In Vancouver, on the evening of Nov. 10, the Canadian Shaare Zedek Hospital Foundation will present Voices of Resilience, featuring Prof. Ofer Merin, director general of Shaare Zedek Medical Centre, and Glenn Cohen, former Mossad psychologist and hostage negotiator. Part of a national tour, the event aims to shed light on the experiences and insights following the tragic events of Oct. 7, 2023.
Prof. Ofer Merin, director general of Shaare Zedek Medical Centre. (photo from CSZHF)
Merin completed his fellowship in adult cardiac surgery at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto. Upon returning to Israel, he became a pivotal member of the Shaare Zedek team, where he now serves as director general. A colonel in the Israel Defence Forces, Merin has led numerous humanitarian efforts and, as of Oct. 7, 2023, has headed a medical intelligence committee that plays a role in assessing the hostage situation in Gaza.
Glenn Cohen, former Mossad psychologist and hostage negotiator. (photo from CSZHF)
Cohen has served as an air force pilot, Mossad officer, hostage negotiator and special forces psychologist for more than 30 years. Retiring with the rank of colonel and chief of psychology in Mossad, he now trains organizations worldwide using a methodology he developed. During the war that followed Oct. 7, Cohen has served more than 100 days to date in reserve duty, providing critical debriefing for the released hostages.
All proceeds from Voices of Resilience will go to the Healing Minds Campaign, which focuses on extending the mental health support available at Shaare Zedek Medical Centre. This initiative provides specialized training in therapy, post-traumatic stress disorder counseling, psychotherapy and other services for those affected by the Oct. 7 attacks. The centre hopes to increase their mental health team from 14 to 42 professionals to meet the overwhelming demand, an increase that would require $1.6 million Cdn for medical and para-medical training, as well as ongoing staffing costs.
To date, Shaare Zedek has treated more than 700 individuals, primarily IDF soldiers, with injuries ranging from minor to life-threatening. Nearly every patient presents signs of mental trauma, whether immediately or in the weeks following hospitalization. Many young patients have been exposed to traumatic battlefield conditions and the loss of life. Even those who initially report limited emotional impact often show symptoms later. To address this, Shaare Zedek has created a comprehensive emotional trauma care service. Every patient admitted for war-related injuries is evaluated by the psychiatry team, they are monitored throughout their stay and receive counseling prior to discharge, with follow-up care recommendations.
To attend Voices of Resilience in Vancouver on Nov. 10, 7 p.m., visit linktr.ee/voicesofresilience2024. Tickets are $18 ($72 for the VIP meet-and-greet). The location will be provided to registrants closer to the event date.
– Courtesy Canadian Shaare Zedek Hospital Foundation
Oct. 7 survivors Sharon Shabo, left, and Avida Bachar lead Team Israel-Premier Tech riders in the team’s final training session before the Tour de France started on June 29 in Florence, Italy. (photo by Noa Arnon)
Three injured heroes from the Oct. 7 Hamas terror attacks came to support Team Israel-Premier Tech at the Tour de France. As well, they held signs bearing the names of hostages, some of whom are their close friends, and called for their release. Alongside them stood Israel-Premier Tech owners Sylvan Adams and Ron Baron.
“My friends from the kibbutz are suffering there. We can’t wait another moment,” said Avida Bachar. He lost his son and wife, who were murdered in their shelter in Be’eri on the morning of Oct. 7, while he himself was severely injured and lost his leg. Despite adapting to his prosthetic, Bachar insisted on riding his bike for the first time since his injury to lead the Israeli team in their final training session. “It was an immense moment, one of the most emotional of my life,” he said.
Joining Bachar was his good friend Sharon Shabo, who was seriously injured in a Hamas ambush on the morning of Oct. 7 while riding his bike, and 20-year-old Oded Gelbstein, a young combat engineer soldier who was critically wounded in Gaza and is currently undergoing rehabilitation in Florence.
“Avida and Sharon will be our great inspiration at the Tour de France,” said Adams to the team riders before the race started.
The Tour de France lasts three weeks, during which the riders cycle more than 3,400 kilometres. Twenty-two teams are taking part in the 21-stage race, which culminates in Nice, France, on July 21.
I am sorry that I could not join you in person for safety reasons, but I thank the organizers for sharing a few words on my behalf.
My heart has been with all of you these past five months. I join you in seeking release of the hostages now. I join you in seeking peace – peace for the Palestinians – peace for Israelis – peace for us all.
I am told the theme for this week is resilience and so I have spent the last few days reflecting on my own resilience – as the lone voice in government speaking up for the Jewish community and how difficult it had become while others remained silent. I also focused on how much more difficult it became after I was forced to resign, feeling punished for speaking up about Jew-hatred.
I reflected on where the strength, the koach came from to persist, when it would have been so much easier to be silent, to fade into the background, to go along with the others and to pretend that everything was okay.
So, from where do I draw the strength?
It comes from different places:
A husband outraged that his wife is poorly treated by her colleagues, forced from a role she loves and who now keeps a baseball bat in the bedroom because others are threatening her life.
A son who stopped going to his gym shortly after the massacre on Oct. 7 because the Port Moody gym owner and city councillor decided that putting up a large Palestinian flag in her gym demonstrating to the world that she suddenly cares so deeply about a complex geopolitical conflict thousands of miles away is more important than the hurt this causes friends, colleagues, and customers.
A daughter who now must find significant financial resources to make sure the Jewish children in her care are safe this summer.
My strength has also come from:
The two Jewish professional women who, as a requirement of their jobs, came to hear the Throne Speech at the Legislature in February. They were forced to find a safe route into the building as there were dozens of protesters aggressively calling for a unilateral ceasefire and the destruction of Jews.
The physicians who refuse to train Jew-hating UBC medical students.
The teachers who organize to push back on the Jew-hatred we are seeing in the [BC Teachers’ Federation].
The people working in the public service who are telling their stories of intimidation like being told that their Jewish star necklace is a symbol of genocide.
Resilience for me comes from the countless stories from people who talk about being fearful at work, from Holocaust survivors who say, “It’s happening again.”
Resilience comes from Jewish community leaders and volunteers who are doing everything they can to keep programs running, to push government to do the right thing, to care for their congregants who are scared and worried, and who lead by example.
Resilience comes from the emails and letters from hundreds of people, Jewish and non-Jewish alike, who remind me that even though I felt alone in my caucus and in government, I was not alone. I am not alone. We are not alone. Many were seeing what I was seeing, what we are seeing and are prepared to stand up to Jew-hatred.
Resilience comes from reaching out to others who are hurting too and finding out that they want to help heal our wounds together.
Resilience comes from seeing the Oct. 7 survivors of rape and torture pick up the pieces of their lives. It comes from seeing Israelis gather once again to protest their government. It comes from so many of you who have reached out with words of support, encouragement, and love.
Resilience comes from us gathering our collective strength as we lift each other up and remind ourselves that we are not alone – that together we will find the strength – the strength to bring peace.
Bassem Eid, right,addresses those who gathered Feb. 4 for the event United, as fellow speakers Virág Gulyás, left, and Yuval David listen. (photo by Pat Johnson)
Yuval David knew 32 people who were murdered on Oct. 7. Among them were 10 friends who gathered to celebrate a birthday and headed to the Nova music festival.
“All 10 …” he said, struggling to maintain his composure. “Not one made it out of that celebration.”
David was speaking Sunday night at United, one of the largest community gatherings since the events of Oct. 7 and probably since before the pandemic. About 800 people gathered at Temple Sholom, where three diverse speakers brought their perspectives to an audience of Jews and non-Jewish allies.
The Feb. 4 afternoon event was the brainchild of Megan Laskin, a community leader who organized a similar event last November geared to women, who were asked to bring their non-Jewish friends; hundreds attended. Sunday’s gathering was presented by Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver, Jewish National Fund of Canada, StandWithUs and Temple Sholom. David, an American actor, filmmaker and activist, who is gay, was joined by Palestinian advocate and media commentator Bassem Eid, and Virág Gulyás, a Hungarian-born former diplomat who grew up with what she described as typical antisemitic stereotypes and has become a leading voice for the Jewish people and Israel. The audience alternated from rapt silence to thunderous ovations.
Since Oct. 7, David has been thinking about his grandparents, Holocaust survivors who saved others in the camps. His grandfather was known as the “Magic Man” for somehow obtaining desperately necessary medications and helping others out of life-threatening scenarios.
“When I was a little child in Israel, I couldn’t walk more than a few steps with them in public without somebody rushing up not only to them but to me, to say, ‘Do you know who your grandfather is? Do you know who your grandmother is?’ And they would lean down to me and they would say, ‘If it wasn’t for what your grandparents did, I would not be here today,’” he said. “As a little child, holding their hand, walking in the street, I knew that I was walking with heroes. I knew that I was walking in the footsteps that I must walk someday.”
His grandparents instilled chutzpah in him, he said, for precisely this moment in history.
“I was raised to understand what it means to have chutzpah because I was raised to understand what it means to not have chutzpah,” he said. “I was raised to understand what ‘never again’ actually means.”
His worldview and his Zionism were reframed by Oct. 7, he said.
“But it was also reframed by Oct. 8,” he said, referring to global reaction to the events of the day before. Not only did he lose friends on Oct. 7 and others who have died in battle during the war, but another friend, who survived the Nova festival, recently committed suicide because she could not live with the memories. Closer to home, in a different way, he says he has lost most of his friends in the United States.
“I also lost two-thirds of my friends in my life in America who revealed themselves,” he said. “Revealed that they were not my true friends, revealed that even though they came to my Shabbat dinners and they came to my film screenings and they were plus-ones at fabulous events, especially if they were gift bags … crickets. Where are they?”
Some even sent him photographs of themselves protesting against Israel.
“These aren’t pro-Palestinian marches,” he said. “Whoever calls them pro-Palestinian marches is a liar. These are pro-Hamas, pro-terrorism, anti-Palestinian, anti-Jewish and anti-democratic events, he said.
“I used to be woke,” he said of his years as a progressive activist. “Now I’m awake.” He calls his former allies who condemn Israel and side with Hamas “fauxgressives.”
“If you are going to be ‘pro,’” he said, “then do something good for the people. If you are pro-Palestinian, help create businesses, help create schools, help refugees – do something that helps somebody’s life. But, if all of your fake ‘pro’ activity is to be ‘anti,’ is attacking, is subjugating, is belittling, then you are a racist bigot. Shame. We must name and shame.”
Gulyás is an academic and former European Union diplomat who devotes much of her time contesting anti-Israel and antisemitic narratives. She spoke of how she confronted the anti-Jewish biases she was raised with in Hungary. She noted that anti-Israel street eruptions began on Oct. 8, before Israel’s military had responded to the pogrom – worldwide, she said, activists were prepared.
“They had all the slogans, all the flyers, all the social media posts, all the hashtags ready,” she said. On the other hand, most Canadians and others in the West do not subscribe to the hatred and anti-Israel vehemence seen on the streets, yet remain silent.
Would large numbers of people have reacted as street activists and social media keyboard warriors have if any other sovereign country were invaded by terrorists with the intention to mass murder, she asked.
“Unless you’re a psychopath, you wouldn’t,” she said. “But, somehow, when it comes to Jews and Israel, we remain silent, we look at the other side and with this we normalize Jew-hatred.”
Eid is a rare Palestinian voice in international media against the defamation of Israel and the corruption and ideology of the Palestinian regimes. He shared a story of a friend who lives in the northern Gaza Strip, who told Eid that Hamas representatives knocked on his door at night. They told him they wanted to pay him $50 a month – a windfall – to build tunnels under his home. Eid asked him how he replied to the request.
“He said, ‘My answer was, “Please try to build four tunnels and give me $200 a month,’” Eid recounted. This is how Hamas exploits the poverty of its people to meet its objectives, he said.
The high Palestinian death toll, Eid told the audience, is due partly to Hamas officers forcing civilians back into the homes and neighbourhoods the Israel Defence Forces has warned them to evacuate.
At the expense of millions of dollars in foreign aid, Hamas has built hundreds of kilometres of terror tunnels, he said. “But, in the meantime, Hamas didn’t build one shelter for their own people.”
When you ask Hamas why they don’t protect their people, Eid said, they reply that keeping Palestinians safe is the responsibility of the United Nations and the Israelis.
Eid blamed the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA), which has recently been under fire for its employees’ involvement in terrorism, for holding Palestinians hostage for more than 75 years.
“Peace is possible between the Israelis and the Palestinians,” said Eid. “But it is impossible while Hamas is still ruling the Gaza Strip. This is the first thing that we should have to get rid of. The day after the war, the first thing is how to trash UNRWA from Gaza.”
Temple Sholom’s Rabbi Dan Moskovitz opened the event. Laskin, who conceived the event, spoke of the grief of this time.
“As the war goes on and more innocent lives are lost on both sides, it is hard,” she said. “But let me be clear. We can strongly support Israel and the Jewish people and also express sympathy for the innocent Palestinians who are suffering. They are not mutually exclusive. We are mourning for all innocent lives lost. You can take a side though, and that side is against Hamas.”
Rabbi Dr. Tirzah Firestone spoke in a Zoom webinar hosted by Victoria’s Kolot Mayim Reform Temple on Jan. 14. (PR photo)
Rabbi Dr. Tirzah Firestone unraveled intergenerational trauma, and offered solutions to help remedy it, in a Zoom webinar hosted by Victoria’s Kolot Mayim Reform Temple on Jan. 14. Firestone, the author of the award-winning 2019 book Wounds into Wisdom: Healing Intergenerational Jewish Trauma, is a Jungian psychotherapist and a leader in the Jewish Renewal movement.
“When I was first approached by Kolot Mayim last year to present this talk, nobody had any idea of the life-changing events that we would be experiencing,” Firestone began, acknowledging the geopolitical developments on and after Oct. 7. “Nor did I ever fathom when I wrote Wounds into Wisdom that it would be so very painfully relevant today in the midst of historical traumas in the making.”
An objective of the January talk was to address traumas experienced by one’s ancestors that get transmitted onto future generations in the form of fears, anxieties and hopelessness. Firestone’s goal is to help current generations “metabolize life better” so that the damaging psychological effects of trauma are not extended to future generations. In other words, those who come after should experience life from a position of resilience and hopefulness.
Firestone, who currently lives in Boulder, Colo., spoke about her own parents, who were deeply impacted by the Shoah – her mother as a German survivor and her father as an American soldier stationed in Germany.
“The past does not disappear. The painful histories our ancestors endured, along with their warmth, resilience and all their good resources, are intertwined within us, both psycho-spiritually as well as physically and physiologically,” said Firestone. “And they create the patterns of who we are and who we are becoming.”
Along these lines, the pain from trauma can be unspoken over the course of generations, yet becomes part of the individual nonetheless. Or, as in a quote from Israeli psychologist Dan Bar-On, cited by Firestone: “Untold stories often pass on more powerfully from generation to generation than stories that can be recounted.”
Ongoing patterns, whether ones of heroism and activism or depression and anxiety,are transmitted across generations.A young woman Firestone worked with, for example, became an activist, not knowing it ran in the family – her grandmother and great-aunt, neither of whom she had ever met, were rebels in their shtetl decades earlier.
Another example involved a woman whose very first memories as a young child were nightmares. One night, she explained to her concerned mother why she would wake up crying so often. The image in the young child’s mind was of an old wooden town where a man at the train station would jump from the platform to the train tracks. The man would run along the tracks yelling, “Stop! Stop!”The train would go on with the young man unable to catch it.
When the mother heard her child’s story, she cried and asked in disbelief, “How could you possibly have known this?” It was the story of the child’s grandfather who, in the Second World War, found out belatedly that Jews in his town, including his young family, had been rounded up and deported by train. He ran after the train, but never caught up and never saw his family again. The man survived the Holocaust and started a new life and family in the United States.
Traumas can happen collectively.Firestone noted that Israeli journalist Chemi Shalev wrote, “I am a Jew, and there are scenes of the Holocaust that are indelibly etched in my mind, even though I was not alive at the time.”
Firestone also outlined research conducted by Rachel Yehuda of New York’s Mount Sinai Hospital, which showed that the children of Holocaust survivors were three times more likely to develop post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms when exposed to traumatic events than the children of other Jews.
In the latter part of her talk, Firestone focused on what can be done towards healing trauma. Every family has its own ruptures and resources, no matter who or where it is, she said. Whether through intelligence, resilience or good fortune, every family today is a survivor. Thus, she asked, “What family resources can you tap to assist you in this current moment in history?”
Among some of the keys she highlighted for healing trauma, and which are discussed in greater depth in her book, is being aware of family legacies. This awareness, she asserts, will hinder the transmission of trauma to succeeding generations.
Another is to face one’s losses. “When we face our grief, we can start to feel our grief. When we don’t feel our grief, it becomes pathogenic. It makes disease on the inside of us,” she said.
A third technique for healing, according to Firestone, is “to harness the power of one’s pain.” That is, one can use the tremendous power contained in pain to bring on more destruction and further pain or to bring light, warmth and hope.
Firestone advised taking action. Here she employed a saying from Midrash: “Had I not fallen, I would not have arisen. Had I not been subject to darkness, I would not have seen the light.”
In concluding her remarks, Firestone said, “We have a mandate to draw on our ancestors’ greatest traits – their survival skills, their courage, their ingenuity – to apply to circumstances now. There are so many people who are suffering. What can we do from our own pain by harnessing its power and going places that we could not have gone before we endured [it]?”
For more on Firestone and her writings and ideas, visit tirzahfirestone.com.
To register for future Kolot Mayim speaker series Zooms, the next of which takes place Feb. 4, click here.
Sam Margolishas written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.
A family fleeing war, aided by acquaintances from a lifetime of hospitality. A person’s choice to be the light in a dark world after a loved one was murdered. The creation of a vital medical resource as a tribute to a father who died too young. These three stories were shared at the event A Night of Hope, which was held at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver Nov. 30. The three stories of resilience were intended to give hope in response to the trauma Jews worldwide have experienced since Oct. 7.
Rabbi Susan Tendler, spiritual leader of Beth Tikvah Congregation in Richmond, shared “the unlikely story” of how she became a rabbi, in part because of the trauma of having experienced the murder of a loved one.
In the year 2000, she recalled, “I was living my best life.” She thought she knew who she would marry, she had a dream job as a teacher in Israel and was planning on making aliyah.
Rabbi Susan Tendler (photo by Pat Johnson)
“I returned to the United States to get my affairs in order before making the big move as the Second Intifada broke out,” she said. Global conflict was compounded in the personal realm when her engagement was broken off. With foreign students avoiding Israel, her job was suddenly eliminated. Things began looking up, though, when she met Mike, “who showed me what partnership might look like.”
“And then, one night, he was brutally murdered,” she said. Five young men, joyriding, had crashed a car and needed another vehicle.
“They came upon Mike and murdered him, not even for his wallet. Just for fun,” Tendler said. “Just to take his car a few miles down the road before they ditched it.”
The murder plummeted her into depths of darkness.
“I couldn’t understand how such palpable evil could exist in the world,” she recalled. “How could a human being, created in the image of the divine, not understand life as sacred? What were the lives of those individuals that they didn’t hold this basic value as truth? And, by doing so, those five young men took the sanctity out of this world for me, for Mike’s family and his friends. I really didn’t care to live in a world with such sheer evil. It wasn’t that I was suicidal – I knew the difference and I wasn’t – I just really didn’t care to live or to die.”
She cited the Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai, who wrote that the Jewish people are “infected with hope.”
“We are taught to love others, to embrace others and to share our burdens with others,” Tendler said. “We need not struggle alone…. So, as I held on, people rallied, surrounded me and guided me through the darkness.”
Overcoming this and other personal and geopolitical traumas led her to an important insight.
“I came to realize that, if I didn’t like living in a world full of darkness and evil, then I needed to be the light,” she said. “I needed to choose life. I needed to choose hope and spread kindness, goodness and godliness to others.
“The world needs us right now,” she continued. “We all have hope coursing through our veins. Certainly, it has been weakened and doubted [since Oct. 7], but that is exactly what they want. We won’t let them win. Let the light created by our hope and optimism join forces, knowing indeed that we are not alone and that this positive energy be magnified as it draws others in. May our light be a beacon for the world.”
Tanja Demajo, chief executive officer of Jewish Family Services, shared her family’s history of survival in the Holocaust and the personal story of her family’s escape from the post-Yugoslavia war in Bosnia, where she was born. She had not shared any of this publicly before.
As a child in Mostar, young Tanja would often come home from school to find strangers at the table. Anyone passing through or needing hospitality was received in their house and welcomed with food.
Tanja Demajo (photo by Pat Johnson)
“My family always kept the door open,” she said. This openness, she believes, helped save her family when war exploded.
In 1992, when she was 11-and-a-half, everything changed, seemingly in a day.
“There were explosions everywhere, there was shooting everywhere, the army was everywhere,” she said. “The city emptied.”
Getting away from the fighting was not easy. Roadblocks were set up by different militias and Demajo could see the fear in her father’s expression as they confronted each successive barrier.
“We had to stop at three different points and at three different points we came across some people that my parents knew through their life,” she recalled. Keeping an open door meant there were people who knew the family and remembered their hospitality. “In each of these three situations, these friends came forward and put their lives on the line so they could let my family pass through.”
After the war ended, the family reconnected with her grandfather, who they had not seen in years.
“That was the first time actually that my grandfather shared with us his own story,” she said. From a community of 300, the grandfather and an uncle were the only survivors of the Holocaust.
She asked him why he was so cheerful, despite all he had gone through.
“He had this beautiful way of just hugging people and he would hug me and say, what are the things you remember as a child?” She recalled spending weekends with her grandfather, the meals and stories they shared. “And he said, well that’s how you survive. Because those are the things that matter. The people you have in your life, the friendships that you share with them and the food you share with them.”
The connections she saw her parents forge at the table – which proved potentially lifesaving as the family fled war – are a lesson she has always carried. It is something that Jews worldwide can remember now, she said.
“We need allies and we need to have these conversations to bring people together,” she said.
Jaime Stein shared the story of how the death his father, Howard Stein, in 2006, from acute leukemia, inspired him to help create Canada’s first public
Jaime Stein (photo by Pat Johnson)
Early in the last decade, when Stein helped launch the $12.5 million campaign to create the facility, Canada was one of only two G-20 nations that did not have such a service. Umbilical cord blood contains blood-forming stem cells, which can renew themselves and differentiate into other types of cells.
Working with Canadian Blood Services, Stein and the fundraising team for the project decided on a big focal point for the campaign – climbing Tanzania’s Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa.
“We got 25 people to sign up [to climb] and everybody had to raise a minimum of $10,000,” Stein explained.
Stein, in his 30s at the time, when $10,000 was a daunting sum, organized weekly 9 a.m. hikes with friends and strangers, at which he would offer career advice, listen to his hiking mates or otherwise engage, then write a blog post.
“People started donating and people started telling their friends as well,” he said.
In the end, he raised $27,000, second only to the chief executive officer of Canadian Blood Services among the 25 climbers. Of course, the money turned out to be the easy part. They still had to ascend the mountain.
Like many others who climb tall mountains, Stein experienced altitude sickness – so severely he almost had to turn back.
“I could barely make it to camp,” Stein recalls of the onset of the crisis. “I just remember thinking about my dad, thinking of my family, thinking of the training, thinking of everything I did as I tried to get to camp.”
Slowly, his oxygen levels climbed and he was able to complete the trek.
The trip itself raised $350,000 and, eventually, the team raised all the funds necessary. Canada now has a fully functioning umbilical cord blood bank, with four collection sites, including one in Vancouver.
Alan Stamp, Jewish Family Services clinical director, and Ezra Shanken, chief executive officer of the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver, contextualized the stories as lessons in resilience community members can use to confront trauma.
I’ve been thinking about my childhood school bus driver, “Dot” or Dorothy Gelles. I lived in a house that was technically not too far from school to walk, but there weren’t enough sidewalks and there was one dangerous intersection. As a result, I rode Bus #302 and then, later, when #302 was retired, #562, with Mrs. Gelles. Ours was a relationship that lasted from kindergarten until Grade 12.
I started driving in Grade 10, lived in Israel on a kibbutz in Grade 11, and mostly drove my younger brother to school when I returned for Grade 12. Still, I rode the bus every day until those last few years. I sat at the front, chatting with Mrs. Gelles and enjoying the ride. Later, I read, did homework or talked to other kids. The bus wasn’t late. Mrs. Gelles rarely missed a day driving us. We trusted Mrs. Gelles. She was a dependable, reliable and kind part of our lives.
Though growing up in a different country, my kids are also eligible for the school bus through Grade 6. They go to a Hebrew-English bilingual school that requires a bus ride. I’ve always thought it was a wonderful gift to parents and good for the environment that they could take the school bus. Although there have been some years in which the bus has been dependable, with mostly the same drivers, I have never properly managed to figure out each driver’s name or been introduced. To me, this is the most precarious part of the school day during Winnipeg winters – I’ve always felt a little nervous about the ride, the drivers, and whether they’d make it to school or home.
This year, due to the pandemic, sick days, the labour shortages and lack of trained drivers, things are the worst they’ve ever been. When there was a bus drivers’ strike, we knew that the school bus wasn’t coming. We were responsible for getting our kids to school and home. When someone contacts us early in the morning and says, “This route is canceled,” we shuffle around our work days to get the kids to school. Sometimes, there’s no notice at all: scared kids and panicked parents result.
On the last day before winter break, our kids weren’t dropped off at the bus stop at 3:46 as per the schedule. They didn’t get home until after 4:35 p.m., more than an hour after the school day ends, at 3:30. The high that day was around -22°C. We were lucky: our kids are 11, old enough to cope, and we figured out what had happened. Their dad was working from home. He dropped everything, stayed at the bus stop in the cold while I phoned the bus transportation office and the school. We found out that there had been a late bus that didn’t get to the school until after 4 p.m., a substitute driver, and that driver got lost. Everything went wrong. The school secretary apologized – she should have called me sooner. I knew that not only would my kids be upset, but they’d missed their piano lessons, too.
This is part of a bigger disruption narrative. So far, this year, Grade 6, is my kids’ first school year since Grade 1 where we haven’t had a teacher change or disruption yet. It’s true that everyone feels jostled by the COVID pandemic but, starting six years ago, before this virus happened, every year something interrupted their learning. Everyone deserves maternity leave and, yes, teachers retire and principals shift schools, but theirs has not been world’s most stable learning environment. Everyone wants to blame COVID but the problems are much bigger than that. Yes, we’re lucky in many ways, but expecting a stable schooling environment shouldn’t be unreasonable with all our other privileges in Canada.
Being resilient in the face of change has been seen as an important skill to have as the world shifts to cope with pandemics, climate change, wars, supply chain issues, etc. There is much to be said for being flexible and able to roll with what happens. At the same time, most adults are resistant to change and don’t like it. For many, we want our coffee or tea with breakfast, our meals cooked in a certain way, our exercise routine or housecleaning to be orderly. Ritual and routine reassure everyone.
In many ways, Judaism reflects this. We’re still praying in ways our ancestors prayed thousands of years ago. Our holidays, sanctuaries and social halls look remarkably similar from one country to the next, even with culturally different norms. We relish the familiar, even as it slowly changes and adapts to fit modern sensibilities. No matter what Jewish movement you’re accustomed to, Orthodox, Chabad, Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative or Renewal, or if you use terms like secular, traditional … we’ve all made adjustments reflecting our evolving understanding of Judaism and the world around us, or in reaction to those things.
What makes our traditions comforting, reassuring or even just functional is not the same for everybody. However, one thing remains the same. Aside from catastrophic events, it’s the way we react to and adjust to change that matters. Finding a positive way forward, moving towards solutions – these help us grow and learn. Jewish communities, forced through pogroms, expulsions and murders, have created art, literature, liturgy and rabbinic rulings to cope with terrible circumstances we could not control.
As everyone now knows, we cannot control everything. We can only hope to give the resources and resiliency to help everyone cope. In Winnipeg, making sure the kids wear warm sweaters and snow pants along with parkas and boots? That is one step. Another is offering contingency plans: an extra set of house keys, feeling comfortable with the neighbours, knowing there’s a safe place to go if they get locked out.
Many in North America, pre-pandemic, were used to stability. We made plans for weddings or trips a year in advance. It may be that our new “normal” brings us much closer to what our ancestors knew long ago. With increasing weather, climate and health emergencies, and political upheaval, we need to find resources and solutions when change happens. Cause change is going to happen.
Meanwhile, we can also all strive to be a bit more like Mrs. Gelles: caring, reliably on time and trustworthy. I can never see a driver open those school bus doors without smiling and thinking of her. And hoping for the best and wishing for that stability for my children, too.
Joanne Seiffhas written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
After listening to Dr. Betsy Stone during a community workshop called A Year of Upheaval: What has Trauma Done to our Bodies and our Brains?, I decided to take her advice and tell my story. According to Stone, “Healing requires storytelling … we tell our stories so we’ll understand our experience differently.”
The past 15 months have been a journey for all of us. Some more than others, but no one has not “traveled” during the pandemic. And, by travel, I mean change. Whether we’re brave enough (honest enough?) to admit it or not, we have all been transformed. Call it trauma, call it what you like. It’s all a matter of semantics. Not everyone is as vocal as I am, or as filled with anxiety about COVID, but no one comes out of this horrible shindig unscathed.
Whether your resilience lies in emotional strength or a feeling of invincibility, or whether you’re firmly entrenched in that big river in Egypt (denial), we all cope in our own ways. There is no one right way through this. You can’t go over it, you can’t go under it – you can only go through it. Putting our experience into words brings new life to it, new insights. Speaking it makes it even more real and, maybe, just maybe, easier to cope with.
So, where have I been this year? I wish I could answer that with geographic precision. What comes to mind is: home. And, occasionally, the pharmacy and grocery store, as well as walks close to home. While I hate to say that the pandemic has been my world, it’s hard to escape the reality of that pronouncement. I fully admit my obsession with the pandemic, my fear and my single-minded focus on how to stay healthy. I won’t apologize for it, or feel less-than. It is what it is.
That doesn’t mean to say that my fear has prevented me from seeing silver linings during this unparalleled time. There has definitely been more than one “there-must-be-a-pony” moment. The most important one being that my nephew and his wife had a baby boy near the start of the pandemic. It doesn’t get any better than that. In random order after that, I have thrown myself into the deep end of the pool with Torah classes and other religious learning. Next on my list is that I started on a life-changing medical treatment that makes my life much easier. I have made new friends and acquaintances through the numerous Zoom classes I attend nearly every day. I am exercising 100% more than I did pre-pandemic. I might sleep less, but my brain has expanded. In the good way. And that’s just the beginning.
All this is by way of saying that, while I wouldn’t award COVID first place in a popularity contest, it has had its bright spots. It has impacted my perspective on all things, in a way that nothing else has, to that degree. When I think about what’s important now, my pre-COVID list is almost laughable. I, like many others, have embraced the basics: health and safety, family, faith and trust.
When I think of the trajectory of this past 15 months, it’s hard to articulate. Or, more to the point, what our reactions have been. Have I learned to be more trusting, or more suspicious? Have I expanded my capacity for compassion, or have I become more selfish? Have I anchored my experiences in religious belief, or have I trusted in science? Have I given in to my fears, or have I conquered them? While I’ve always tended to lean towards the black and white, there really are no absolutes right now. There are, however, firm yeses and hard no’s. I am reconsidering everything I once was certain about. The $64,000 question is whether I will be able to integrate what I’ve learned and turn it into something positive when all this is over. Or, better yet, before all this is over. The jury is still out. But I’m hopeful.
I have become exponentially more grateful for the simple things: my devoted husband who is my perfect companion in life; that I have a loving and lovely family; that I have never had to worry about where my next meal will come from; that I live in a part of the world that has great doctors, easy access to medical care and all the outdoor green spaces you could ever ask for; and that I have mentors and friends. I could go on ad infinitum.
Too often, I see the clouds instead of the blue sky that’s right behind it. I see impediments where there don’t have to be any. Positivity is a steep learning curve for me. It’s funny that I used to consider myself an optimist. Since the pandemic, I’ve come to see how maybe-not-true that is. Not that I’m proud of it, it’s just the current reality. But I’m trying pointedly to turn that around. There are days where I see hope staring me in the face everywhere. Literally everywhere. Other days, it’s just fog and darkness. I know I’m hardly unique in this.
So, in truth, I have been lots of places this year. Mostly in my head. But some real places, too. Like a certain street in Shaughnessy that’s filled with huge trees, beautiful homes and no people walking about. A place where it’s safe for me to take off my face mask for a block or two. Until I see someone. I have also been to a place of sheer, unnamable joy, seeing my tiny great-nephew on WhatsApp video. I have discovered flowers I never knew existed, in areas I’d never walked before (despite being a native Vancouverite). I have traveled via Zoom to other countries, for learning and sometimes for pleasure. But pleasures that don’t involve a beach or a buffet. And I travel constantly in my dreams.
Every day of this pandemic, I have learned something. About myself, about others, about faith. That’s got to count for something, right? When we all heal from what Stone calls this “trauma,” we’re definitely going to come out of it changed. Whether that change is positive or negative, or a combination of both, is up to us entirely. My commitment to myself is that I’m going to try and lay the groundwork for an improved Shelley. A less anxious, more trusting, deliberately positive Shelley.
I guarantee you’ll still recognize me, though. I’ll be the one still wearing a facemask a year from now. Or maybe not.
Shelley Civkinis a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.
