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Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen publishes book of short stories: “Twilight in Saigon”

Zev Cohen, who was one of
the organizers of the Jewish
schools reunion in 2017
cover of “Twilight in Saigon”

Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen, who now lives part of the year in Israel and part of the year in Calgary, has just published a book of short stories titled “Twilight in Saigon”. The book is available for purchase on Amazon. Here is how the book is described on Amazon: This eclectic collection of stories crosses genre lines – war, crime, romance, espionage, science fiction, fantasy –

as it moves in time from World War II through the present and into the distant future. Its common thread is humanity and love in the face of adversity.
A journalist finds love and misfortune in the upheaval of the Vietnam war.
Working for the West, a spy is saved from the hands of the KGB.
A straight-laced British accountant finds the love of his life and evil in Hong Kong.
Immigrants grapple with despair, love, and the vicissitudes of life in new surroundings.
Politics, love and tragedy in the life of a president.
Stationed on a distant world, a Terran ambassador adapts to an alien culture as love overcomes sentient diversity.
A loyal android fights for his cruel leader.
Teenage romance during the Six Day War.
A day in a dog’s life.

…and much more

 We present here one of the stories from the book, titled “Gulfs and Pleasures”:

 I DO NOT RECOMMEND HAVING SEX WHILE WEARING A GAS MASK. BEYOND the empirical fact that it prevents kissing from being part of the act, it’s difficult to breathe during the strenuous effort. Within a couple of seconds, the mask fogs up, and you can’t see a thing. Moreover, the waves of giggling break your concentration. Try imagining what a naked woman and a naked man look like while wearing gas masks. You’d have to agree with me that it looks funny if not grotesque. But when there’s no choice, you do what you must do and enjoy it, if only in a limited way.

I called Orna’s cell phone as soon as the siren went off in the middle of the night. She picked up after the first ring.

“Are you alright? Is he at home?”

“No. Two hours ago, he was called up and ran off to join the guys and play war. I don’t believe that he’ll be back today. Who knows how long it will last? It’s scary, and we didn’t even prepare an airtight room. He insists that there’s no chance that it will hit us of all people. Anyway, what does he care? He’s sitting in the underground bunker ogling the girl soldiers. Nothing will happen to him.”

Orna was one of the regular participants in my first-year course on the history of European art since the Renaissance that I ran in the large lecture hall of the Gillman building. She used to sit in the front row with the other “stenographers.” Those were the co-eds who conscientiously scribbled down every word that came out of my mouth, including flat jokes and burps. She was older than them, mature and sure of her intelligence amid those Barbie dolls. As opposed to them, she would, from time to time, fire a challenging comment that proved she was listening carefully and under- standing. To my shame, or not, I wasn’t attracted to her brains, although they did arouse my curiosity. As I droned along, lecturing on autopilot, my look wandered from her hazel-green eyes to the swell of her breasts and her shapely legs. What could I do? Even a professor is a human being, isn’t he? On a depressing winter’s day, between perusal of desolate seminar papers on the play of light and shadow in Venetian painting and suicidal thoughts, I ran into her in the cafeteria. The usually hectic and packed room was unusually quiet. We were alone, not counting Sonia behind the counter. Perhaps the atmosphere of impending doom chased the regular café denizens away.

I’ll jump forward because there’s not much to say about the develop- ment of our relationship. We didn’t go for in-depth discussions about art, politics, or interpersonal relations. There was no sophisticated seduction or so-called love at first sight. We were two lonely people with their eyes open, who found something in each other that had been missing up to that specific moment. We went for it. For me, her presence filled a void that was characteristic of my life here since returning from New York and a string of what Erica Jong called “zipless fucks.” She never revealed what she found in me. I doubted that it was about my less than god-like physique. I didn’t ask for fear of bursting the bubble. I didn’t want to find out that I was just a reasonable alternative to Amnon, her here again, gone again husband. And the sex was great.

“Amnon will always be Amnon,” I replied with a tinge of baseless hypocrisy. “With or without Iraqi ground to ground missiles, he’ll always look out for number one. Anyway, you always know how to take care of yourself.”

I couldn’t help adding a bit of pretentious and hollow male know it all superiority, and I said, “But he’s right about one thing. The chance that a missile will land on top of you, in Ramat Gan of all places, is tiny.”

“Yes, definitely, Mr. Professor of art history and great international expert on ballistic missiles,” she shot back, taking me down a few notches. “Do you suggest that I drink a glass of water and calm down? In a minute, you’re going to replace Nachman Shai.”

I tried another tack.

“I can be over at your place in a few minutes to set up an airtight room. I’ve been hoarding plastic sheeting obsessively for months, and I’m sure there’s a technical drawing by Da Vinci that could guide me through it.” She giggled. It worked. She could have guessed that my building skills were negligible, but there was nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humor to bring her around and hide the truth. She accepted my generous offer, and I was on my way before she put down the virtual receiver.

The streets were abandoned at that early hour. The oily puddles left by the rain reflected the brake lights of the few cars on the road. On the radio, there was an endless stream of talking and talking. Nobody could say what was happening. Were we hearing distant explosions or just echoing thunder? Should we put on our masks or take them off? It all just went by me. My thoughts focused on expectations of Orna – hot caresses, electrifying touches, sweet breath, erect nipples, wet, wet, wet.

Here’s another suggestion for my male friends. Don’t come to your lovers tight as a spring, heart beating rapidly with passion and sweaty palms. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the first day of war or any other circumstance. You’ll come, in every meaning of the word, and it’ll be over in seconds. Much too quickly.

We were getting ready for another round when the second siren went off. Being good citizens, we put on our masks and checked the limits of human sexual capabilities under the threat of chemical attack. Between bursts of muffled laughter and the pungent smell of rubber, we got a passing grade for the efforts invested.

The cell phone rang, and Orna answered. “It’s him,” her lips expressed silently. Amnon.

 

“Yes, I understand. I’ll think about it. I’m not sure that it’s a good idea. She must already be hysterical, and she’ll make me crazy too. That’s the situation. Yeah, it’s disgusting, but I got them out of the attic, and if they tell us to, I’ll put on the mask. Be careful. Call me when you can. Kiss, kiss. Bye.”

She looked pale. “It looks as though it’s serious this time,” she explained after the short conversation with her loving and concerned husband. “His unit is moving, and for the next few days, he’s not coming home and won’t be available on the phone.”

“Where is he going? Somewhere around here?” I wasn’t asking because of some sudden fear for Amnon’s safety. I just wanted to weigh the chances that he might show up by surprise and see what the civilians were doing in the rear…at his home.

“He said that it’s secret and he can’t talk about it. He wants me to move in with his mother in Jerusalem until things calm down. You heard what I told him. It’s out of the question.”

Amnon’s secret location was troubling. My plan to get comfortable in Orna’s bed for the next few days has a whiff of danger about it now. Suddenly he calls. Suddenly he’s worried about her and wants to send her to Jerusalem. What is he scheming? He might even show up unannounced to see if she was okay.

There wasn’t much time to consider the options, as the undulating howl of a siren broke the silence. This time we could distinctly hear the distant boom that followed it. The minute that the all-clear sounded, we were in the car on our way to Eilat. We even sang “Heading South to Eilat” loudly on a childish high at 4 a.m. On the Arava highway, we joined a slowly crawling jam of vehicles. It appeared that others, lots of them, came up with Orna’s brilliant idea to get out of the bull’s eye and as far outside of the missiles’ range as possible.

Orna wanted us to move into a holiday apartment in the southern town owned by her former schoolmate, best friend, and current neighbor, Rachel. Thanks to her outstanding bodily dimensions, Rachel had taken up a modeling career that frequently brought her to Paris, London, and New York. She changed her name to Tiffany and, when traveling, left the keys to her apartment and the Eilat hideaway with Orna. She often invited her and Amnon to use the Eilat domicile. I tried to convince Orna to come to a hotel with me to survive the war in bed with room service.

Near Beer Ora, Amnon called again. He heard as we did that a missile had hit Ramat Gan, destroying his and my low probability theory.

“Calm down. I’m still at home, and nothing happened on our street,” she told him. “There was a giant explosion, pretty close by, and the walls shook, but nothing more than that.” The lies slipped off her tongue smoothly. What else could she say?

“I might go to your mother’s later. In the meantime, if you can’t reach me on the phone, it’s because I’m down in the shelter. I don’t trust that plastic sheeting that we don’t have anyway.”

After saying goodbye with kisses, she reported no chance that he would make it home in the coming days. He must make do with the underwear he took with him. I breathed easier.

In Eilat, we dragged from hotel to hotel, the bed and room service plan falling to pieces. The same scene played out everywhere. Lobbies had turned into battlefields between separate Jewish combatants. Israel war-time solidarity gave way to exchanges of curses, pushing and shoving, and an awakening of Sephardi-Ashkenazi infighting. Never did hotel managers discover so many long-lost close friends from school and the army, relatives on the side of granny from Afula, and various other people with exclusive rights. Everyone was squeezing up against the reception desks trying to get hold of even the smallest partially furnished closet. It was a nightmare. In one of the luxury properties, the security guards were unsuccessfully attempting to take apart an outpost of suitcases and sleeping bags established by two families with a hive full of nervous brats.

Again, it’s Amnon on the phone. Orna shouldn’t try to reach him at his unit. He won’t be available due to radio silence and communications security. That’s fine, I thought. The walls have ears.

We dredged up Orna’s original plan. In a few minutes, we found the holiday apartment building. It was a nondescript structure with balconies overlooking a dilapidated neighborhood minimarket. The elevator was out of service, so we climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. On each landing, we stopped for a couple of moments of hurried necking, expecting what was coming. Hands were sent out to intimate parts, lips locked, tongues writhed. As Orna tried to fish the keys out of her bag while loosening my belt, I was busily unbuttoning her blouse to get at her bra.

The door opened, and we fell into the apartment. A pleasantly cold gust of air from the air conditioner welcomed us in. Someday had left it on since the last visit. We couldn’t wait for the bed. Clothes were rapidly removed and thrown aside, and the plush carpet hosted our vigorous sexual duet.

Eventually, things calmed down, and we could hear muffled, unidenti- fiable voices coming from somewhere else in the apartment: mumbling, quiet moaning, a cadence of creaking. We got up to check the noises that seemed to be coming from behind the closed but flimsy door of the bedroom. Just in case, I picked up a thick rolling pin in the kitchen. I pushed the door open, and no terrorist jumped me. Only Orna’s somewhat hysterical laughter penetrated my consciousness. Amnon pulled back from between Tiffany/Rachel’s legs spread wide as though bitten by a snake and stared at us incredulously.

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Features

How DIY Auto Repairs Can Help You Cut Costs—Safely

Image from Pexels.com

Regular maintenance and minor repairs are the greatest approach for many car drivers to save money without sacrificing dependability. DIY repairs can save you a lot of money over the life of your car since most of the expense is in the labour. DIY helps you learn how things work and notice tiny issues before they become costly ones. Every work requires planning, patience, and safety. 

Test Your Talents with Safe Limits 

DIY solutions succeed when one is honest about their talents. Wiper blades, air filters, and occupant filters are beginner-friendly. With the correct equipment, intermediate owners can replace brake pads, spark plugs, coolant, and brake fluid. Pressurized fuel, high-voltage hybrids, airbags, and timing components are risky. Only professionals should manage them. Limitations protect you and your car. Drivers trust sources like Parts Avenue to find, install, and schedule manufacturer-approved work.

Set Up a Reliable Workspace and Tools 

Good tools pay for themselves quickly. Ratchets, torque wrenches, combination wrenches, heavy jack stands, and wheel chocks are essential. It is advisable to engage specialists for specific tasks. A clean, flat, well-lit, and open space is essential. Please take your time. While working, keep a charged phone nearby to read repair instructions or write torque patterns. 

Find the Problem before Replacing the Parts

It may cost more to replace something without diagnosing it. Instead of ideas, start with symptoms. OBD-II readers detect leaks, sounds, and DTCs. Simple tests like voltage, smoke indicating vacuum leaks, pad thickness, and rotor runout might reveal failure. A good analysis saves components, protects surrounding parts, and fosters future trust. 

Maintenance That Pays off is Most Crucial 

Jobs compensate for time and tools differently. Prioritize returns and maintenance. Change the oil and filter, rotate the tires, evaluate the air pressure, replace low brake fluid, clean the coolant with the right chemicals, and replace belts and filters before they fail. These items extend automotive life, stabilize fuel efficiency, and reduce roadside towing issues that can take months to resolve.

Do as Instructed, Utilize Quality Parts, and Follow Torque Requirements 

Understand the service. Set the jacking points, tighten the screws in the appropriate order, and use threadlocker or anti-seize as suggested by the maker. Rotor wear can cause leaks, distortions, or broken threads. Choose components that meet or exceed OEM requirements and fit your car’s VIN, engine code, and manufacturing date. Cheap parts that break easily cost extra. 

Test, Record, and Discard Carefully 

Safely test the system before patching. Check under the car for drops, bleed the brakes again, and check fluid levels after a short drive. Note torques, parts, miles, and repair date. Photo and document storage for car sales. Properly dispose of oil, filters, coolant, and brake fluid. Controlling hazards protects your community and workplace.

Know When to Seek Professional Help 

Self-employed individuals recognize their constraints. If a task is challenging, requires special instruments, or involves safety, consult an expert. Collaboration makes cars safer, cheaper, and more efficient. Selecting, planning, and implementing processes properly improves performance, lowers costs, and ensures safety.

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Features

What It Means for Ontario to Be the Most Open iGaming Market in Canada

Ontario is the most open commercial iGaming market in Canada, having been the first province to open up to commercial actors in the online casino and betting space since 2022.

Since gambling laws in Canada are managed on a provincial level, each province has its own legislation. 

Before April 4th, 2022, Ontario was similar to any other Canadian province in the iGaming space. The only gaming site regulated in the province was run by government-owned Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation, also known as OLG. However, when the market opened up, numerous high-quality gambling companies established themselves in the province, quickly generating substantial revenue. As the largest online gambling market in Canada, it’s now, three years later, also one of the biggest in North America.

The fully regulated commercial market is run under iGaming Ontario and the Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario. These licensed casinos and online sportsbooks are thus fully legal and safe for players to play at, while at the same time, the open market allows companies to compete and offer different products and platforms as long as they all fit within the requirements set up by the state of Ontario.

This means that Ontarians have a wide choice of licensed sites, whether they’re interested in sports betting, live dealer games, or slots – all with strict consumer-protection rules that keep them safe while exploring the many options. (Source: https://esportsinsider.com/ca/gambling/online-casinos-canada)

There are many benefits to online gaming, especially in a country that’s as sparsely populated as Canada, leaving physical venues often few and far between for those living outside the biggest cities.

Even before Ontario launched its own gambling sites, online gambling had been common among Ontarians. Regulating the market and offering alternatives regulated by the province has often added safer and more controlled options.

Since 85% of Ontarians now play at regulated sites, the initiative of opening up the market seems a clear win in more than one way.

Despite the huge success of the Ontario market, most provinces in Canada haven’t changed much in the iGaming sector in the past few years. Some provinces keep Crown-run monopolies, while others limit activity to a single government-run platform. This often leads Canadians to seek offshore alternatives instead, since the options are so few in their own province.

But 2025 marks an important change. The provinces seem to have noticed that Ontario picked a winning strategy, and Alberta has clearly been taking notes. 

While the province of Alberta has previously opted for controlled gambling through one government website, the province is now opening up the commercial online gambling market. The Alberta iGaming Corporation will be in charge of licensing and inspecting actors that operate in the province. This will mean many more options for players, coupled with consumer protection and a high level of safety.

Meanwhile, the Ontario iGaming market continues to prosper, grow, and develop. Now that a second province is following in its footsteps, it seems more likely that other provinces will also start following the trend.

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Features

I know exactly why leftists aren’t celebrating this ceasefire

Palestinians walk among the rubble of destroyed buildings in Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, on Oct. 10.

Relief that the fighting may be at an end is one thing. Joy — after all this suffering — is another

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

“We can’t hear you, Zohran,” read one New York Post headline this week: “Pro-Hamas crowd goes quiet on Trump’s Gaza peace deal.”

“It seems awfully curious that the people who have made Gazans a central political cause do not seem at all relieved that there’s at least a temporary cessation of violence … Why aren’t there widespread celebrations across Western cities and college campuses today?” the article asked.

The Post wasn’t alone in voicing that question. A spokesperson for the Republican Jewish Coalition posted on X that “The silence from the ‘ceasefire now’ crowd is shameful and deafening.” Others went so far as to imply that the protesters had been lying and never actually wanted a ceasefire — because what they really wanted wasn’t freedom and security for Palestinians, but the ability to blame Israel. If pro-Palestinian voices had really wanted a ceasefire, the thinking went, they would be celebrating.

I read these various posts and articles and thought of Rania Abu Anza.

I have thought of her every day since I first read her story in early March 2024. Anza spent a decade trying to have a child through in vitro fertilization. When her twins, a boy and a girl, were five months old, an Israeli strike killed them. It also killed her husband and 11 other members of her family.

A year and a half later, a ceasefire cannot bring her children, her husband, or her 11 family members back. They were killed. They will stay dead. What is there to celebrate?

This does not mean that the ceasefire is not welcome, or that it is not a relief. On the contrary: It is both. Of course it’s a relief that the families of hostages don’t need to live one more day in torment and anguish. Of course it’s a relief that more bombs will not fall on Gaza.

But celebration implies, to me anyway, that this is a positive without caveats. And in this situation, there are so many caveats.

The families of the surviving hostages will still have spent years apart from their loved ones, in no small part because their own government did not treat the hostages’ return as the single highest priority. The families of those hostages who were killed in the war will never again sit down to dinner with their loved ones, who could have been saved. And it is difficult to fathom what’s been taken from the hostages themselves: time spent out exploring the world, or with family and friends, or at home doing nothing much at all but sitting safely in quiet contemplation.

And a ceasefire alone will not heal Israeli society, or return trust to the people in their government. It will not fix some of the deep societal problems this war uncovered. A Chatham House report this August found that: “Israeli television ignores the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza, while the rhetoric is often aggressive. Critical voices, from inside Israel or abroad, are attacked or silenced.” If the country is ever going to find its way back from Oct. 7 and this war, a ceasefire is a necessary precondition, but not a route in and of itself.

In Gaza, Palestinian health authorities have said that about 67,000 people — not distinguishing between combatants and civilians — have been killed by Israel’s campaign in response to Oct. 7. A full third of those killed were under the age of 18. The ceasefire cannot bring those children back to life.

It cannot turn back time and make it such that Israel admitted more than minimal aid to the embattled strip. It will not undo the damage that has been done to the people of Gaza who were denied enough to eat and drink and proper medical care. It will not give children back their parents, or parents back their children. It will not heal the disabled, or make it so that they were never wounded.

It will not change that all of this happened with the backing of the United States government. (This is to say nothing of the West Bank, which has seen a dramatic expansion of Israeli settlements and escalation of settler violence over the course of the war). And as American Jewish groups put out statements cheering the ceasefire, we should also remember that it does not reverse the reality that too many American Jews were cheerleaders for all this death.

Protesters calling for a ceasefire have regularly been denounced as hateful toward Jews or callous toward the plight of Israelis; American Jews who called for one were called somehow un-Jewish. (Yes, some pro-Palestinian protesters also shared hate toward Jews; the much greater majority did not.) The charge of antisemitism — toward those calling for a ceasefire, those calling for a free Palestine, and those who called attention to Israel’s abuses during this war — was used to silence criticism of Israel and of U.S. foreign policy. Some American Jews went so far as to call for the deportation of students protesting the war.

A ceasefire doesn’t change any of that. It can’t.

I have hopes for this ceasefire. At best, it will allow people — Israelis and Palestinians and, yes, diaspora Jews — to chart a new, better course going forward. But it almost certainly will not do that if we delude ourselves into thinking of this as a victory or a kind of tabula rasa, as though the lives lost and hate spewed are all behind us, forgotten, atoned for. The last two years will never not have happened. What happens next depends on all of us fully appreciating that.

This story was originally published on the Forward.

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