Features
Shall We Live by Our Swords Forever?
By ORLY DREMAN (Oct. 4, 2024) t is hard to believe a year has passed… the worst year of our nation… a year of grief, nightmares, sorrow, crying, pain, bereavement, anger, desperation, frustration, hurt and anxiety because of this horrible endless war. Every person in the country knows people who were killed. When an old person dies naturally one receives it with understanding, but when young people die it feels like Job.
The average life span of Israelis is going down every day. We try to relax, breath deeply, do mindfulness, exercise, meet friends. Israel suffers four times more from anxiety and depression than any other place in the world. I feel I just want to sit down one day, cry and release, and not be strong all the time. All our souls are already in reserves for a year . Since our army’s survival depends on its reserve soldiers it means they are tired, have lost their jobs, and wives are heroes and have to quit their jobs because the husbands are not there to help with the kids. Children see their parents recruited, they see people with weapons in the streets, they hear the word “hostages”, they hear war planes in the sky twenty four seven, they are scared, and no wonder there is regression in their behavior.
We are an injured society in a war routine- every new death swallows up the death from the day before.
When the six young hostages were murdered in the tunnels in September and the bodies were brought back by our soldiers, many people in Israel felt it is like the day their own parents passed away- it was so sad. It was revealed they were starved- the bodies weighed 35 kg. (close to 80 pounds). In the tunnels with no air, no light, low ceilings so they could not stand up, no sanitary conditions – tortured by Satan. They urinated in bottles that remained next to them. We all feel responsible for their deaths. Did we demonstrate enough? Did we pray enough? The members of the cabinet who voted with Bibi not to make a deal to save them – how can they live with themselves? What if the nightmare came true and there are babies who were born in captivity and survived? Then we have more than 101 hostages. Our country was established on social solidarity that we do not leave bodies and injured behind. We are going to pay a heavy price if we do not do the just and correct thing and bring them back home.
I recommend you read the book “One day in October” – forty heroic stories from that day told by remaining relatives and friends about the heroic citizens who saved the country. Who is a hero? A person who cannot stand aside if someone is in distress; hey come to help, like those who jumped on hand grenades to save the rest. The injured who continued to fight. Men who stalled the terrorists in order to enable women and children to escape until they were murdered. Women who ran out of their homes while the shooting was going on to pull the injured into buildings. Five young women and men soldiers who saved one hundred new recruits in their base till they themselves were killed. The paramedic Amit Mann in Kibbutz Be’eri who stayed to save many lives when she could have escaped until she was killed. (in that kibbutz out of 1000 residents 100 were killed.) Aner, who was at the “death shelter” and managed seven times to catch the hand grenades the terrorists threw inside; Aner threw them back out, until the eighth time he was killed while his friend Hirsh Goldberg Polin lost his hand and was kidnapped to Gaza where he was murdered 11 months later. The few survivors of this shelter survived because bodies fell on them and hid them. So many who already got to safety with friends, but drove back again and again to rescue young people from the festival until they themselves got killed. How parents had to close their babies’ mouths so they did not cry and be heard, with the risk of choking them to death. Even for those who held a gun, it was not enough against groups of hundreds of terrorists. The families in the center of the country heard their dear ones on the phone screaming they are burning us and they have RPGs (rocket propelled grenades). There were some who wanted to do like in Masada- kill their families and then kill themselves – just not to be kidnapped.
The first eight hours of the war the terrorists were stopped only by citizens and some police. The army was not there. Every person who in his lifetime had taken a first aid course – even people in their seventies, bandaged and put tourniquets on the wounded while they were without water, with no electricity. In the book, an officer of the “Zaka” organization- whose members are always on scenes of unnatural deaths to collect body parts and who have seen all possible atrocities, said that if he would have known what he is about to see on Oct. 7th he would have asked God to make him blind. Another story in the book is of a Holocaust survivor who said it was worse than things they have seen during the Holocaust.
Whole families on the kibbutzim on the border were murdered- children, parents, grandparents. A friend of my seven-year-old granddaughter told me her grandparents lived on kibbutz Be’eri. I asked her if they were evacuated and she answered yes. I was told later that the grandfather was murdered while protecting his wife, who survived. The seven-year-old is in repression and denial. We have friends who live on the Gaza border who told us how the father, the son and a friend left in two cars to return and rescue people, but in the chaos our army mistook them for terrorists and they shot at the cars. The friend of the son was killed while the son managed to roll out of the car. The father who was in the second car describes the car being riddled with bullet holes and he still does not understand how he survived. Unfortunately, there were quite a number of these incidents.
There are evacuees who moved almost 10 times this year with their families from place to place. They cannot hold a job, the children change schools and change friends. What is nice about “the good Israeli” is one sees requests on Facebook from evacuated families asking for a place to live because the government does not pay for some of the hotels anymore, or those people live in areas that were not officially evacuated by the army/government, but still are in the rockets’ range. Other Israelis open up their homes to host these people.
We are now fighting seven fronts. We just started in Lebanon and we already have eight soldiers killed there in one day, but the damage from Hizballah was growing every day and they were crushing us. If Hizballah would have joined Hamas in sending 6000 terrorists through their tunnels into Israel on Oct. 7th in addition to the 4000 terrorists Hamas sent, it would have been the end of Israel. We’d have hundreds of thousands dead. The tunnels we discovered now in Lebanon are bigger than those in Gaza and cannot be blown up because of the terrain; it will only make them wider. Iran lost again in this second round of 200 rockets on Oct. 1st. Our air defense systems shot down most of the ballistic rockets. We must retaliate with a strong hand. We cannot live by our sword forever.
Our challenges today are not just against our enemies, but also against others who have different moral and ethical values. How can Bibi even think of replacing our excellent defense minister in the middle of the war – only for political reasons? Instead of making a deal in the south- returning the hostages, making peace with Saudi Arabia, forming a coalition against Iran, he is busy eternalizing his coalition. We deserve an empathetic leadership which sees the good of its people before themselves.
We have thousands of new disabled servicemen and women. It is no wonder that at all the Para Olympic games we win the highest number of medals. For organ donors today doctors are especially asking for cartilage because we have 20,000 new wounded ; this is something they did not do in the past.
It has been a very challenging year and we learned how strong we are. For the New Year may we blessed to see the return of all our hostages, start to rehabilitate them, put a smile back on our faces, sleep at night, worry less and feel safe again.
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.