Features
What’s with the Jews of Winnipeg and psychiatry?
By GERRY POSNER As I was reading through the book “Healing Lives” by Eva Wiseman, one section grabbed my attention and indeed one line in particular on page 424. It seems that as many as 20 percent of the Jewish medical graduates from the Faculty of Medicine in Manitoba went into psychiatry. That means one out of every five chose this area to pursue a career. How unusual is that? Or is it?
What was the attraction of these students to psychiatry? What was wrong with cardiology, rheumatology, or any of the myriad of other “ologies” available? There had to be an explanation somewhere.
The first thing to do was to identify just who these people were. In Eva’s book she lists the following names of those who qualified for inclusion in her book as they had practiced at least five years in the Province of Manitoba, categorizing them by gender: In no particular order, the males named were: Harvey Chochinov, Philip Katz, Bill Bebchuk, Harry Prosen, John Matas, Lawrence Katz, Will Fleisher, Murray Stein, Manny Matas, Neil Mowchun, Michael Eleff, Stanley Yaren, Dane Hershberg, Mark Lander, Fred Shane, Robert Steinberg, Murray Schacter, Gary Altman, Shalom Coodin, Mark Etkin, Daniel Globerman, Steven Kremer, Mathew Lander, Sam Lazareck, Louis Ludwig, Brian Malchy, Joshua Nepon, Eytan Perl, Jack Perlov, Mark Prober, Jeffrey Reiss, Jeremy Sawyer, Leonard Schwartz, Jose Stelzer, Max Sucharov, Simon Trepel, Eric Vickar, Jeff Waldman, Eric Vickar and Ken Zimmer.
The females were: Sheila Cantor, Marcia Fleisher, Adrian Kettner, Alla Kirshner, Cara Kroft, Gail Lavitt, Debra Lander, Mirtha Lopez-Fisher, Sara Rusen, Fran Steinberg, and Rivian Weinerman.
But then there are the many Jewish individuals who left Manitoba after graduating here and who entered the field of Psychiatry. Try these names out for size. In alphabetical order they are: Howard Book, Ron Braunstein, Ed Brown, Cliff Corman, Len Elkin, Richard Finkel, Paul Garfinkel, Richard Hershberg, Mayer Hoffer, David Klass, Molyn Leszcz, Len Leven, Morton Menuck, Sam Ozersky, Richard Popeski, Mel Prosen, Paul Remis, Barry Richmond, Gary Rodin, Richard Stall, Irv Tessler, and Sheldon Zipursky. There are no doubt more than that and I hope this article might draw some more names out. What all these names had in common was that they were Jewish men who graduated Medical School in Manitoba and who later entered Psychiatry. There had to be a reason for it or maybe more than one.
Of course, the usual line you hear is along the lines of “I could not stand the sight of blood so that eliminated most of the rest of the areas of medicine and thus psychiatry seemed clean and clear of that issue”. I pay little attention to that possibility. There may have been a handful like Morton Menuck who would say that psychiatry was his destiny. It seems doubtful to me that this was true for very many on this list of names. The best way to get an answer, if any, was to ask a bunch of them. And I did. The answers were all over the lot. I refer to some of these responses below.
For Harry Prosen, he made a kind of history as he was likely only the second Jew in Manitoba to become a psychiatrist, following in the footsteps of John Matas. And clearly he was a success at it, not for just himself, but in assisting others. For a few, psychiatry was not the first choice but always lingered in the background. That background was often highlighted by the presence of a mentor of sorts, the way Harry Prosen was for Mark Prober. Prober actually did a few years in internal medicine but Prosen’s “probing” and Mark’s wife, Marilyn’s pushing, ultimately tilted Mark Prober into psychiatry. He says it was the best move he made short of marrying Marilyn.
For David Klass, it was just this: “My reason: upon crossing the US-Canada border on my way to an internal medicine residency I heard something like a voice saying ‘you should be a psychiatrist’. Since I seem to be somewhat impressionable I took that directive and completed the first year of internal medicine and became a psychiatrist.“
There were some who said that it satisfied a parental inclination. Some parents and indeed some in this physician group were of the belief that psychiatrists and psychoanalyst were God-like figures whose abilities allowed them to help mankind. And then there were those that felt there was a deeper meaning in a behaviour or words, even from the most banal dinner conversation. Was that a Jewish quality per se? I doubt the answer can be known, but I would be willing to put some money on that desire to self- examine as being a particularly Jewish characteristic and a trigger for Jews to enter into psychiatry. Perhaps status had some influence on a few as there is an aura about the psychiatric field.
When I interviewed Molyn Leszcz recently for a previous article he provided me with some other possible reasons for the rush into psychiatry by Jewish boys. He wrote to me with the following possibilities:
• “Lots of immigrant children; some were children of survivors – hence an impetus for education and then medicine; psychiatry aligns with the Jewish tradition of applied wisdom to deepen understanding, recognizing the complexity of behaviour – viz. the Talmudic approach of “on the one hand and on the other”.
• Rabbis were the first psychiatrists and our tradition has long recognized the presence of depression and the need for support from the community – many rabbis are pastoral counsellors and many psychiatrists incorporate spiritual approaches – there is a long intertwining – I used to joke with my late father-in-law Rabbi Rappaport z”l that we would be happy to switch professions.
• Our Winnipeg communities were small and insular; you needed to belong/fit in and – hence the further interest in human behaviour.
• What is well documented at large is the pursuit of mental health training as a way to continue a healing process – at one end – Tikun Olam and at the other end, the “wounded Healer” whose work is to continue a reparative process from early life in an adaptive response to family illness, trauma and suffering – viz the immigrant/survivor story. “
Ron Charach offered that he was attracted to psychiatry from his own personal involvement with the late Dr. Philip Katz, of whom he spoke in glowing terms, even referring to him as the original Dr. Phil (although these days that might not be so complimentary). And he made this other salient observation:
“Whether or not we had Holocaust survivor parents, many of us had relatives with some degree of emotional disorder; often these were our favourite relatives! The very presence of such people in your family tree often bequeaths on to you a high level of sensitivity (as a psychiatrist/poet I have an unlisted-number amount of sensitivity,) which can make you very good at empathizing with the tsuris of others. It certainly heightens your awareness of other people’s emotional issues, just as you are all too aware of your own.”
Paul Remis observed that he entered medicine initially in part because of his close attachment to three friends: Morton Stall, Sam Corman and Arnold Popeski, all of whom along with Remis were to be in the same class in medicine at the University of Manitoba in the fall of 1963. Sadly, Corman and Stall were killed in a car accident in June of that year. Remis graduated, was uncertain where to go and ended up in Africa working there before concluding psychiatry was for him – a very personal choice and indeed almost in opposition to his family. What really struck home with Remis and linked him to his three buddies and psychiatry was that all three had younger brothers: Richard Popeski, Richard Stall and Cliff Corman, all of whom chose psychiatry as their specialty.
In the end, nobody knows for sure what made so many Winnipeg men pick psychiatry. Let’s be clear that there was nothing in the water in Winnipeg that caused it. But let’s also be clear that I could not write this same article about nephrology.
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.