Features
The River – an excerpt from a new novel by former Winnipegger Zev Coehn
Introduction: The following story is an excerpt from a longer story in Zev Cohen’s new novel titled “Are You Still Alive?”
As Zev wrote to us recently, “this is Chapter One of my novel, “Are You Still Alive?” It is partially based on events recounted to me by my late father Moshe. The story, beyond being one of the countless tales of Jewish survival against all odds during the Holocaust, is also an allegory for the indomitable human spirit intertwined with Rabbi Akiva’s maxim ‘V’havta l’raecha kamocha’. I hope to have the complete novel published soon.
Zev’s writing has appeared several times in the past in this paper. His collection of short stories, titled “Twilight in Saigon,” was published in 2021.
Born in Israel, Zev lived in Winnipeg until he was 17, when he returned to Israel with his parents. He now spends half the year in Israel and half the year in Calgary, where his two sons live.
Chumak leads the way towards the river in the dark. I had walked the route from his hut to the riverbank in daylight a few times and am confident I know the path down to the water and back. This time, though, I intend to cross to the other side under cover of darkness. Chumak, who came up with the idea, eagerly insists on guiding me so, he says, I don’t get lost. He claims he can find his way blindfolded. I think he believes that if this works, he might soon be rid of us, although he hasn’t said anything openly about it. To be fair, my suspicion just might be a projection of my own pressing desire to escape on to Chumak, whom I trust implicitly.
This summer has been uncommonly wet, and tonight the clouds are scudding low, hiding the moon and stars and making it difficult for others to spot us. At first, the only sounds are those of our movement through the brush and the occasional whoosh of passing nightbirds. The path is not overly challenging, and my labored breathing and rapidly beating heart stem more from fear than physical effort. Though I’m soaked to the skin by the constant drizzle, it is a minor irritation in the face of what I expect lies ahead. The sudden rattle of machine-gun fire causes us to instinctively fall flat on the ground, but luckily it isn’t close by, and we move forward a moment later. Distant flickers of lightning and muffled thunder are the backdrops as I blunder through the undergrowth and futilely attempt to avoid trees. Banging my knee against a tree trunk while trying to keep up with Chumak, I stifle a cry of pain, and then suddenly, I slip and slide down the muddy embankment, unable to get any traction. He grabs me before I plunge headfirst into the river.
“Quiet, you’ll get us caught,” he whispers as he holds my arm in his vicelike grip. “There are German and Romanian patrols on both sides of the river. Be more careful, or you will end up dead before you begin.”
The slope ends at the lapping water’s edge, but the river is barely visible in the blackness. A dog begins to bark incessantly on the other side. Has it picked up our scent even before I start to swim? I have no choice but to take my chances. Along the opposite bank downriver, dim points of light seem to be moving—smugglers perhaps or night fishermen. It’s hard to estimate how far away they are. I hope the current doesn’t drag me to them, but there is no going back. At least, for now, no searchlights are combing this particular area. Chumak seems to have picked the right spot.
Lightning flashes again, stronger this time, and in that instant, I realize how far it is to the other side across the rippling current. My swimming experience is limited to a small, calm pond near home, where my brother taught me some strokes. The wide, flowing river looks ominous, but I’ve made it this far, and I can’t give up now. And Chumak urges me on. I’m already knee-deep in the water, shivering, but not because the water is especially frigid.
“You can do it,” he encourages me. “The current isn’t so strong at this time of year. You must do it. It’s your only hope. Go!”
I stop for a moment and turn to him. “If anything happens…if I don’t make it back, help Ella and Sophie, please. They have no one else.” I don’t want to sound as if I’m pleading, but I am.
“Go, nothing will happen. You’re going to save them and yourself,” he says. “It’s the only way. I will wait here till you reach the other side and when you get there, clap some stones together three times to let me know you are safely there. The sound carries far at night. I’ll hear it, and I’ll tell Pani Ella that you made it.” Amid everything, I notice that this is the first time he calls Ella by her name.
I move slowly into the deeper water. At first, it’s easy; the water is up to my chest, but my feet still touch the soft muddy bottom. Then, without warning, it drops away, and I’m flailing and swallowing water. Finally, I calm down, gain control, and begin to swim. The current takes hold and starts pushing me downriver. Sputtering, I force myself to fight the rising panic and use my arms and kick with my legs in a crawl that will hopefully propel me towards the unseen shoreline. It’s working, and I’m not drowning, but I’m weakening rapidly. The combination of sickness I haven’t completely recovered from since the camp and general malnutrition has sapped me of strength. My clothes are waterlogged and drag me down. This can’t continue much longer. How idiotic would it be, I think, if I drowned now before beginning my mission? Rolling over on my back, I take the pig’s bladder that Chumak wrapped the note in from my pocket, and holding it tight, I squirm out of my pants to lighten the load. I let the current carry me and turn on my back to stroke and move gradually in the riverbank direction. It is less exhausting this way.
I’ve lost any notion of time as I float on my back and see nothing but the overcast sky. Has it been minutes? An hour? I fear trying to stand. If it’s still deep, I might sink and not be able to come back up. At least the rain has stopped. Some clouds have dispersed, and I can see stars in the black sky. Then I hear it. A baying sound getting closer. Maybe a dog? Then barking. Yes, a dog. Thankfully I must be near the shore. My feet hit bottom. I totter through the shallow water and, in the faint moonlight, survey a pebbly beach fronting the tree line. There is no sign of the huts nor of the large two-story house Chumak had pointed out some days earlier opposite my point of departure.
The house, he told me, belonged to a certain Nicolescu, a wealthy Romanian and well-known smuggler before the war. Chumak suggested that my woman, as he called Ella, write a letter to Nicolescu in Romanian asking for his help crossing the river. I imagined that he would get the letter to the Romanian or at least knew someone who could do it, so it took me by surprise when he said, “You will bring the letter to him, and he will make the arrangements.”
It seemed like a far-fetched idea. Beyond the problem of my crossing the river, in itself seemingly suicidal, why, I asked, would any Romanian, not to mention a wealthy smuggler, have anything to do with helping Jews? This is probably a punishable offense in Romania and meant certain death in German-occupied Poland. Only gypsies were desperate enough to offer their services. Even if Nicolescu was willing to help me, I had no money to pay him.
Moreover, those who did pay were often betrayed and delivered to the authorities on one or the other side. There was no guarantee of success, and many lost their lives in the attempt. A few days earlier, I saw a clump of corpses roped to each other floating down the river. I didn’t consider my death an issue anymore, but I was afraid of exposing Ella and the child to the risks involved. I told Chumak to forget it. I couldn’t do it.
“What choice do you have?” Chumak pressed. “Don’t be a fool. You, the woman, and the child definitely won’t survive on this side of the river, and you will stand a better chance over there, as far away as you can get from the Germans.”
His understanding of the situation is correct. The local peasants were handing Jews over for some butter or sugar and an opportunity to steal their belongings. They say a drowning man will grasp at a razor blade to save himself, so I agree.
“Even if I manage to make it across, how will I convince him? I have no money.”
Chumak was skeptical about my claim of penury. This wasn’t out of spite that he had thought through but rather an inherited bias. He was of the age-old school that believed Jews always had hidden treasure somewhere. He was convinced that if I couldn’t offer cash immediately, Nicolescu would accept a promise of future payment from a “high-class” Jew like me. To me, this appeared to be just wishful thinking since Chumak admitted never having actually done business with this Romanian smuggler, who was out of his league.
Chumak remained adamant, and his confident tone was hard to resist. “Tell your woman to write that she comes from an important, prosperous family in Romania that will pay him generously for his efforts. Give him a written guarantee.”
Before I could change my mind, he produced a slightly greasy lined sheet of paper from a child’s copybook and a blunt pencil stub. I took it to our hideout in the nearby forest, where I cajoled Ella, who also thought the plan was absurd and not doable, into writing the requisite supplication and promise of reward.
Standing on the flat terrain on this side of the river, I realize that the current took me downstream, and I need to walk back to the Nicolescu house. I’m not sure how far it is, but at least I can see where I’m going in the moonlight. I find some stones and strike them together three times, as I promised Chumak, hoping that he hears me, and goes back to report to Ella. Not expecting a response, I walk close to the tree line, off the riverbank pathway used by locals and military patrols. When a searchlight sweeps the river from the Polish side, I scamper into the trees, waiting, breathing hard, and picking up a dead branch for self-defense. Going forward, I detour through the woods to avoid a small group of men sitting by the embers of a fire smoking and passing around a bottle. Hunters or fishermen, I believe.
The house lies ahead through the gate of a stone-walled enclosure. No light escapes from the windows. Nearby in the compound, there are two thatched-roof peasant huts, weak light emanating from one of the windows, and a barn where a horse nickers. I stop to consider which building would be best to approach, and then, as I take a step closer, the dogs come at me, snarling. I fend them off with the branch, hitting one of them in the head. It runs off whimpering while the others keep their distance, growling, and barking. I’m done for. They are going to wake everyone. I retreat into the adjacent cornfield, crouching there cold, miserable, and afraid, as a woman appears holding a lantern outside one of the huts. She calls off the dogs and shoos them into the barn. As she locks the barn door, she stares into the darkness in my direction before going to draw water from a well in the yard and returning to the hut.
I can’t stay here much longer as indecision eats away at my remaining determination. It’s time to make a move, either forward to Nicolescu, whatever the risk and chances of success, or back across the river in abject failure. I run to the hut showing light and knock hesitantly. The dogs continue barking hysterically in the barn. Nothing happens, and I try again more decisively.
“Who’s there,” asks a muffled woman’s voice in Ukrainian.
“It’s me,” I reply. What else could I say?
She opens the door a crack. People must be accustomed to seeing strange sights around here because she doesn’t slam the door in the face of the wet, disheveled, half-naked specter that stands before her.
“What do you want? Who are you looking for?” the woman asks as if I was routinely passing by.
“I have an important letter for Mr. Nicolescu. He needs to see it,” I say, also in Ukrainian.
She invites me into the hut. Alone in the single, earthen floor room, she wears widow’s black. Wrinkeled but unbent, her age is indeterminate. Most of the space in the room is taken up by a traditional wooden loom, while a large blackened icon of the Savior hangs above a stove. I rarely devoted attention to Christian symbols, having never, so far, entered a church and always hurrying by the ubiquitous roadside shrines in our vicinity with eyes averted. The narrative of Christianity and Christians as moral and physical threats was, since time immemorial part of our Jewish psyche, but I have no direct personal experience of it. Even the murder of my father by Jew-hating thugs, which undoubtedly weighed heavily on my perception of the people who surrounded us, didn’t feel like a religious issue. Now though, as I stand here shivering, Jesus on the cross seems to be observing me ominously. But, immediately, my attention is drawn away to a piece of bread on a side table, and without invitation, I grab it and chew hungrily. The woman sees that I am exhausted and soaked and tells me to sit and rest. She brings me a blanket and pours a cup of water, watching silently as I continue chewing the bread thoroughly.
When I finish, she says, “You are from over there. You’re a Jew.” It’s not posed as a question, and she clearly knows why I have come. I’m not the first desperate Jew who has shown up on her doorstep. To my relief, she doesn’t take long to make her decision. “I will take you to Mr. Nicolescu’s mother. She lives in the other hut. Maybe she will help you.”
“Thank you.” I’m wary of digging too deeply into the subject for fear of treading on sensitive toes, but I’m also anxious to find out what has happened on this side of the river and know what to expect if Ella and Sophie are to cross with me later. “Are there any Jews left around here?” I ask warily. “What about the Jews in the city?”
“They got rid of all our Jews,” she replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “They say the devil came for them. You need to watch out.”
“Come,” she beckons. “We should go to Nicolescu’s mother before anyone else sees you here. People won’t hesitate to give you up.” I follow her to the neighboring hut, where a tall, old woman approaches us. “Who is that with you, Bohuslava?” she calls out in Romanian. “Beware of robbers. I’ll get a stick and run him off.”
Bohuslava walks over to her. “Shh, be quiet,” she says in Ukrainian. “Stop fussing. He means no harm and just wants to show you something. “Come here quickly,” she gestures to me.
Grey-haired, slightly stooped, with one eye clouded by a cataract, she must be in her seventies but looks far from frail. She takes my hand with a firm grip. “Let’s go inside,” she says.
She lights a kerosene lamp. This is a much bigger and well-appointed abode with an ornate porcelain stove dominating the room and a dining table covered in a hand-embroidered red and white tablecloth. Adjacent to the stove stands a single bed occupied by a young woman sleeping, oblivious to us.
“Bohuslava, you may go,” the Romanian says. “Just keep your mouth shut, or it won’t be long before everybody is aware that you take in Jewish strays. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“What will I say?” answers the other woman on her way out. “That you have a new lover and a Jewish one at that,” she cackles.
“Sit,” the tall woman says, pointing to a chair beside the table. Like most Romanians living on the border, she is fluent in Ukrainian, while my Romanian is rudimentary at best. “Show me what you brought,” she asks. I remove it from the pig’s bladder and hand the grotty piece of paper to her. She dons reading glasses and concentrates on the message.
“Good Romanian,” is her first reaction. “Who wrote it? It couldn’t be you.”
“My wife,” I say tersely.
“Is she from around here?”
“She is from the city,” I reply. “Actually, we’re together but not officially married. She has a small child, her daughter, with her. They were forced across the river with others a few months ago, and we are trying to get back to the city to join relatives who might still be there. The situation on the other side of the river is deadly.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not really safe here, either. If you’re caught, they will send you back there without a second thought. Don’t expect much pity here because nobody wants to get in trouble for hiding Jews from the authorities.”
Not wanting to get into a discussion on motivations. I prefer to get to the point. “I was told that your son, Domnul Nicolescu, has experience getting people across the river. If your son could help us, we will take our chances. It’s preferable to certain death over there.”
“I can’t speak for him,” she says. “He is a good man, but I doubt, though, that he would be willing to take such a great risk. He was never involved in the smuggling of people across the border. It’s a bad business. For him, it has always been cigarettes and other contraband.”
I am surprised, honestly, that she speaks so openly of her son’s activities to a stranger… especially to one with a price on his head. Though she doesn’t hold out hope, her demeanor and attitude give me a sliver of confidence. “You should get some rest,” she suggests, “and I will take you to him in the morning.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Margareta. And yours?”
“I am Emil. Thank you, Doamna Margareta, for your kindness. I hope your son takes after you.”
She wakes the girl rudely and pushes her into the other room. “Here, take this bed. The servant girl can sleep in my room. I will leave some dry clothes for you and wake you when we need to go.”
“Thank you again. Good night.” I kiss her hand.
“Good night, Domnule Emil. Sleep well.”
I feel exhausted and drained, and my shriveled muscles ache from the unaccustomed effort of swimming across the water, but sleep remains elusive. It’s not the discomfort of the thin, lumpy mattress and the scratchy wool blanket that still hold the sour odor of their previous user, nor is it the constant, sometimes frantic, barking of dogs outside that keep rest at bay. By now, I’m also habituated to grasping moments of sleep in more dire circumstances, whether in the camp barracks or on the cold forest floor. Tonight I’m kept wide awake by the train of thoughts and questions running in a relentless loop through my mind. Are Ella and Sophie safe on the other side, alone with the Chumaks? Will Nicolescu agree to help without payment in advance? Will we be betrayed by the smuggler as so many have been before us? What lies in store for us on this side without any means for survival at our disposal? Should we hide in the countryside here or take the risk of heading for the city? I try to block out the most subversive, monstrous, cowardly, and tempting considerations, but they are there. The palpable fear of swimming back across the river toward the near certainty of death, tries to convince me that I’m now safer and that on my own, I stand a better chance of hiding and surviving. Yes, I would be abandoning Ella and Sophie, but by going back, I would only join them in being captured and killed. They would be safer staying with the Chumaks, who certainly would take pity and continue to conceal and support a defenseless woman and child. Or maybe I could remain here and just send the smuggler for them. I want to scream. I will go back.
The sun is up when Margareta nudges me awake and offers me a mug of hot tea while waiting as I put on the clothes she brought. They belong to a larger man, but they will have to do. I walk with her to the door of the house. A few people, already out and about, are on their way to work in the fields, some leading cattle and a flock of sheep. The men doff their hats and greet her, paying no attention to me.
Margareta instructs me to wait outside and enters without knocking. I hear raised voices inside. “Have you lost your mind? Why did you bring him here? Do you want to get us arrested? Send him away!” A few moments later, Margareta reappears with another woman, a pale ash blonde of about forty, holding a cigarette in her long elegant fingers with a worried look on her face — definitely not of the farming class. The woman scans the yard nervously.
“My mother-in-law told me what you want. I am sorry, but Mr. Nicolescu doesn’t do this business. We cannot do anything for you.” Her voice trembles and she is obviously terrified. “Anyway, he is not here. He is in the city, and I don’t know when he will be back. You must go. It’s dangerous here, and you will get us into trouble. Please go now.” She starts to retreat into the house.
I can’t hold her against her will, and if Nicolescu is indeed away, there is nothing more to be gained here. “Thank you, Doamna Nicolescu,” I say in Romanian and press my luck. “I will go, but could you kindly give me some bread?”
She goes inside and is soon back with half of a large loaf. I once again kiss her well-manicured hand and turn to leave.
“Mr. Emil,” says Margareta, “You should not wander around here in daylight. It’s dangerous to stay out in the open. Why don’t you hide in the barn till dark? It will be safer that way.”
“Again, you are so kind, Madame, but I must return to my family. It has been too long already. They are alone and will worry that something bad has happened to me. I will be as careful as I can.”
“Very well, if you must, but follow me.” She leads me into the forest on a narrow footpath that is a roundabout way down to the water’s edge. “Eat the bread, you need the strength, and it will be ruined in the water,” she says. I need no more encouragement as I almost choke, devouring it. She turns to leave. “Be careful, Emil, and good luck to you. I will talk to Nicolescu when he returns. Maybe he will agree to help. He has more conscience than that frightened ornament he calls his wife. How can he find you?”
“There is a peasant named Chumak. He knows where we are,” I tell her.
“Yes, Chumak. I know him. He also used to smuggle cigarettes before the war.”
“Thank you, Madame. I will remember your generosity.” She is gone.
I sit brooding among the trees looking at the river as the sun glints off the streaming water and listening to cheerful birds chirping. I can’t help but ponder the difference between the elderly women, Bohuslava and Margareta, and the wife of Nicolescu. I’m not surprised by the younger woman’s reaction. It is one version, slightly less brusque, of the general refusal to help Jews. But, all other considerations aside, who can blame people for fearing the fatal punishments meted out by the Germans and their Ukrainian lackeys to so-called Jew-lovers? Would I behave any differently in their shoes? I am more impressed, not to say astonished, by those candles in the darkness, people who have everything to lose, yet whose basic humanity causes them to stretch out their hands to support their fellow men and women. That rough peasant Chumak, whose whole universe is his tiny homestead next to an unknown village on the banks of the river, heads my list of the righteous. Now I add Bohuslava and Margareta to it. The existence of such people, beyond their contribution to our physical safety, keeps alive my essential positivity toward humankind and allows me to still retain some belief in our survival.
What next, I ask myself? I achieved nothing and have no other plan in reserve. Swimming back in broad daylight now seems suicidal. Maybe drowning is a good option? But that means abandoning Ella and the child, and I have already decided this is not an option. Bring back yesterday’s rain, I pray. I pray, though my belief in the idea of an Almighty, never cast-iron, has been dramatically undermined by the past year’s events. Then the wind picks up, and the miracle unfolds. Dark clouds scud across the sky, and the first drops wet my face, replacing the tears. In moments the downpour becomes torrential. I tie the new clothes around my neck and dive into the river, feeling more energetic on my way back. The current is slow enough for me to gradually dog-paddle most of the way across and finish with a few crawl strokes.
I’m carried only about a half-kilometer downstream, and elation replaces caution as I drag myself onto the riverbank and start walking. Climbing up the steep slope, Chumak’s hut is soon ahead, but when I approach and enter it, nobody is there. I look for Ella and Sophie, but the barn is empty too, and figuring that Chumak is probably out working in the field, I continue upwards into the forest towards our erstwhile hiding place. Ella and Sophie are supposed to wait there for me in case of trouble. I call out not to surprise them but there is no reply. I run to the hideout. They are gone.
Features
Musings from Dizengoff Street – by Bruce Brown (updated Oct. 26)
(Posted Oct. 26) Trigger warning. Totally unscientific, totally subjective, highly generalized tour of Israeli electoral patterns musing ahead.
With election day upon us. The wife says if more of the same is voted in… she’s outta’ here. Somewhat extreme but I get her. A pretty common threat in the Shtetl these days. But that’s if you live in North Tel Aviv. While the word from stall owners of Tel Aviv’s HaTikva market and Jerusalem’s Mahaneh Yehuda market is somewhat different. While visiting the latter, the Prime Minister received a rousing chorus of the Israeli English version of Happy Birthday. Celebrating his 77th. I wish him the best… as he hopefully prepares for retirement. Which does not excuse a bottle thrown at his motorcade as he arrived – totally unacceptable! Meanwhile, those in areas like Bnei Brak, Bet Shemesh and Mea Shearim may be looking for something else. Voting for Shas, United Torah Judaism or the ilk to retain their status quo of not educating, not paying taxes and not serving. And those from the Settlements most likely casting their vote for Smotrich or Ben Gvir. Yikes! And double yikes! Our Arab co-citizens from Nazareth, Jaffa, and Umm al-Fahm most likely voting for Ra’am or the Joint List (comprising the three other main Arab parties). Speaking of which, I am pretty impressed with Monsour Abbas’s Ra’am; channeling a message of co-existence, cooperation and loyalty. Although a meaningful partner in the previous Bennett/Lapid government, still too extreme a ballot to cast. For me anyway. And supporters of the middle, -often veering to the right and comprising the current main coalition or opposition blocs- can be found throughout the shtetl. As for me. I still waver between Eisenkot or Bennett. Or perhaps Lieberman…but probably not. Message to myself – time to decide! All while under the threat of another skirmish with Iran. Who is looking to upend our democratic right but what do they know about democracy. My back-of-the-voting-envelope wisdom as we approach October 27. Vote. But vote for the right guy. Hmmm. ‘Guy’? All party leaders are men. Now where’s a good Golda when you need one. Sagacious indeed.
(Posted Oct. 22) Israel. Once famous for its Jaffa oranges. Has since offered the world so much more than just a tasty, vitamin C packed, citrus boost. We’re offering. And most of the globe is accepting. World class hi-tech, med-tech, agri-tech, def-tech (yes defense!) innovations that. Well. Simply make the planet a better place. From Intel Israel’s Pentium 4 and Centrino microchips. Where the ancient city of Jerusalem became the world’s first Wi-Fi-enabled city. How cool is that! To Checkpoint’s worldclass network firewall security systems. From Teva’s generic low-cost medications and schizophrenia and bone health treatments. To Given Imaging’s pain saving Pill Cams. To MeMed’s fifteen-minute blood tests distinguishing between infections. To Rafael and Elbit’s Iron Dome and Iron Beam anti-missile defense systems. To Ormat’s renewable energy solutions. From Netafim’s pioneering drip irrigation technology. To CropX smarter farming with less water. To Watergen and H20LL which. Now get this. Essentially turns air into drinking water. Hmmmm…. To Mobileye technology helping cars see. Yep, those dashboard beeps when approaching another car too fast was developed in our little shtetl. To Waze’s GPS navigation software. Without which we would probably make the wrong turn. And to Wiz’s cloud and AI cybersecurity platforms, sold to Google in 2026 for 32B$. In cash. The largest foreign acquisition of an Israeli company to date – not too bad! And many, many more ‘Froms’ and ‘Tos’. So now. A modest call out to all those BDS (Boycott, Divest and Sanctions) supporters. You probably don’t realize how embedded your daily lives are with Israeli invention. But don’t worry. Israel won’t sanction you. So remember. Buy Israeli!
(Posted Oct. 19) So, two runner up distinctions for my little shtetl. On the bright side. Israel is often considered to have the second highest number of listings on the tech heavy NASDAQ. Often jockeying for second place with China and sometimes Canada. The number one country, of course, is the U.S.. On the not so bright side. According to Microsoft’s 2026 Digital Defense Report, Israel was ranked the second most targeted county in the world for ‘observed state-linked cyber events’, at 210 events. The number one country here is also the U.S. (at 531 such events). Now this is a specific metric limited to particular and observed cyber activity. On a broader note, Israel’s National Cyber Directorate reported about 4,800 hostile cyber incidents in June 2026. Yes, in a single month! Somewhat daunting. And thank goodness for our esteemed IDF 8200 unit. I digress. And back to the NASDAQ listings and the MS Digital Defense Report. Guess we gotta’ take the good with the bad.
(Posted Oct. 15) Congratulations South African jurist Navi Pillay for winning the 2026 Nobel Peace Prize. Not. The Norwegian Nobel Committee announced that she won the prize “for her efforts to promote peace and international law.” Now I admittedly don’t know much about Navi other than what I just googled. Our legal scholar defended anti-apartheid activists in South Africa including Nelson Mandella and was a Prosecutor against crimes committed during the 1994 Rwandan war. But. And here I tend to agree with the shtetl voices accusing Navi of bigotry and injustice. For heading a UN Commission of Inquiry that concluded Israel of committing genocide in Gaza. And for previously serving as a Judge at that bastion of ‘justice for all’, the International Criminal Court which later served arrest warrants for war crimes against Prime Minister Netanyahu and former Minister of Defense Yoav Gallant. Granted, not during her tenure but anyway kinda’ guilty by association – there’s a pun in there somewhere. Seriously. Am just so goldarn frustrated that now another anti-Israel voice will have its day on the international stage. To promote her version of ‘peace and international law’. And the beat goes on….
(Posted Oct. 12) Thirty-eight parties. That’s right. Thirty-eight political parties are running in this year’s national elections. Meshuga! Of course. The list includes those ‘far out’ groups, such as the Garden of Eden party or the Shema party or the Eternal Covenant party. All fringe messianic slates that don’t stand a chance of crossing Israel’s 3.25% electoral threshold. Thankfully. Of this very robust list there are about twelve ‘mainstream’ parties -yes, Israel has a very broad midsection- with a reasonable chance of winning a seat to Israel’s twenty-sixth Knesset. Compare this to Canada’s political map of sixteen national parties. That’s right. Sixteen parties. Meshuga! Of course. Surprising that stable, predictable and moderate Canada has so many political colors. Of this somewhat robust list there is but a handful of mainstream parties – a pretty narrow midsection. Back to thirty-eight and as the saying goes, ‘two Israelis three opinions’. With fifteen days remaining until election day. Let the mudslinging continue.
(Posted Oct. 8): The ‘negotiations’. And I use the term loosely. Between the U.S. and Iran. So goldarn random. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are playing a kind of remote game of rock, paper. Scissors. Just imagine them. President Trump for the U.S. And. Well. Someone for Iran. Hooked up via high security internet link. Throwing out their fists. Rock. Or paper. Or scissors. Lots of confidence, that.
(Posted Oct. 6): Commemorating Oct 7 2023
Shortly after that tragic day. Visiting the haunting display of despair and hope at Dizengoff Square. The wounds still raw. Was mainly despair. With only a glimmer of hope. Overcome by the collection of bloodied and blindfolded stuffed teddy bears strewn against the Agam Fountain.
Driving home afterwards. Two songs played on the radio. One after the other. As if the music score to a very sad movie. Even today, when hearing these songs. They conjure up memories of my mindset three years ago.
George Harrison’s ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’. “I look at the world / And I notice, it’s turning / With every mistake / We must surely be learning / Still my guitar gently weeps…”
Paul McCartney’s ‘Blackbird’. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these broken wings and learn to fly / You were only waiting for this moment to be free / Blackbird fly / Into the light of a dark black night…”
Always remembering. But looking forward.
(Posted Oct. 1): So my daughter told me about the new apartment rental she was considering for the upcoming academic year in Jerusalem. “Third floor. Three bedrooms for three roommates. Twenty minutes from the university. Close to the bus stop. Grocery store nearby.” She itemized. Then with her next breath, “Shetler in the next building.” Kinda’ took my breath away. Is that where we live? What we’ve become? What pre-occupies us? Yes. Yes. Yes.
Despite my recurring safe room musings. It still kinda’ shook my core. But once I regained my existential footing. I realized how lucky we are. We have a well-prepared wartime infrastructure. We are conscious of wartime safety and security. It’s become second nature. Even when choosing an apartment. Then I recalled how last year. When my daughter first moved to Jerusalem. I focused on the shelter thing. Even timed a dash to the nearest shelter. She cringed with embarrassment. As she does with much of what I do – dad stuff and I digress. Now here she is. One year later. Itemizing her well thought out considerations. Including the shelter. I guess she listens to me after all. Well…sometimes anyway.
(Posted Sept. 28) Caution. Caution. A very long muse ahead….
So Prime Minister Netanyahu made his fifteenth address at the United Nations General Assembly. I get excited with every speech. Preparing some lightly buttered popcorn and comfortably settling in front of the T.V. for some high-stakes geopolitical posturing. And this one didn’t miss the mark and the high bar Netanyahu sets for himself.
Liked when he referred to our ‘friends’ leaving the hall before he spoke. Asking. And smirking. At the beginning of his speech. If there are any other “moral cowards” who would like to leave. He could have said much worse.
Liked his strong defense against the acrimonious, hostile, and simply incorrect accusation of genocide. Insisting, with examples, of Israel being guilty of the opposite. Supplying a million polio vaccinations. Distributing two million tons of food. Providing warnings of pending attacks -leaflets, cellphone calls, ‘knocks on the roof’ (an IDF tactic of firing non-lethal projectiles towards roof tops as warning to noncombatants to evacuate before a pending airstrike)- in civilian areas where Hamas is inevitably hiding. Netanyahu also referenced Colonel John Spencer, head of Urban Warfare studies at West Point and the preeminent expert on, well, urban warfare. Who clearly defends Israel as having done more to prevent civilian casualties in war than any other military in history. That’s quite a claim! So yes. Israel can actually be guilty of ediconeg – the opposite of genocide.
Didn’t like Netanyahu’s Ben-Gviresque defense of violent West Bank settlers. Or is it Judea & Samaria. I admittedly struggle in geographically defining the area, I digress. And didn’t like him referring to these settlers as “juvenile delinquents”. They are much more than that! If not terrorists, they should at least be called -and treated- as violent criminals. I admittedly struggle with finding the appropriate label, again digressing. Overall, this struck me as pandering to his far-right electorate. Standing before the green marble wall of the UN podium…hmmm, not the most appropriate venue for local electioneering.
Didn’t like his beeper reference. While brilliant, the pager attack in Lebanon happened in Sept 2024. Was so taken aback by this reference that I fact checked the date between mouthfuls of popcorn. And Israel already took credit for this publicly and at several international forums. Just seemed a bit dated, forced and out of place.
Liked the swipe at our ‘friend’ Mamdani. On the podium of the U.N. in N.Y. No less!
Liked his call for Jews around the world to stand tall. “Raise your head high. Be proud. Be confident. Don’t be intimidated.” He admonished. Okay, confession time. I will not speak Hebrew with the wife when travelling overseas. Am a bit scared and maybe need to stand a bit taller. I digress.
Liked Netanyahu’s callout to the Iranian people. Declaring that “The power of the people will overcome the people in power.” Although he didn’t have to provide a public service announcement for Elon Musk’s Starlink, waving a Starlink device at the podium.
Didn’t like, as pointed out by the Jerusalem Post, that there was no complementary vision to his fiery, hardline and somewhat Sparta-like rhetoric. No mention of a more conciliatory, Athenia-like vision for the day after. Emphasizing Israel’s desire for peace and what it can and has offered the world.
Loved the overall theme. That Israel will survive. And thrive. Because, as he exclaimed several times, “We have no other choice!” This was based on a reference in his address to his older brother Yonathan Netanayhu who led the rescue at Entebbe in 1976 and was the only Israeli casualty. Netanyahu even thanked the Uganda government for recently erecting a statue dedicated to his brother. Thought this a nice, personal touch.
Loved Netanyahu’s passion. His fiery indignation echoing throughout his almost forty-minute speech. His fury at the goldarn outrageous, bigoted, noxious branding of Israel as ‘bad’ by much of the world’s useful idiots. Although should have channeled some of that ire to a more conciliatory day after vision.
Anyway. As for the United Nations. That bastion of partiality and moral cowardice. Think it should be renamed the United Naars. Again I digress.
(Posted Sept. 25) Looping back to an August 9 muse about my visit to Jerusalem’s Basimta Café and its dispute with the neighborhood ultra-orthodox for opening on Shabbat. Which I felt was a bit of a storm in a teacup as there wasn’t much protest action when I visited. But kerfuffles nonetheless. Unfortunately the café decided against remaining open on Shabbat. According to the café manager “…it will return to what it was intended to be: a calm, pleasant and open place for coffee, culture and dialogue.” As it turns out, the manager is also CEO of Jews for Jesus. Which is fine by me. Live and let live. But just wondering if this was also reason for the café brouhaha. As there are many other Jerusalem cafes open on Shabbat which the ultra-orthodox do not protest against. Not that I want to give anyone ideas. Just sayin’.
(Ed. note: Just to put Bruce’s latest musing in context, here again is what he wrote on August 9): August 8, 2026)
Outside Basimta Café in Central Jerusalem. Love the red shirt against a tiny sea of black. Not sure I am shrugging because of the ultra-orthodox uproar over a Jerusalem café operating on Shabbat or the lack of an ultra-orthodox uproar over a Jerusalem café operating on Shabbat. For the last six weeks Israeli headlines shouted about the cafe chaos. With the ultra-religious blocking entrances and storming the café. While shouting ‘Shabbos! Shabbos!’ Upsetting the secular amongst us just wanting to enjoy our Saturday iced matchas. So the wife and I thought we would check it out. And. Yes. Buy something to support the business. Uproar. Not. Blocked entrances. Not. Storming the café. Not. Albeit there were police barriers separating the devout protesters from the coffee drinkers. The protesters being just a few dozen black clad, pious Jews. Mostly teenagers. And yes. Shouting ‘Shabbos! Shabbos!’ Certainly underwhelming in its reported mayhem. Reminds me of the famous saying misattributed to Mark Twain – “If you don’t read the newspaper, you’re uninformed. If you do, you’re misinformed.” But I did enjoy my iced matcha.
(Posted Sept. 22) Admire him or despise him. Love him or hate him. Commend him or vilify him. Praise him or criticize him. Respect him or disdain him. Believe him or doubt him. Vote for him or not. However you perceive him. And whether you support him. Wishing Prime Minister Netanyahu a successful visit to New York and the U.N. And that we won’t have to send him a cake with a hacksaw baked inside. Mamdani… stand down!
(Posted Sept. 18) Just wonderin’. When a tree falls in a forest and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? And if Iran says it’s not enriching uranium and no one’s there to verify it, do they develop fissile material?
Now Iran just obtained a seat on the General Committee of the International Atomic Energy Agency’s General Conference – how crazy is that. Like letting the cat guard the milk.
(Posted Sept. 15) Apparently some superheroes are against us. But not really. Whewww!!! Fortunately it’s just the progressive actors who play them in movies. Such as Benedict Cumberbatch (Dr. Strange) and Mark Ruffalo (the Hulk) as well as other minor actors not worth mentioning. What are these misinformed thespians aligning themselves with. Not sure they really know. Well. It’s with The Freedom for Marwan campaign, which pushes for the release of convicted, arch-terrorist mastermind Marwan Barghouti. Convicted in 2004 and sentenced to five life sentences plus 40 years for orchestrating various heinous shooting sprees in Israel during the Second Intifada (2000-2005). Killing and wounding too many innocent Israeli civilians including a Greek Orthodox monk outside Jerusalem. As a comic book fan, and closet Batman and Aquaman (when I swim), it saddens me that these guardians of the universe can be associated with defending evil. But then I remind myself it’s only the actors -what do they know anyway- and not really the superheroes. Unlike our own Gal Gadot (Wonder Woman), Natalie Portman (the Mighty Thor), Shira Haas (Sabra) and Liev Schreiber (Sabretooth). All firmly on the side of good.
(Posted Sept 10) Honey cakes. Honey cakes. Honey cakes. It’s that time of year. Yummy! Here comes Rosh HaShana 5787. And its…. You guessed it. Honey cake season. That light brown loaf our baba used to make. Starting a few weeks before Rosh HaShana and extending through Yom Kippur – a first bite to break the fast and usher in a sweet year- honey cakes are found throughout the country. The familiar sight of the ready-made, pre-packaged, ‘assembly-line’ honey cakes wrapped in cheap cellophane found in Grocery stores. The freshly baked honey cakes adorning window displays at local bakeries. The exorbitantly priced, gourmet honey cake desserts offered at fancy Tel Aviv restaurants. And of course, honey cakes festooning the festive, colorful, Rosh Hashana dinner tables across Israel. I bake my own honey cake which is pretty good. My wife and kids would beg to differ. But these slightly glazed honey cakes -of my own culinary, shtetl inspired creation- are heartedly enjoyed by me as I gain several honey cake induced pounds. Shana tova!
(Posted Sept. 8) Hoarding. A combination of my own little wartime PTSD and some recent headlines about Iran trying to coordinate a multifront attack (is that capability still there?!) and October 7 like rumblings from the West Bank (or Judea & Samaria, depending if you wear a kippa and if its knitted and if it tilts to this side or that side -that’s a shtetl insider joke). I digress and Yikes! And we just had a nation-wide drill of the IDF’s top-level headquarters preparedness for such scenarios. Double Yikes! So ya. I’m always checking and rechecking that we have way more than enough of some things. The thought of entering another prolonged war and some stuff no longer available, even for a short time, scares the bejeebers out of me. Just writing about it triggers the ‘go and buy’ dopamine hit. Medications. Toilet paper. Bottled water. Canned goods. Also worried about the country running out of bullets. But I can’t hoard those.
(Posted Sept. 5) An open letter to the zany and zealous mouthpieces of those delightful, anti-Israel protests held regularly in Toronto. In the heavily Jewish Bathurst & Sheppard area no less. Fear and harassment in the community? Not by the hairs of our chinny chin chins.
Dear Friends.
Are you serious.
Sincerely,
Bruce Brown, a Zionist who does not rape children. Who does not murder children. Who does not eat children. And, get this, who lives in Israel.
(Ed. note: To better understand what Bruce is talking about, go to this story on our website: Police open hate-crime investigation)
(Posted Sept. 1) Can you be more of an international embarrassment and liability? Yes talking about Israeli’s antagonist extraordinaire and National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir.
Declaring that Israel should kill ’30-40 Gazans a day’. Seriously?!?! His actual statement may have been more refined and qualified. But it doesn’t really make a difference. That’s the takeaway. Like whose side is he on anyway. Talk about giving our detractors ammunition to delegitimize our little shtetl. Hello?!?!
And a few days later. Showing off in front of a gallows site under construction at a high security prison. Seriously?!?! The death penalty for terrorists. Right or not – I think the former. But like can you give us reason to be compared to an extremist state. That’s the takeaway. Like whose side is he on anyway. Talk about giving our detractors ammunition to delegitimize our little shtetl. Hello?!?!
Serenity now!
(Posted August 28) Kites. Color. Childhood. Hamas and friends should watch Mary Poppins with the final kite flying scene. Remember that song, Let’s Go Fly A Kite. Ya, I know. Somewhat ethnocentric. But still…. I have fond memories of flying kites with my kids. Down the Mediterranean shoreline in Tel Aviv. At the Ness Tziona kite flying festival. Along the green grounds of the Weizmann Institute. Laughing and running. Looking to the sky with awe. Multi-shades and fancy. Kites.
With your fist ‘olding tight
To the string of your kite
…oh, oh, oh!
Lets go fly a kite
Kites. Fun. Laughter. Innocence.
Kites. Not an instrument of war.
(Posted August 25) How principled can you be! Ireland -one of the most anti-Israel and foggiest countries in the EU- insisted that its government’s new, 60$M executive jet NOT be equipped with Elbit’s FalconEye navigation system, which helps pilots navigate in fog -how ironic- and other difficult weather conditions. Without this unique system the plane must be diverted to alternative airports. This a part of the government’s official boycott of Israeli goods. So good luck to Prime Minister Michael Martin in landing his aircraft in Dublin.
And despite some negative sentiment towards everything Israel, Elbit achieved over 32$B in backorders with Europe driving much of its export growth. On a more personal muse. The morning after Iran’s first attack on Israel (April 13 2024), I woke up not with fear and panic. Well. Okay. Some of that. But also great excitement regarding an investment opportunity which developed overnight. Actually it was the wife’s suggestion. After Israel successfully intercepted over three hundred missiles and drones – showcasing the strength of Israel’s defense industry- my wife had a eureka moment. What better public relations for Israel’s defense industry. Let’s buy stock in Elbit, a key player in that ecosystem. We did. And about eighteen months later we cashed in. With about 150% profit. This is not an endorsement to buy… blah, blah, blah….
Again. Good luck to Prime Minister Martin.
(Posted August 21) Sometimes musings are terribly sad. But should be shared.
Happy belated birthday beautiful Ariel. Turned seven on August 5th. Thought about him and his younger brother Kfir and mother Shiri. All murdered by Hamas shortly after their unbelievable and surreal abduction on Oct 7 2023.
As I was driving home today. “I Thank You Child” by Zakk Wylde shuffled onto my Spotify. Always kills me, this song. It was played by Yarden, the father who himself was held hostage, at the funeral of his family. For Ariel and Kfir. The lyrics chilling. The frequent drum rolls haunting.
It was you who made living all worth the while
Oh, I thank you, my child
Comfort in your eyes
For the warmth inside your smile
Faith’s done gone astray
It was you who made living all the while
All my fears repressed
Oh lovin’ you child it’s the best
This song. Written almost thirty years ago. Finds its devastating meaning today. With the Bibas family tragedy.
How.
Listen to the song here:
(Posted August 18, 2026) And the beat goes on in the strait. A bit quieter lately although may be heating up again with the 60day ‘ceasefire’ officially expired. And while Iran occasionally lashed out over the last two months, they did not attack Israel. How do you spell deterrence. According to my Yiddisha mama, its spelled ‘Pftt. Pftt. Pftt‘.
(August 14, 2026) Despite three years of varying degrees of warfare. Moody’s biannual report of the Israeli economy was quite positive. Basically, the report saw no pressures on Israel’s credit rating. While the macro data remains strong, Israel still faces a complex geopolitical situation further complicated by upcoming elections (we pondered about how crazy that is in an earlier muse). And Israeli’s inflation rate for the first half of 2026 fell to a historic five year low of 1.2% (vs Canada’s 2.6%). As for my own pocketbook. Haven’t had an infamous Israeli bank overdraft in years. So all is fine.
If that’s not enough economic voodoo talk for one musing. According to one famous barometer. Israel moved to second place in the Economist’s Big Mac Index. Introduced in 1986, this tasty indicator compares the purchasing power parity across countries by measuring the price of a McDonald’s Big Mac -which most can relate to- against the benchmark U.S. burger. So while a Big Mac in the U.S. costs $6.22. In Israel it costs $7.67, the second most expensive place to buy the hamburger in the world, Switzerland being the most pricey at a whopping (no reference to Wendy’s) $9.04. While the cheapest Big Mac can be enjoyed in Indonesia at only $2.38. Canada ranked 22nd of the fifty-four countries considered, at $5.85. Parity. Smarity. I’m going for my Big Mac fix. Just after I finish writing this muse….
(August 11, 2026) Bravo Boy George. We certainly will dance again! And what better way than with his new reggae tune. Now Boy George is dealing with a hostile backlash against his just stand for Israel. Having to withdraw from London’s East End production of Jesus Christ Superstar where he was going to play – guess it. King Herod. Never a big Culture Club fan, but I am anyway -as a sign of support- going to download his greatest hits to my Spotify library. And hoping to have a chance to buy a concert ticket should Boy George perform in Israel. Kind of reminds me of Bob Dylan’s 1983 song Neighborhood Bully. Also in defense of Israel. I’m going to download that song as well. Although don’t think he was hounded the way Boy George is now. Sign of the times I guess.
+++++
Coming clean. I sometimes find myself chanting, to no one in particular, that snappy little ditty ‘from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.’ Now why can’t we come up with something as catchy. With such an impressive gene pool of great Jewish songwriters. George Gershwin. Irving Berlin. Burt Bacharach. Carole King. Neil Diamond. Leanard Choen. Paul Simon. Gene Simmons, Amy Winehouse. Bob Dylan. And yes, even the Buddhist Boy George. And still… gurnish! No wonder we’re losing the global PR battle
(August 8, 2026) Outside Basimta Café in Central Jerusalem. Love the red shirt against a tiny sea of black. Not sure I am shrugging because of the ultra-orthodox uproar over a Jerusalem café operating on Shabbat or the lack of an ultra-orthodox uproar over a Jerusalem café operating on Shabbat. For the last six weeks Israeli headlines shouted about the cafe chaos. With the ultra-religious blocking entrances and storming the café. While shouting ‘Shabbos! Shabbos!’ Upsetting the secular amongst us just wanting to enjoy our Saturday iced matchas. So the wife and I thought we would check it out. And. Yes. Buy something to support the business. Uproar. Not. Blocked entrances. Not. Storming the café. Not. Albeit there were police barriers separating the devout protesters from the coffee drinkers. The protesters being just a few dozen black clad, pious Jews. Mostly teenagers. And yes. Shouting ‘Shabbos! Shabbos!’ Certainly underwhelming in its reported mayhem. Reminds me of the famous saying misattributed to Mark Twain – “If you don’t read the newspaper, you’re uninformed. If you do, you’re misinformed.” But I did enjoy my iced matcha.
(August 6, 2026) Here we go again. Another round of forever negotiations. As someone who negotiates for a living. The way things are going in the straits. If I had to recommend a book on the subject to a new hire. Between The Art of the Deal, A Presidential Edition by Donald J. Trump or The Real Art of the Deal by the Mullahs of Iran with a special forward by the IRGC. Well. I would choose the latter.
(August 3) Bravo Yoav Segalovitz, Liberal Yesh Atid MK and Monsour Abbas, United Arab Ra’am MK and party head. For breaking a glass ceiling where a Jewish lawmaker joins an Arab political party. No less a political earthquake in my little shtetl. Which can significantly impact coalition block arithmetic and posturing and strategy in the upcoming elections. Now Ra’am can be considered a legitimate ‘Zionist’ partner when forming coalition blocks and potentially pushing the ‘center left/right’ party over the 60 seat majority threshold. In our crazy parliamentary democracy defined by a multi-party (about fourteen!!), proportional representation system. To paraphrase Winston Churchill, Israel’s proportional representation model of governance is the best parliamentary democracy system except for all other forms of working democracies. Stay tuned for more amateurish political musings as we move towards Israel’s 26th national election – five of them held since 2019.
(August 1) Although both sides say they are open to diplomacy. Neither really trusts the other. And American military action, or its threat, continues. I read headlines in the middle of the night -it’s a nervous habit lately– that the Dynamic Duo of Trump and Netanyahu may again strike in unison. Possibly this weekend. Yikes! Prompting me, at 2:30 AM, to dash around the house stocking my safe room. Bottled water. Canned food. Medicines. Documents. The beat goes on….
If it’s crazy here. It’s insane in Italy. With a recent online ‘Jew Hunt’ in the Milan area. Before being removed, the digital forms urged reportings of Israelis and Italian Jews staying in local hotels. The infamous Global Sumud Movement -yes, the one coordinating ‘peace and humanitarian’ flotillas to Gaza- was somehow connected. Although they deny involvement?! This deranged decree was looking to identify Zionist tourism and Zionist neo-colonization in Italy. I’ll stick with stocking the saferoom.
Then there’s New York Mayor Mamdani, a Global Sumud Movement supporter, threatening to arrest Prime Minister Netanyahu if he comes to New York. But since discovered he has no legal right for such a grandstanding, antisemitic, anti-Israel, anti-Western, anti-democratic antic. Maybe Mandami should be arrested! Or at least impeached. For being a grandstanding, antisemitic, anti-Israel, anti-Western, anti-democratic mayor.
Here’s a post Bruce sent us Friday, July 31:
WARTIME MUSINGS
Should credible threats against FLOTUS and ‘FSOTUS’ (first son..) not be justification to attack first.
As for yesterday’s summit. Netanyahu really can’t win. Explainer. If Trump now attacks without victory its ’cause of Netanyahu. If Trump now attacks with victory its ’cause of Trump. And, in Israel, if Trump doesn’t attack -victory or not- Netanyahu failed in his eighth meeting with Trump. And if Trump does attack -victory or not- half the country will vilify Bibi anyway. Missing a permutation?
Ya. I know. Kinda’ need a definition of victory for that musing to work.
And here in my little shtetle. We go to sleep unsure if there will be a code red in the middle of the night. And if not. We wake up thinking it will be tonight. How do you define stress?
Seemed like an appropriate way to end this musing.
Bruce Brown is a former Winnipegger who made aliyah to Israel over 35 years ago. Bruce first began writing for us – in his own inimitable style, in 2012, during what was known as “Operation Pillar of Defense.” His occasional musings on aspects of life in Israel that were far from what you’d typically read in other reports from Israel were hugely popular – both in the print Jewish Post & News and on this website.
We’re now glad to report that Bruce is back writing for us – this time on a regular basis. We will post Bruce’s reports as they arrive – with the date of each post at the beginning of that post.
Here’s some information about Bruce – and awards he’s received for his writing:
Bruce Brown. Canadian born. Now living in Israel (for a long time). Bruce works in Israel’s hi-tech sector by day and, in spurts, is a somewhat inspired writer by night. He received the American Jewish Press Association’s award for writing excellence in 2019 and 2025. And wrote the1998 satire, “An Israeli is….”. Bruce’s visuals are AI-assisted and created with ChatGPT under his inimitable visual concept and creative direction. Bruce’s musings are political, social, economic and personal. With lots of biting, contrarian, sardonic, irreverent and mischievous insights.
Features
What Attachment Styles Can Reveal About Dating Habits
How many evenings with a stranger does it take before anything reliable is known about them? Most people answer with a number and then ignore their own answer. What actually gets measured across those evenings is the pattern each person carries into every new pairing, and that pattern has been studied under one name since 1987.
Attachment research began with infants and moved into adult romance almost by accident. It now supplies the best available vocabulary for a question most people ask eventually, which is why their dating life keeps taking the same shape.
A Newspaper Quiz in 1987
Cindy Hazan and Phillip Shaver tested a hunch in 1987 by publishing a quiz in the Rocky Mountain News asking readers about their romantic history. They received 620 replies. Roughly 56% of respondents described themselves in secure terms, about 25% in avoidant terms and around 19% in anxious terms.
Those proportions were close to what Mary Ainsworth had recorded in infants decades earlier. A distribution found in toddlers separated from a parent for 3 minutes in a laboratory had turned up again in adults describing love affairs, and that correspondence is what made the field take notice.
The method had obvious weaknesses. Newspaper readers who answer a quiz about their love lives are not a random sample, and every answer was self-reported by people describing their own behavior in the most favorable terms available. Later work with better samples moved the numbers around without dislodging the structure, and the structure is what has lasted.
Two Axes and Four Positions
Two questions turned out to organize the whole field. Does a person hold a positive or negative view of themselves, and do they hold a positive or negative view of other people? Kim Bartholomew and Leonard Horowitz built their 1991 model on exactly that pair.
Crossing those axes produces 4 positions. Secure covers positive views of both. Preoccupied means a negative view of self with a positive view of others, which produces someone who wants closeness and doubts they deserve it. Dismissing means the reverse, a positive self-view paired with low expectations of anyone else. Fearful covers negative views on both axes, which produces wanting closeness and distrusting it at the same time.
Two axes beat a list of 3 types, because the axes explain why 2 people who both avoid intimacy can look nothing alike in practice.
Pacing and the First Month
There is no fixed amount of dates that settles the question of compatibility, and attachment position changes how quickly a person believes they have settled it. Secure people tend to form an assessment gradually and revise it when new information arrives.
Preoccupied people often decide fast and commit to the decision before it is warranted. Dismissing people frequently take longer and still leave with less, since their default is to withhold the information that would let anyone assess them back.
Separating the decision from the feeling by a fixed interval helps the first group. Deciding after a set number of meetings rather than after a strong evening will not make the assessment more accurate. It removes the largest single source of error, which is a conclusion reached inside the honeymoon phase while everything still looks promising.
Hyperactivation and Deactivation
The mechanism underneath all of this has 2 modes. Anxious patterns run on hyperactivation, which means turning up the volume on distress to draw a partner closer. Avoidant patterns run on deactivation, which means suppressing the signal entirely to keep distance manageable.
In early dating this shows up in small behaviors. Hyperactivation shows up as checking your phone every few minutes after an unanswered message, and as the escalation of a minor scheduling conflict into something larger. Researchers call the wider category protest behavior, and it covers everything from pointed silence to deliberately provoking a reaction. Deactivation produces the pleasant evening that goes nowhere and the topic changed each time a real question arrives.
Both patterns are attempts to manage the same discomfort, pointed in opposite directions. The deactivating version accounts for most of what people mean when they call someone emotionally unavailable.
The Anxious-Avoidant Loop
The most documented pairing in the literature puts a hyperactivating person with a deactivating one. Fearful-avoidant attachment complicates the picture further, since one person can run both strategies in sequence and produce the same loop without a partner’s help. Each strategy strengthens the other. Pursuit triggers withdrawal, withdrawal triggers more pursuit, and the loop holds steady for years because neither person is doing anything the other did not provoke.
The reason this pairing is so common is easy to miss. To someone whose nervous system learned early to associate intensity with love, a secure partner can feel flat. The anxious-avoidant cycle produces intensity on demand.
Positions Move
Attachment position is a tendency, and tendencies move. Positions change across the lifespan with relationships, therapy and circumstance, and a single difficult partner can push someone temporarily toward a pattern that is not their baseline.
That matters for how any of this gets applied. A person behaving in a preoccupied way with one partner may be entirely secure with the next, so the category describes the current pairing as much as the individual in it.
It also rules out the most common misuse of the framework, which is deciding early that a new person is avoidant and treating every subsequent behavior as confirmation. Two quiet weeks can mean an avoidant pattern, a demanding job, a sick parent or ordinary early caution, and the categories offer no way to tell those apart from the outside.
Reading the Categories Correctly
There is one more thing the framework cannot do, and it is the thing people most want from it. Nothing in attachment theory tells anyone which partner to choose. It describes how a person is likely to behave once the choosing is over and the uncertainty starts, which is a different and much smaller claim than the one made by most of the writing built on top of it.
An attachment style is a description of a habit. It names what someone tends to do when closeness is on offer and they are uncertain about it, and nothing in the framework predicts what any specific person will do on any specific evening.
Used that way the idea is genuinely worth having. A person who knows their own pattern can catch it while it is running, and a pattern caught mid-run is the only kind that can be interrupted. Noticing that you commit early and regret it a month later teaches you more than any number of verdicts about the people you committed to.
Uncategorized
Four Seats or No Seats? Why Israel’s Final Polls Disagree Over Amcha Yisrael
Conflicting projections for Ofer Winter’s party illustrate the uncertainty of measuring public support near an electoral threshold.
A Channel 12 poll gives Ofer Winter’s Amcha Yisrael four parliamentary seats.
An i24NEWS survey reaches the same seat total.
Other final polls find that the party does not qualify for representation.
How can surveys conducted close to the same election produce such different results?
The answer lies partly in the difference between measuring a vote share and converting it into parliamentary seats.
A Statistical Boundary
Israel’s electoral threshold is 3.25 percent.
For a party receiving substantially more than that percentage, modest sampling fluctuations may change its expected number of seats without calling its parliamentary presence into question.
For a party whose support lies near 3.25 percent, the same type of fluctuation may change its projected representation from several seats to zero.
This does not necessarily mean the polls are measuring completely different political realities.
They may be producing estimates close to the same threshold but on opposite sides of it.
Sample Size Is Only One Factor
The i24NEWS survey conducted on October 22 included 5,124 adult respondents and reported a sampling error of plus or minus 1.4 percentage points at the 95 percent confidence level.
That is a substantial sample by conventional political polling standards.
But a larger sample does not eliminate every source of uncertainty.
Different pollsters may employ different recruitment methods, weighting systems and procedures for estimating turnout.
They may also differ in how they handle respondents who are undecided or reluctant to state their preferences.
These choices can matter particularly for smaller parties.
The Problem of Turnout
Opinion polls generally estimate voting preferences before actual voting takes place.
Election results reflect the ballots cast by people who participate.
Differences between intended and actual turnout can affect parties in different ways.
Analysts must therefore consider not only how many respondents express support for a party, but also whether the poll’s turnout model accurately reflects the eventual electorate.
Without transparent, comparable information about the methods used by each polling organization, it is difficult to identify which methodological difference is responsible for a particular disagreement.
Reading the Final Surveys
The appropriate interpretation of Amcha Yisrael’s polling is neither that its parliamentary representation is guaranteed nor that exclusion is certain.
The available surveys demonstrate uncertainty around a legally decisive boundary.
The four-seat projections reported by Channel 12 and i24NEWS are meaningful observations.
So are the below-threshold findings published by Channel 13, Maariv and Zman Yisrael.
Each survey is a measurement of electoral intentions under a particular methodology, not a count of actual votes.
For readers following Israel’s election, this makes Amcha Yisrael an instructive case study in how polling uncertainty interacts with electoral law.
The final result will provide the definitive seat allocation. The polls explain why the outcome was difficult to measure in advance.
