Features
Former Winnipegger Mira Sucharov bares her soul in new memoir

Reviewed by BERNIE BELLAN
There’s something strangely compelling about reading the memoir of a talented individual who has decided to lay it all out for total strangers to discover some of her innermost secrets.
A few years back I reviewed a memoir by Henriette Ivanans, who happens to now be living in Winnipeg (married to Kevin McIntyre, about whom we have written many times in this paper). In her memoir, titled “In Pillness and in Health: A memoir” Henriette revealed her long and arduous struggle with addiction to a panoply of different types of medications. She was so searing in her self-criticism that it was almost painful reading her amazing story of survival against all odds.
Now, in a different way, well known academic and commentator Mira Sucharov discusses her own long-held emotional struggles, first triggered by the divorce of her parents when she was five, in her memoir, titled “Borders and Belonging: A Memoir”.
I have to admit that I have only a passing acquaintance with Mira’s career – which might help me to be more objective in discussing her memoir. I hadn’t ever read anything else she has ever written – which would probably come as a surprise to her, since I am well aware that she is a prolific writer with a reputation as a Middle East expert.
It’s not that I’ve shied away from reading anything by Mira Sucharov – it’s just that I’ve never enjoyed reading academic articles about the Middle East, even though I myself have a background in Political Studies – as she does. Ever since I finished university – which was ages ago, I’ve preferred to distance myself from anything that’s footnoted.
But “Borders and Belonging” is no academic treatise. Mira Sucharov is a talented writer who certainly knows how to tell a story; in this case the story is one of anxiety and elation as she forged a deeply held love for Israel from a very young age. Yet, as much as her interest in Israel has been a central focus of her life, her determination to view Israel in as objective a manner as possible has taken its toll.
Her opening chapter relates a story that reveals the extent to which she’s been ostracized by a very good portion of the Canadian Jewish community for daring to question Israel’s behaviour vis-à-vis the Palestinians. During her career as an academic, for which she’s received multiple awards (not that she discusses any of those in her book; any Google search will readily disclose how well respected Mira is as a professor and a commentator), she’s received scorn from both the right and the left for daring to attempt to be even handed in her assessment of Israel and the Palestinians.
No doubt what many members of the Winnipeg Jewish community will find particularly interesting though are Mira’s recollections of growing up here, where she attended Jewish day schools and, more significantly for readers of this paper, where she attended a summer camp that had a Labour Zionist orientation (which, interestingly, she never refers to by its name: Camp Massad).

For anyone who’s attended Camp Massad, reading Mira’s reminiscences about camp life would be reason enough to want to read the book, as her descriptions of that camp are as well drawn as one could find anywhere in reading about a summer camp.
But, it’s in Mira’s painful discussion of the traumas she’s endured in her life – which is not really all that long yet, since she must either just be 50 or close to it, based on certain references she makes that she provides some of the most jarring passages. I’ve already referenced her parents’ divorce which, as she describes it, occurred without any rancor between her parents and was as civil a breakup as one could hope to have. For Mira, however, it was a life-shattering experience and reading about how that break-up still reverberate with her offers a salutary lesson in how a marital break-up, no matter how well behaved the parents may be toward one another at the time of the break-up, can be so devastating for children all through their lives.
One other chapter that hits home like a ton of bricks is when Mira recounts reading a newspaper article about skin moles and takes a more careful look at a mole on her arm. Lucky for Mira, her mother didn’t procrastinate for one moment and, as it turned out, the mole was cancerous and likely would have led to an early death had it not been caught in time.
Later, Mira discusses allergies she has developed to certain foods and her frequent bouts with overwhelming anxiety. When she describes the often extremely stressful situations which she doesn’t avoid as an academic who is not afraid to take unpopular stands, it’s easy to understand the psychological toll that the career path she’s taken has had on her.
The memoir is not written in chronological fashion; it flits back and forth between episodes that occurred at various times in Mira’s life. Of all her experiences, however, in addition to her love of Camp Massad, it is the many times that Mira has visited and lived in Israel about which she writes most evocatively.

Her first visit to Israel was in 1983 with her bobe, Marian Margolis. That visit led to such a deep affection for Israel that Mira was motivated to return over and over again where, at various times, she was a student, a resident of a kibbutz (also while she was a student), and an academic.
And although a search of her online biography reveals that Mira received her MA from the University of Toronto and her PhD from Georgetown, in her memoir she writes only about her time spent at McGill, from where she obtained her BA. She admits that she was drawn to McGill because that was the school her father attended and she wanted to emulate his experience as much as possible. While her mother is also referred to in very loving terms, it is Mira’s relationship with her father that resonates throughout this memoir.
Another episode though that will probably upset more traditional readers is when Mira describes her love affair with an Arab student at McGill. While she is hardly graphic in her description, she is certainly far more candid in what she writes than anything she has to say about her husband who, for all intents and purposes, comes across as a nice Jewish boy who would certainly meet with the approval of most bobes.
Toward the end of the book Mira summarizes the conflicting forces that have shaped her life in a paragraph that both offers a glimpse of the emotional currents that are still swirling within her, it also gives you an idea just how gifted she is as a wordsmith:
“Panic. It’s like being a child of divorce all over again as I try to pull the pieces together: safety and danger, reality and fear, swinging between houses with different carpets, between marriages and separations, between my real home and my dad’s home and the home-away-from-home that is summer camp, between the reality of the present and my nostalgia for the past, between Israel as a lived reality and my image of the place, between political poles, between parts of my community and between my community and that of others—as I try to locate a single, coherent, authentic narrative that is safe and secure and true.”
It’s not always easy reading a memoir where the author dissects her life in such an open and candid manner, and I’m not sure how many of the individuals whose paths have crossed Mira’s would be aware of the emotional angst which is so pervasive throughout this book, but it takes a very brave individual to have written such an open and, at times, quite raw, recounting of a life.
“Borders and Belonging: A Memoir”
By Mira Sucharov
Published by Palgrave Macmillan, September 2020
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.