Features
Mitch Podolak: ‘A Citizen of Earth’
By KINZEY POSEN (Ed. note: This story first appeared in the October 11, 2017 issue of The Jewish Post & News. With the Annual Winnipeg Folk Festival about to celebrate 50 years since its inception – and which MItch helped create – along with his wife Ava Kobrinsky and Colin Gorrie, we thought it an appropriate time to reprint Kinzey’s moving tribute to Mitch.)
Last November Mitch Podolak was leaving one of his favourite Winnipeg restaurants, the Evergreen on Pembina, when he suddenly fell outside. As he lay there somewhat stunned, he realized that this fall was about to change his life. He couldn’t feel the lower part of his body after landing hard on his neck.
Fast forward to September 2017 and I’m sitting with Mitch in his apartment on Sterling Lyon Parkway in Tuxedo. He just turned 70 on September 21st. When I said, “Imagine, Mitch Podolak living in Tuxedo,” he quickly says, “It’s the wrong side of the tracks.”
In a way I guess he’s right – you can see and hear the rail line close up from his window and Ikea is across the road. He and his wife, Ava Kobrinsky, moved there after he was released from the hospital in April of this year. They still have their home in Wolseley, but Mitch can’t negotiate the stairs and living on one floor is the way to go for now. These days, Mitch uses a motorized wheelchair to get around and his apartment has specialized equipment to help him stand and perform his physiotherapy. He admits he loves the exercise.
Mitch has come a long way from that fateful day last November and can now stand on his own, walk unaided for a short distance, and has regained much of the feeling in his body. There’s still a long way to go to be considered normal, but he’s confident that by the end of this year, he’ll be more mobile.
For those who know him, Mitch’s name is synonymous with the Winnipeg Folk Festival, the Edmonton and Vancouver Folk Festivals, the West End Cultural Centre, The Stan Rogers Festival in Canso, Home Routes… the list goes on. He’s also well known for his political action and work in trying to bring about change. His efforts have led to his being awarded an Honourary Doctorate from Brandon University and the Order of Manitoba from the Province.
When Mitch had to attend the award’s ceremonies, he knew that he had to wear something a bit more sophisticated than his usual black T shirt and jeans. He called up friend and magician Brian Glow to be his fashion consultant. After spending $600 on a dapper black suit, black shirt and silver tie, Mitch shocked many by appearing in his new clothes.
So how did Mitch come to be where he is now, a veritable living legend – a man with more stories to tell than a recovering addict at a 12 step meeting?
It all started in Toronto in 1947, when he was born to Rhoda Layefsky and Noach Podolak. His dad was 20 years older than his mum. Mitch is the youngest of three children – after Alice, the oldest, who lives in Cape Breton, and his brother Mark, a retired Treasury Board Analyst in Ottawa, who’s known as the “white sheep” of the family.
The Podolak family lived on Major Street, in a neighbourhood full of Jews and Europeans located between Bathhurst and Spadina. His father Noach, originally from Poland, was a housepainter, who also did theatrical sets for the Yiddish Theatre in New York for a period of time and was a friend of the well known Jewish actor, Paul Muni. His mum Rhoda was a strong, loving woman, who was born in Canada. Her dad, Mitch’s grandfather Avram Liebe, played a special role in his life and was his hero. The two had a special relationship. During the Spanish Civil War, Rhoda was an organizer for the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion.
Both Mitch’s parents were passionate socialists and he grew up in a rich atmosphere full of fervent political discussions. Mitch’s dad was a member of the Communist Party, but pulled out of the organization in 1956, over the invasion of Hungary and anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union. It was also the year he died, when he was only 56. Mitch was only nine years old at the time and Rhoda, who was now widowed in her thirties, turned her energy to providing for her three kids. She worked as a bookkeeper and remained a widow until her passing in 2005.
At the age of seven, Mitch started to learn how to play the clarinet. The lessons were classical and he really didn’t like it. Although he grew up in an era when rock & roll was making its debut and was just beginning to move the world in a different direction, Mitch was destined to follow a different musical path altogether. When he was 13, his older sister Alice had two tickets to go to a concert at Massey Hall with a guy who was a no-show. Instead, she took Mitch, who thought his sister was going to take him to the symphony. To his surprise, it was to a concert that forever changed his life. The featured performer was folk legend Pete Seeger and young Mitch was simply awestruck, especially by one song. On the way home, Alice explained to him what that particular piece, the “Bells of Rhymney,” was about and what the performer was trying to get across to the audience. He connected with the songs in a way that was new and liberating. Since that day, Mitch has become an ultra passionate supporter and fan of folk music, the kind we call “singer songwriter” now. Along the way, he also learned how to play the banjo quite well.
Mitch comes by his musical ability quite honestly. His uncle Philip on his dad’s side was the conductor of the Polish Army Symphony and his dad, Noach, played the clarinet.
Growing up in a very socialist family, Mitch was sensitive to the actions of the McCarthy era. He recalled two television shows in the fifties that were anti-Communist: “The Man called X” and “I Led Three Lives.” Both seemed to have the communists meeting in basements, with peeling paint and bare wire light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The plots were often about how to recruit new members and sabotage buildings. On the walls there were portraits of Marx, Lenin, Engels, and Stalin, and they all spoke in bad Russian accents.
As Mitch’s awareness of how socialism could benefit society deepened, he recalled one event that sticks with him till today. It was seeing a hungry man eat chicken out of a garbage can – an image that’s put much into perspective for him.
In 1961, at the age of 14, he joined what was known at the time, as the Y.S.A – the Young Socialist’s Alliance, in Toronto – a Trotskyite youth movement, where everyone called each other “comrade”. Mitch was the youngest member by only a few months. When he first attended a meeting, much like the TV shows, there were portraits on the wall of Marx, Lenin and Engels, but instead of Stalin, there was Leon Trotsky. His involvement gave him the tools and inspiration to engage in socialism and later the anti Viet Nam war movement. Around that time, he met Harry Paine at a movement meeting – a man who would go on to become one of his best friends.
In 1968, Mitch made the move to Winnipeg to study as a mature student at the University of Manitoba and specifically do political organizing. He also established the Vietnam Mobilization Committee. Mitch recalled one particular scene during this period, when he and his friend, Joe Flexer, organized a major event at the U of M. They wanted to go to the Dow Chemical Company’s recruitment centre on campus to demonstrate. At the time, Dow was one of the manufacturers of napalm, a rather nasty incendiary weapon used in Viet Nam against the Viet Cong and innocent people. It would stick to the skin and cause severe burns.
In anticipation, Mitch and Joe went to a hardware store and bought the biggest chains and padlocks they could find to lock the doors to the centre. After entering and insisting they be able to talk to the Human Resources manager, he eventually came out to hear their statement. It was Joe Flexer who yelled out, “Our statement is, get the f_____ off our campus you war-mongering c__k s___s!”
That’s when the situation escalated. The manager went back into the building and the protestors pulled out the lock and chains to stop people from entering and exiting. Soon, there were a thousand people and fights began to break out. As Mitch recalls, it was a crazy time. Mitch recalls that his salary as an organizer was a hundred dollars a month.
In 1970, he left Winnipeg and began to do more political work in Halifax. It was during that time that Mitch first met Winnipegger Ava Kobrinsky, his wife of 40 plus years. They met in 1971 at the Trotskyist Hall in Toronto and were soon married. They returned to Winnipeg in 1972 when Mitch was 24.
Two years later, Mitch co-founded the Winnipeg Folk Festival with Ava and Colin Gorrie and his life took on a completely different dimension. Over the years, his expertise and vision helped establish almost all of the major folk festivals throughout Western Canada, plus others in Ontario and the Maritimes. He was a bona fide Folk Festival consultant.
As we talked, the subject shifted to music and Mitch showed me how he couldn’t use his left hand any more to play the banjo. Some of the fingers had lost their feeling and were also muscle damaged. He used his electric wheelchair to move over to his desk and grabbed a harmonica. He blew a few fat notes and told the story of how he came to play.
One night, while still in the hospital, at around 10:30 pm Mitch was in bed. He was startled to hear a familiar voice asking people outside his room, “Where’s Mitch?” when suddenly, well known blues musician, Big Dave McLean barged in.He handed him a harmonica and in his gruff voice said, “Here, learn how to play it,” and quickly left.
His multi-month experience in the Health Sciences Centre taught him several things. He can’t say enough about the doctors, nurses and staff who touched him through their professionalism, dedication and caring. He reflects a lot about what will happen with the impending cutbacks and what will happen when more baby boomers enter the system.
Back in January, Mitch’s good friend , singer, songwriter, and artist, Heather Bishop, organized a crowdfunding initiative to help finance necessary renovations to his home. It’ll allow him to live there eventually.
The goal was $20,000. It went live on Thursday and by Friday, the goal had been reached. Mitch was deeply touched by the outpouring of good wishes, stories and funds. It’s something he’ll never forget.
I asked Mitch if he had any regrets so far in his 70 years and his response was an immediate: “None.” I then asked what he was most proud of and he said, “The work we did to help stop the war in Vietnam, the West End Cultural Centre,” and, he added, the numerous folk festivals he established. Then, pausing for a few seconds, he smiled in his chair and said,“I’m proud of my relationship with my wife, our partnership, and my children.”
“Ava is an unsung hero, brilliant at organization, without her, none of this would have happened,” he added.
It’s not difficult to see what drives Mitch Podolak in terms of inspiration.
Basically, it’s two things: politics and music – in no particular order. It’s where it started for him and where he continues to flourish and contribute as a human being.
Mitch is constantly thinking of where to go next. His medical problems as a human being have given him plenty of time for introspection and he wards off any negativity by staying focused on his projects. His body may have slowed down, but his brain doesn’t rest.. The power of a moving lyric tied to a melody never fails to move him. Pair that with his love of freedom, justice and “menshlechkeit,” and you realize that what his family inculcated him is ever present.
He has three major projects he’s working on right now. One of them is a book entitled “Passing Through.” It will consist of 71 essays of people he has known throughout his life, including: his Uncle Meyer, who jumped off
the train on the way to Auschwitz, but whose family refused to follow him; his Zeida Avram Leibe – his mum’s dad whom he idolized and who taught him how to play gin; plus Mitch’s very close friends, Joe Flexer and Harry Paine, among 67 others.
Throughout the years, Mitch has kept in touch with his siblings, cousins, nephews and nieces. He appreciates family and the connections it brings. He calls it the core Podolak: people caring about other people.
I ended our conversation by asking Mitch how he feels about being a Jew. His Hebrew name is Melech which, of course, means king – and he likes the name. His mum Rhoda often used it: “Melech Ben Noach”, a.k.a. Mitch Podolak. Suffice to say, you’re not going to find Melech at any of the synagogues on Yom Kippur or on any other holidays. He loves the culture, the food, the music, the humour, but he’s an avowed atheist. He’s well aware of Jewish values and ethics and uses them to form his vision of a better world, especially the aspects of brotherhood and sisterhood. When it comes to Israel, Mitch has hopes of it becoming a socialist country, in the context of a socialist Middle East in which all Semites are equal and united in making a better world. In his way, Mitch Podolak has found a path to peace.
At the age of 70 and having to undergo a traumatic health setback, he’s remarkably selfless, stubborn, surprisingly traditional, and ever hopeful and optimistic. In fact, these days, at a time when his injuries won’t allow him to play his beloved banjo, Mitch says, “At least I can sing badly!”
(Ed. note: MItch Podolak passed away in August 2019.)
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.