You might say that Anita is to Occupational Therapy as Martin is to Chiropractry.
Anita has had, as has Martin, careers in both Manitoba and Ontario and, in both cases, has had considerable success in her chosen profession. As well, aside from her work, Anita Jacobson can make a claim that very few, if any, ex -Winnipeggers can make – more on that later.
Anita is the daughter of Bill Bulstein and Ida Cristall. Her origins are legitimately north end Winnipeg. They include going to Winnipeg Beach every summer, BB Camp and volunteer work at the Logan Neighbourhood House. It was there that she developed her social conscience and, as she says “the learning of the use of self as a therapeutic tool in treating people.”
Anita chose to enter the Faculty of Occupational Therapy in its second year of life at the University of Manitoba. Upon graduation, she entered the work force and her career, over a span of over 45 years, took off. Jacobson can rightfully say that she has risen to the top in her chosen field. And if she won’t say it, I will.
Following her obtaining a Bachelor of Occupational Therapy degree, then a Master’s Degree in Health Education from the University of Manitoba, Anita was invited to be a sessional lecturer in the Faculty of Medical Rehabilitation at the University of Manitob,a which she did for eight years. Later, Anita was a lecturer in the Department of Rehabilitation at the University of Toronto. Along the way, she received awards from the Y.W.C.A. in 1983 and 1984 as Manitoba Woman of the Year.
In the management category, Anita earned her honours with a serious devotion to her work, starting with 23 years from 1964-1987 at the Health Sciences Centre as a clinician in Mental Health and ending as the Director in the Occupational Therapy Department – covering four separate hospitals. Giving all of that up and moving to Toronto in 1987 was a major decision for Anita, who took her three children, Perry, Darryl and Lori with her at a time when they were all quite happy in Winnipeg.
Anita came to Toronto cold, seeking more challenges, really knowing no one except a sister who lived there. No matter how you slice it, this was a bold move, yet Anita carved out a career and life for herself and kids that was both enriching and satisfying.
Anita’s professional work in Toronto has been extensive and varied. She has been a consultant on several occasions to the Ministry of Health and Long Term Care at Toronto East General Hospital, St. John’s Rehab Hospital and St. Elizabeth Health Care. She was also involved with the Women’s College Hospital and at the Joseph Brant Memorial Hospital in Burlington.
Possibly her most important position was as the Practice Resource Liaison of the College of Occupational Therapists of Ontario ( COTO), the regulatory body of the profession. Her positions as Director of Services in the areas of hospital, community and in-home services prepared her for this position. In that capacity she was responsible for writing and developing standards and regulatory policies for Ontario occupational therapists as well as providing advice to the public and OTS on regulatory practice issues.
On top of all of that, Anita has volunteered her time and energy right from her days in Winnipeg. Some readers might remember Anita as mayor of the Israel Pavilion at Folklorama in 1983 and 1984. Anita even had her daughter Lori selling bagels on a stick at the age of four at Folklorama. Anita also has had volunteer experience with the Canadian Mental Health Association, Skills Unlimited and the Mental Health Programme Services in Toronto. In each of those roles, she served on the Boards of Directors.
With all that Anita has achieved in her professional life, Anita is quite clear in her gratitude to the Health Sciences Centre, where she she found openness among various disciplines working together in innovative treatment models. She says, “As a teaching hospital, there were students from the diverse disciplines who worked with the range of staff and we learned from each other… We have to thank Drs. Harry Prosen, Bill Bebchuk, Chiefs of the Department of Psychiatry, and the psychiatrists who valued the skills and contribution of the multidisciplinary staff and who promoted teamwork.”
Now, I mentioned Anita has yet another claim to another unusual kind of fame. It’s true that she moved away with her children at a critical time in their lives. Both sons, Perry and Darryl, completed B.Sc. degrees at the University of Toronto, with Perry graduating in medicine and Darryl in law in Manitoba and both ending up earning M.B.A.’s from Western University in London, Ontario. How rare is that?
Even more unusual is that Anita’s daughter Lori made just as big a decision as her mother did in 1987 when Lori chose a few years ago, following her obtaining a B.A. at York University, to return to Winnipeg as a full time resident. It is in Winnipeg where Lori works as a manager in Human Resources. Do you suppose it was the selling of bagels at age four that drew her back? You could argue that Lori’s return to Winnipeg was a form of pay back from Anita to the city of her roots. Whatever the cause, Lori’s presence in Winnipeg is just another key reason for Anita to make trips (when it becomes feasible) to the city and to renew her many friendships there.
Features
I Speak “Jew”

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

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.