Features
The JP&N welcomes Beatty Cohan as our newest columnist
Beginning with this column, we introduce to readers a new columnist, but someone whose name is likely familiar to many readers: Beatty Cohan (née Sair). Betty is the daughter of the late Maurice and Edith Sair. As she notes in an email Beatty sent us when I asked her to supply us with a bio, “the column should be dedicated to my parents, the late Edith (who taught at the Talmud Torah for many years) and Maurice Sair, who never in their wildest dreams could have imagined how my professional life would have turned out. They would be thrilled if they knew that I was writing for The Jewish Post & News.
I was a terrible student. I had no interest in math or science or really in any subject. After attending Talmud Torah through grade six, I attended public school. I will never forget a meeting that I had with my guidance counselor at West Kildonan Collegiate (from where I did somehow manage to graduate), who told me that I shouldn’t even consider going to university, given my academic record. When I told my parents what she had said, they fortunately scoffed at her recommendation and instead, encouraged me to find my passion.
However, unbeknownst to them, I had found my passion a long time ago. My passion was people and helping people. I was the Ann Landers to all my friends. The radio show that reinforced my desire to help people, was a show called ASK THE PASTOR. The host was Pastor Egler, who I met in person many years later. It aired every Sunday night in Winnipeg at midnight. When I was probably around 10, I happened to stumble across this show. I would hide my transistor radio under my covers, so that I could listen to it. As you may know, it was a call-in counseling show. I have hosted many call-in counselling shows over the years, including the “ASK BEATTY SHOW” that I currently host and have hosted for almost nine years on the Progressive Radio Network.
I will never forget my mother’s reaction when my book, “For Better for Worse Forever: Discover the Path to Lasting Love,” was published in 1998 and her reactions to watching me on Sally Jessy Raphael and other national television shows. Who would have thought!! She kept my book next to her in the apartment and then in the Sharon Nursing Home, where she spent only a few short months. She died on December 28th, 2005. My father, unfortunately, died in 1982 and missed out on all of the excitement. My father was my life coach and sports coach.
I was probably one of the only Jewish kids who played, competed and won provincial titles in tennis and badminton. I also represented Manitoba at the Canadian championships for many years in both sports.
After graduating from the University of Manitoba with a B.A, I took a year off and worked in a federal social services agency in Winnipeg. I then applied to and was accepted into McGill’s School of Social Work. I worked in inner-city Montreal schools for a few years and was subsequently appointed as one of three directors of the Greater Montreal School Social Services program. I later moved to Toronto and worked in social planning and social policy for the Toronto Jewish Congress. After a few years, I moved to Calgary and became the executive director of Jewish Family Services there.
I lived in Providence, Rhode Island when my book first came out. This was really the beginning of an amazing television and radio career. A few years ago I was a guest on the “Daily Show” with Jon Stewart where I did a segment with Samantha Bee about penis pumps. I have been a guest on over 1,000 local and national radio and television shows.
I started my private practice in Providence and am going into my 36th year as a psychotherapist and sex therapist. In 2000, I moved to Sarasota, Florida, where I continued with my practice and my radio and television career. One day I get a call from none other than Governor Jeb Bush. I had an “ASK BEATTY” segment on WFTS, an ABC affiliate in Tampa, which aired several times a week.
Everyone knew that his daughter was having problems and I suspect that one of his aides saw one of my segments. Jeb appointed me to Florida’s Commission on Marriage and Family Support Initiatives. It was a two-year appointment. I learned a great deal about how and why little gets done!
I now live in New York City and have a practice in NYC and East Hampton. I work closely with Rabbi Joshua Franklin, from the Jewish Center of the Hamptons. We have done many programs together.
I am very happily married to my childhood sweetheart, Jim Vrettos, a sociologist, criminologist and host of The Radical Imagination television show. I also have a married daughter, Jordana and a five-year-old grandson, Jack.
Here’s Beatty’s first column:
Dear Beatty,
I am a 35-year-old, divorced, single parent to a 10-year-old little girl. I’m a highly successful realtor in a prestigious international real estate company in the Hamptons.
I met Mike, 52, at a Hamptons fundraiser about eight months ago. We really seemed to click. He had been divorced many years ago and had ended a long-term relationship just before we met. He told me that he was ready for a new chapter in his life. Although we officially haven’t moved in together, I do spend part of the week at his home when my daughter is visiting her father.
Initially, everything was incredible. We talked and laughed and seemed to have lots of things in common. However, recently, the ups and downs are making me think about ending the relationship. I know that Mike has a lot of pressures at work. He is the vice president of a major financial institution. During the week he is often withdrawn, silent and frequently just plain mean. I try to be understanding.
However, no matter what I do or say, he barely acknowledges me. When I try to talk with him, his reaction often is to explode in anger, denying that anything is wrong and demanding to know why I pick on him. I’ve also noticed he is drinking more and sleeping less. His irritability and mood swings are becoming almost impossible to deal with. This is a typical work week.
Nothing I do or say seems to work. On weekends he is a completely different person. He’s fun, romantic and caring and our sex life is great. But when Monday rolls around, the same depressing scene repeats itself until the next weekend. Do you think he may be bipolar? I love him but his moods are driving me crazy.
– Angel K., East Hampton
Dear Angel,
It’s certainly difficult to be living on the roller-coaster ride that you describe. And clearly, the downs are understandably, becoming increasingly unbearable. My question to you is how much longer are you willing to be Mike’s whipping girl? Have you told him directly how hurt, angry and disappointed you are because of how he treats you? The importance of communicating your feelings — the good, the bad and the ugly — is the first step in trying to see whether Mike cares enough about you to really hear what you’re saying.
More importantly, is he willing to acknowledge, address and try to resolve the issues that are getting in the way of his life, your life and your relationship? He may be so overwhelmed by pressures at work that he’s not fully aware of how badly he’s treating you. However, this is an untenable, toxic, no-win situation for you at the moment.
As to whether he is bipolar, he would need to be clinically assessed in order to make a definitive diagnosis. The ball is really in your court, Angel. What are you going to do? You have two options. The first is to do nothing and continue to be beaten up emotionally. The second is to let Mike know that you will no longer allow him to hurt you and that unless things change, you will end the relationship.
Ultimately, the choice is up to you.
Beatty would love to hear from you. You can send your questions and comments to beattycohan.msw@gmail.com. For more information, go to beattycohan.com.
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.