Features
Nani Vazana, the only known composer of new songs in Ladino, performs in Canada
By IRENA KARSHENBAUM In early November, just prior to arriving in Canada from her home in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, Ladino singer and songwriter, Nani Vazana, evokes images of centuries past when men prayed in the synagogues of their Spanish villages while the women had to make their way in the market. Their Spanish imperfect, a paella of the local language tossed with spoonfuls of Hebrew, evolved into a language of its own, Judeo-Spanish, also known as Ladino. It was this language — Vazana calls “matriarchal” because it was created by women — and used in their daily lives to discuss mother-daughter relationships, share recipes and domestic knowledge, secret desires and unattained loves that, with time, flourished with poetry and songs.
Today, Ladino is considered a dying language because most of its speakers are over 70 years of age. Vazana who, in her 30s, not only speaks the language, but is believed to be the only person in the world who writes new songs in the dying language, which are “reflective of millennial life,” as she explains.
It is a musical path that almost did not happen. Vazana’s father, who was either born in Vazan, Morocco or on a boat to Israel — his exact place of birth is unknown due to the turbulent early years of the modern state of Israel, forbade his daughter to speak Ladino. She only did so in secret, when her father was not around, with her maternal grandmother, “Savta Mami,” from when she was four to the age 12, when her grandmother passed away.
Born in Be’er Sheva, Israel, Vazana’s musical journey did not begin with Ladino music, but had European musical origins. Vazana explains that she always knew she wanted to become a singer and songwriter. “My mother says that I was imitating opera singers in the shower when I was two or three years old and I asked for a piano when I was three.” It was a wish Vazana did not see fulfilled until she was 10, but she never stopped asking for the instrument while starting piano lessons at age five or six and having to use the piano at her conservatory. She took up playing the trombone because, as a child, she had a high-pitched voice and wanted to expand her range, which is now over three octaves. She became principal trombone player for the Ra’anana Symphony Orchestra, then moved to study at the Jerusalem Music Academy, and then moved to Amsterdam to study at the Amsterdam Conservatory. That is where she decided to stay, explaining, “The city is at a crossroads for many international musicians and is great for collaborations.”
While in her new home, Vazana was invited to perform at the Tangier Jazz Festival in Morocco and took the opportunity to visit her grandmother’s home town of Fez. Walking through the ancient streets, she heard a song her late grandmother used to sing to her. The song, called “Kuando El Rey Nimrod,” translated as “When Nimrod Was King,” was sang in Arabic, not in Ladino, but had the same melody, which she recognized. “I had flash backs and it became very special and from this moment I understood what the path was about for me.”
For two years Vazana took Ladino lessons to relearn the language and started to research Ladino music. She admits the music is hard to relate to because Ladino singers do a lot of “ornaments” with their voices, “So I created my own version of the classical songs and I started to perform and record them, but without the ornaments.” The collection of songs became her third album and her first work of traditional Ladino music called, “Andalusian Brew.”
Vazana performed this repertoire for three years, which took her to all continents around the world, except Australia (and Antarctica).
She continues, “I started feeling it wasn’t enough to sing classical Ladino songs, so around 2018, I started writing my own songs in Ladino that are more reflective of modern life.” This work led to the making of her current album entitled, “Ke Haber,” translated as “What’s New.” She explains the title has a double meaning referring to the dying language and that it is also a common Ladino phrase, “It’s meant to preserve the language and make it current.”
In “I don’t want, mother,” with music and lyrics by Vazana, she sings, “I bring good news / A wealthy man / From the high society / Will propose to you,” with the daughter’s response she continues, “No mother, I don’t want that / For he only cares about wealth / And so emotionally detached.” In the notes to the album, Vazana describes the mother-daughter dialogue where the mother suggests a tall man, a jealous man or a rich man and the daughter rejects them all. Exasperated, the mother finally states that her daughter marry a drunk, only to have her daughter reveal that in fact she already is in love with a drunkard.
“El Gacela,” translated as “The Gazelle,” with lyrics by Shmuel Hanagid and Moses ibn Ezra and music by Vazana, touches on the homoerotic. She writes in the notes to the album, “It was hard to find secular materials. I asked a rabbi at the Etz Chaim library and he showed me these 2 homoerotic poems from the 11th century, written by 2 Jewish rabbis who are considered saints. It’s amazing that we feel that we’re very new and modern and advanced, but it seems that we raise the same questions 1000 years later. And maybe society was even more open minded back in the Middle Ages?”
Vazana plays the piano and trombone when performing and considers herself a solo artist employing different musicians in different locations. Being fluent in five languages — English, Hebrew, Dutch, Ladino and German — she explains that “everything” inspires her music and, “Every song is like a short movie that tells its own story.”
She says she cannot pick a favourite song, but specifically mentions “Sin Dingun Hijo Varon,” translated as “Without Any Sons,” which is included in “Ke Haber.” A song based on 11th century text, and one of the earliest examples in history of a song on a transgender subject, it uses sparse language to tell the story of a young girl who declares to her father that she will be a son he never had and her mother accepts her daughter as her son. Vazana explains, “We think that as millennials we invented this, but this has been around for centuries. The feeling of looking for your identity has very strong meaning for us today.”
Vazana’s unique contributions to world music have been recognized by her performing at the Kennedy Centre and, in September of 2023, her concert was recorded by the Library of Congress in Washington, DC.
Vazana had concerts in Vancouver, Canmore, Montreal and Toronto in November before returning to Amsterdam. In January of 2024, she plans to continue her world tour with 67 scheduled performances, at the time of this interview.
This story was originally published in Alberta Jewish News.
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.