memoir

Recalling a shining star

My mother, Joyce, met my father, Bernie, at a dance at the Jewish Community Centre in Vancouver. She was selling tickets. He just wanted to talk to her, but she sent him upstairs to check out the other young women at the dance. He did, then came right down and asked her out, even though she told him she had two children and was in the middle of a divorce.

photo - Joyce Freeman with Ria, her first grandchild — Joyce Freeman with Ria, her first grandchild. *(photo from Cassandra Freeman)*

My mother was both elegant and beautiful. When I was a child, she ran a “model and poise” class for teenagers out of Kerrisdale Community Centre. My sister and I modeled there for an audience when I was about 4 years old. Later, I did some ballet on stage as well, with my partner from the dance school. I still remember how nervous I was, but it was so much fun.

I grew up with the many people in the house my mother invited over. They were from all over the world and spoke English, Hebrew, Arabic, Russian, Serbo-Croatian, Spanish and other languages. (Looking back, I see why I chose to get a degree in international relations!) Mom would literally ask people she met shopping or on the street back to the house for dinner. A lot of them were single and lonely.

My dad worked as a court reporter and often had late hours, so refused to go out. My mother, therefore, had parties at home. I remember pancake and waffle brunches with at least 50 people going in and out. The toppings were cherry, pineapple, strawberry, blueberries, peaches and, of course, whipping cream and syrup. All my friends from the neighbourhood would be there, too.

My friends got an education in Judaism, including the Jewish holidays and the basics of keeping a kosher kitchen. One friend, Madeleine, credits my parents for her choice of a career that involved prosecuting war criminals. I’m guessing that’s because dad was a court reporter and she learned about the Holocaust from us.

I was thrilled when my mother invited the National Ballet of Canada company over for dinner after their performances – if my Uncle Sam had not been performing with them, she might have done it anyways.

I remember two things about the dancers. One was that they seemed to go back to the table and eat at least three times. The second was that, even though they were athletes, they didn’t have a hope when playing table tennis in our basement. Apparently, they had little hand-eye coordination. I remember meeting Karen Kain. She said I had a nice straight back and should continue to dance – and she left me all her beads.

My mother had good friends she would call almost every day. One was my godmother, Helen Friedman, who became like a grandmother to me. We spent a lot of time together. I took on her left-wing perspective and voted NDP for a very long time. She was also a feminist with a capital “F” and I took that on, too.

Growing up in my parents’ house, it was like all three of us kids – Devorah, Tzvi and me – ate social justice for breakfast. Now I see that this was clearly the ancient Jewish tradition of tikkun olam, healing the world. My sister said I had it so bad that, at age 8, I wrote to the Vancouver Aquarium and demanded they let their whale go back into the ocean.

My mother was clairvoyant. She taught me how to send her a psychic message about what I wanted for lunch on my way home. I normally got what I requested but that’s likely because I either wanted macaroni and cheese or a salami sandwich. My father says that, when we kids left home, my mother could make us call her at will, which I believe.

Mom’s favourite psychic story was about Dad and Grandma. Dad would come home from work and say, “Joyce, I don’t know why I bought that.” And Mom would say, “Oh, Grandma wanted that.”

I inherited my mother’s ability to communicate with spirits. Just before my Uncle Steve’s funeral, I was ironing. He said, “Hurry up and get to the funeral.” Mom got a message from him, too. During the transmission, it feels perfectly normal. Sometime after Uncle Sam died, I got an energy hug from his spirit. It didn’t diminish the sadness, but it was comforting.

At some point, my mother began doing I Ching readings for guests and family. I have her I Ching book and display it proudly. It is a book of strategy above all. It doesn’t tell the future, as most people think. It says that, if you are in this situation, you should do this; if you are in that situation, you should do that. It’s difficult to read but my mother was smart and seemed to know exactly what it was saying, even if it talked a whole lot about princes and generals and varied states of mind.

The other thing Mom did was cook – and she is famous for it. I remember helping her by cutting cucumbers. They all had to be about one-eighth of an inch thick or they were no good.

My mother got sick when she was 40 and was never really well after that. She had become a Chabadnik, which I believe helped her with the pain.

We knew when she was going into hospital because she would cook meals for us and put them in the freezer. In her late 70s, she was diagnosed with a cruel disease called Supranuclear Palsy. They tried a Parkinson’s pill, but it didn’t work. Mom died, at age 84, just as the sun was setting, bringing in the first night of Passover. We recently marked her yahrzeit.

A few days after she died, both my sister and I got the same message from her spirit. She said, “I am skipping.” I took this to mean she was ecstatic at being without her painful body. Now, I imagine she is a shining star in the universe. And that’s how I remember her.

Cassandra Freeman is a Vancouver storyteller and improviser.

Bema presents Perseverance

Co-stars Evan Roberts, left, Jerry Callaghan, centre, and Carl Powell in rehearsal for Bema Productions’ presentation of Perseverance, April 22 to May 3. (photo by Becca Elliot)

photo - Jerry Callaghan and Andrea Eggenberger — Jerry Callaghan and Andrea Eggenberger *(photo by Becca Elliot)*

Bema Productions in Victoria presents Perseverance, by L.E. McCullough, from April 22 to May 3. The play is adapted from the 2019 memoir One Holocaust Survivor’s Journey from Poland to America, written by Melvin Goldman and his daughter, Lee Goldman Kikel. It brings to the stage a timely story of healing and renewal.

Few visitors to the G&S Jewelry Store in Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill neighbourhood during the 1960s and 1970s were aware that the cheerful proprietor, Melvin (né Mieczyslaw) Goldman, had spent his teens enduring the horrors of Auschwitz before arriving in postwar America as a penniless refugee intent on reclaiming his life and reshaping his family’s destiny. The play depicts Goldman’s irrepressible spirituality and unflagging love for humanity as he worked to replace darkness with light, one piece of handcrafted jewelry at a time.

photo - Angela Henry and Jerry Callaghan (photo by Becca Elliot) — Angela Henry and Jerry Callaghan *(photo by Becca Elliot)*

Bema Productions’ mounting of Perseverance stars Jerry Callaghan, Andrea Eggenberger, Carl Powell, Angela Henry and Evan Roberts. All performances take place in Bema’s Black Box Theatre at Congregation Emanu-El. For tickets ($25), go to ticketowl.io/bemaproductions.

– Courtesy Bema Productions

Reflections from Be’eri

Hundreds of terrorists entered Kibbutz Be’eri. Of the 1,000-plus residents, 101 kibbutz members were killed, 30 people were abducted and one-third of the houses were severely damaged or destroyed. (photo by Larry Barzelai)

My wife and I frequently travel to Israel to visit our three grandchildren. Our interest in Be’eri comes from its special connection with Kibbutz Hatzerim, the birthplace of our daughter-in-law. I feel that the story of Be’eri is a paradigm for the story of the Jewish people, the story of building something magnificent, experiencing a great

destruction and rebuilding afterwards to create something even better. It also illustrates how, when people work together, they can accomplish greater things.

Through a mutual friend, I arranged to meet Yaron, a lifelong member of Kibbutz Be’eri and one who had survived the Oct. 7 massacre. He graciously took me on a tour of the kibbutz as he described the events of that day. Much of what follows are descriptions of the events in his own words. He’s given me permission to share them with you.

On the evening of Oct. 6, Yaron and other kibbutzniks were celebrating the anniversary of the founding of Kibbutz Be’eri. Sharing drinks later with some of his closest friends, they started planning a summer hiking trip in the French Alps.

At 6:30 in the morning of Oct. 7, Yaron heard unusual noises, as he slept with his wife and two young children – both under 5 years old. It sounded like shelling and bombing. When the red alert siren went off, they ran to join their kids in their home’s mamad (reinforced security room), which is also the kids’ bedroom.

Initially, Yaron wasn’t too concerned, even after receiving a text that the kibbutz may have been infiltrated by enemies. “OK, I guess we’ll be cooped up in here for a couple of hours,” he thought.

“Messages in the different kibbutz WhatsApp groups start reporting about terrorists walking inside Be’eri,” he writes. “It is close to 8 a.m. Someone writes a message that she hears gunshots.”

Shortly after that, someone reports hearing “terrible screams from the apartment above her, then silence.” Another says that one of the houses in the kibbutz is burning.

Yaron tries to stay calm. The power goes off. Their dog, who is not inside the room, is unusually silent. They hear that someone is in their house.

“They get to the room and try to open the door. I fight over the handle, heart pounding,” writes Yaron. “They don’t succeed! Every time they try, I swing the door handle back to the upright, ‘Safe’ position.”

Eventually, the terrorists give up on opening the mamad. Yaron ignores the calls in Arabic and English to come out of the room. He and his family listen, as the terrorists sing, while wrecking the house. First, there is the smell of gasoline, then smoke enters the room.

A neighbour advises them, via Yaron’s phone, that they should close the gap under the door with wet clothes.

“I take the sheet from my daughter’s bed, pour the bucket of urine on it and jam it under the door,” Yaron writes. “Outside the room, the fire grows fierce, it consumes five years of our lives in minutes…. We are in a closed room, we have no electricity, the children are coughing. I realize that the fire in our home is probably so crazy that even those inhumane monsters can’t still be waiting outside the door. I let go of the handle and I take a deep breath and feel some oxygen flow to my brain. So far, it was the pressure and fear of the terrorists that was suffocating me, but now the smoke is becoming the main problem.”

Yaron’s wife continues to text with neighbours, calling emergency team members repeatedly.

“All of our children’s books are burning outside,” Yaron shares. “Amidst all the terror we hear one of our favourites, a sound book of Arik Einstein songs, catching fire. The fire makes it play, chillingly, one of the happiest songs we know: ‘It’s Saturday morning, a beautiful day….’”

Suffocating on the smoke, the family has no choice but to open a window of their second-floor apartment. Despite the fear of what awaits them outside, the smoke is too much and they climb out onto the metal awning below.

“The four of us are sitting on the metal. We can breathe but we are exposed 2.5 metres (eight feet) above the ground. OK, now what?” Yaron recalls.

They can’t reach the emergency team, so they jump to the ground and hide in a nearby shed. Yaron jumps first, his wife hands him the kids, then follows.

photo - A house identical to Yaron’s, which has been demolished, that gives an idea of the window of the family’s safe room and the challenge of jumping to the ground from the second storey — A house identical to Yaron’s, which has been demolished, that gives an idea of the window of the family’s safe room and the challenge of jumping to the ground from the second storey. *(photo by Larry Barzelai)*

“Another neighbour reaches out, ‘Come to my place.’ I call him. I ask him to risk his life, leave his mamad and open his house for us. He does this while we’re on the phone. We are hesitant to come outside, we are debating with our eyes, and can’t decide if we should stay hidden in an unsafe shed or try to reach a safer place but risk exposure. I ask him to risk his life even more, to take a look outside and verify there are no terrorists in sight. He bravely obliges and says it’s clear. We were in the shed for maybe five, maybe 10 minutes, maybe it was two years, who knows. The kids are silent…. My heart is racing, I open the shed door and we sprint to the neighbour’s house.”

The fire has consumed their own home, and their beloved dog. Temporarily safe at the neighbours’, Yaron sees that the fire might cross over to where they are hiding. “We decide we need to evacuate,” he writes. “At a distance, we spot a few IDF soldiers. A small company or a team…. They escort us to a nearby building where my brother lives. We contact him and he let us in together with two more kibbutz members who had gotten stuck in a similar situation.”

Around 11 p.m., soldiers returned to Yaron’s brother’s place. “They helped us out, they asked us to cover our children’s eyes to shield them from the horrors on the kibbutz lanes and they escorted us to the yellow gate.”

“We made it out,” he writes. “We made it out.”

Most of Yaron’s extended family survived the massacre, except for an aunt who was murdered. In total, hundreds of terrorists entered the kibbutz. Of the 1,000-plus residents, 101 kibbutz members were killed, 30 people were abducted and one-third of the houses were severely damaged or destroyed.

Another victim of the massacre was Winnipeg-born Vivian Silver, who had, prior to Oct. 7, driven patients from the Erez border crossing to hospitals in Israel. She learned Arabic so that she could better communicate with her Bedouin neighbours. She truly believed in a peaceful future between the residents of Israel and the Palestinians of Gaza. Sadly, she was killed on Oct. 7. Her remains were so badly burned that it took weeks to identify her by DNA analysis.

Eli Sharabi, another resident of Be’eri, was kidnapped and taken to Gaza. In his book Hostage, he describes 491 tortuous days in Hamas captivity. He was looking forward to reuniting with his family once he was freed. Instead, upon his release, he discovered that his wife and daughters had been killed on Oct. 7. He cried at their gravesites for two hours, before making the decision that he had to move forward.

Immediately after Oct. 7, Yaron and his family spent many months living in an apartment in the Dead Sea area. They were alive and they were safe, relatively free from missile attacks, but life was far from normal. To say nothing of the trauma they were dealing with, reestablishing a kibbutz lifestyle, while living in a crowded hotel with none of the amenities that glue kibbutzniks together, was challenging.

The family has since relocated to a temporary custom-built village adjacent to Kibbutz Hatzerim. Be’eri and Hatzerim are sister kibbutzim, both founded in 1946. Be’eri was named for Berl Katznelson, a founding father of Labour Zionism, whose nickname was Be’eri; Hatzerim, after a verse in Deuteronomy (2:23) that mentions hatzerim (farms/enclosures) “as far as Gaza.”

Be’eri and Hatzerim are both traditional socialist kibbutzim, populated mainly by people on the left of the political spectrum. Thus, it was natural for Kibbutz Hatzerim to offer to build a temporary kibbutz adjacent to them for people from Be’eri to live until their kibbutz was rebuilt over a two-year period.

photo - The new neighbourhood on Kibbutz Be’eri, where Yaron and his family are planning on living. The rebuilding of the kibbutz is expected to take two years — The new neighbourhood on Kibbutz Be’eri, where Yaron and his family are planning on living. The rebuilding of the kibbutz is expected to take two years. *(photo by Larry Barzelai)*

Most former residents of Be’eri are now living in the temporary kibbutz. Some facilities, such as medical clinics and administrative offices, are shared by the two kibbutzim. Otherwise, the temporary Be’eri has its own houses, schools and offices. Hatzerim expanded its dental clinic, seniors lounge and grocery store to accommodate the increased needs of the larger population. In typical kibbutz fashion, members of both communities met many times to jointly plan this project.

Every day, Yaron leaves his family on the temporary Kibbutz Be’eri to commute 45 minutes to the original. About 60 kibbutz members are living there now, while it’s being rebuilt, and the plan is for most members to return by the start of the school year this September. A printing factory and agriculture are the two sustaining industries on Be’eri.

Yaron’s home, along with 140 others, was destroyed on Oct. 7. Recently, members of Kibbutz Be’eri made a collective decision to tear down all the damaged buildings. They want to try and wipe away the terrible memories of Oct. 7 and build anew. As one part of the construction work, the kibbutz is building a new subdivision, where Yaron and his family are planning to live.

But Yaron isn’t sure that he wants to return. He was born on Be’eri and has lived most of his life there. However, the memory of the trauma of Oct. 7 is very strong. He’s not sure he wants to move back to this place, where so much death and destruction happened. He confided that he may want to live outside of Israel, somewhere he can anticipate a more peaceful future for his children.

Larry Barzelai is a Vancouver family physician, specializing in care of the elderly, who travels to Israel frequently to visit his three grandchildren there. He is presently co-chair of the Jewish Medical Association of British Columbia.

Living life to its fullest

My Aunt Hazel is 98 years old. They call her “the Queen” at Louis Brier Home and Hospital because, when she enters a room, she commands attention. I visited her in February, and she told me about her life in India, Iraq, Canada and elsewhere.

photo - Hazel Stevens, 98, has had quite the life — Hazel Stevens, 98, has had quite the life. She still commands attention. *(photo from Lisa Stevens)*

Hazel Stevens (née Moses) was born in Bangalore, India, in 1928. By the time she was 18, she had five brothers and five sisters. Her parents, my grandparents, were from Baghdad, Iraq.

Despite being one of maybe five Jewish families in the whole city, they kept kosher and made their own matzah. When Passover was over, their Hindu and Muslim friends would bring them bread.

Hazel’s mother and father ran a clothing store, so, to some degree, the six girls in the family, who were born first, were brought up by the servants. The five boys who came next were brought up by the girls.

What I noticed as a child growing up was that Hazel was clearly the funniest person in the family. When we all got together, she would chant slogans from Gandhi’s National Congress Party with incredible enthusiasm. Everyone would laugh. I think that part of my love for comedy came from her.

photo - Hazel Stevens (née Moses) was born in Bangalore, India, in 1928 — Hazel Stevens (née Moses) was born in Bangalore, India, in 1928. *(photo from Lisa Stevens)*

Hazel was also unequaled in her bravery. One day, a monkey grabbed her sister’s little girl, who was just a baby, and took her up onto the roof of the family’s home. Hazel climbed up to the roof to save her.

“I was frightened because the monkey could bite the baby or throw it off the roof,” Hazel told me. “I had to be very calm. I calmly patted myself and said, ‘Give me the baby.’ Finally, the monkey threw the baby at me.”

Luckily, no harm was done.

A few years later, in 1946, when Hazel turned 18, she visited Baghdad with her parents. It was a time of unrest, just after the Second World War. It isn’t well documented, but my aunt says that there was one week of “hysterical mobs” trying to kill their Jewish neighbours. The Jewish community had faced increasing insecurity for years, including the Farhud (pogrom) in June 1941, during which between 150 and 180 Jews were murdered, 600-plus injured and about 1,500 stores and homes looted, according to the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. In the 1940s, about 90,000 Jews lived in Baghdad, notes the museum, making up a significant portion of the population.

During this time, Hazel and others in the Jewish community were given hand grenades by the Baghdadi government. She fearlessly carried an urn full of them on her shoulder, as she went around the city, delivering grenades to Jewish households.

photo - Hazel Stevens in Baghdad in 1946, with an urnful of hand grenades provided by the government, which she delivered to Jewish community members to use in defence against hostile neighbours — Hazel Stevens in Baghdad in 1946, with an urnful of hand grenades provided by the government, which she delivered to Jewish community members to use in defence against hostile neighbours. (photo from Lisa Stevens)

“When you are young you are not afraid … because you could run,” she told me.

One night, Hazel joined her family on the roof, throwing stones down at a malicious crowd, which eventually left. Miraculously, no one in Hazel’s immediate family was hurt during this period.

Before her stay in Baghdad, Hazel had begun dating a young British soldier named Desmond (Steve) Stevens. He lived by the YMCA where she played tennis and he would come over and tell her not to hit or throw the balls so far away because the young Indian men would have to run far to retrieve them.

Steve would visit Hazel when she worked in her parents’ store. This was dangerous because girls weren’t allowed to speak to boys in those days, she told me. Dangerous in the sense that she should have been chaperoned.

Hazel would say to Steve, “Quickly, buy something, my parents are coming.”

The pair fell in love, but Hazel’s parents did not approve, as Steve wasn’t Jewish.

When Hazel was in Baghdad, her grandmother set her up with a man she hoped Hazel would marry. But my aunt was as smart as she was daring. She says that, when she met the man, she made all kinds of faces and threw her arms about. It was a very long 30 minutes, said Hazel, but she succeeded in turning him off.

Her daughter Lisa said: “It was her act of insanity that proved to her parents that she loved my dad. She wired him after her parents acquiesced, and he came over to Baghdad to spend some time with her. She told me they took walks and held hands.”

photo - Hazel and Desmond (Steve) Stevens were married in Bombay (Mumbai) in 1947. — Hazel and Desmond (Steve) Stevens were married in Bombay (Mumbai) in 1947. *(photo from Lisa Stevens)*

Steve promised to convert to Judaism and he did. The two were married in one of the beautiful synagogues in Bombay (Mumbai) in 1947. I remember that Steve was very knowledgeable when it came to almost anything Jewish.

Most of our family left India when it looked like there was going to be a civil war in 1948. Hazel and Steve went to England. I’m not sure of the order of their travels, but Steve remained part of the British army and so he and my aunt lived in various places in Canada and Europe. During this time, their first two children – Anita and David – were born.

Hazel told me that she was a dancer and remembers winning a $50 prize in her 30s – she can still pull one leg over her head. At the parties she threw, she would dress up in a belly dancing costume that she made, turn on Middle Eastern music and perform for everyone throughout the house. All the kids at the parties would crawl behind her, picking the shiny gold beads that would fall off her dress.

Nineteen years after her first child, Hazel gave birth to Lisa in Vancouver and soon enrolled her in dance classes. Today, Lisa is a director and choreographer, based between New York and Toronto.

Steve was a communications engineer at BC Tel (now known as Telus). He worked with new technology and, unknown to the family until after he retired, he provided spy satellites for NORAD. He was responsible for much of the communication capabilities when NORAD was first built, says Lisa.

Hazel was the homemaker for Marpole Neighbourhood House, where she provided in-home care for seniors and for people with disabilities. She won Homemaker of the Year several times. She also spent a lot of time organizing charity events for Vancouver’s Jewish Community Centre and the Hadassah Bazaar.

Steve and Hazel spent much of their spare time in the spring and summer caring for the front and back gardens of their house on Oak Street. Lisa says they often saw people stop their cars in front of the house and take pictures of the abundance of colour and the foliage.

Hazel ran a bed and breakfast out of her home on Oak Street and continued that after Steve passed away about 26 years ago. She also provided a room for out-of-town families who came here to visit their loved ones at Vancouver General Hospital, as the house was on that bus route.

In her late 80s, Hazel moved into Legacy Senior Living, where she says she led the exercise class at least once when the fitness instructor was away.

In a wheelchair now, Hazel lives at the Louis Brier, where she told me all about her incredible life.

I have a tendency to create funny, bold and daring characters when I improvise onstage and I think that maybe, just maybe, I get that from my aunt.

Cassandra Freeman is a Vancouver storyteller and improviser. She wrote this article with files from the Moses family and from Hazel Stevens’ daughter, Lisa Stevens.

Connecting generations

Shane Foxman’s idea for In Your Own Words, “a podcast for you and your family about you and your family,” came from a very personal place.

“My father passed away when my daughter was still very young. While I keep his memory alive by telling stories about him, I’ve often wished she could hear him tell his story himself – his voice, his memories, his reflections – rather than only hearing them from me,” said Foxman, who had an almost-30-year career in journalism before starting his own production company.

“As a storyteller by profession, that realization stayed with me,” he continued. “I began thinking about how many families wish they had asked more questions, recorded more conversations, or simply preserved a parent or grandparent’s voice while they still could.

“That wish is what led me to create In Your Own Words. It’s almost like a personal podcast – a guided, professionally produced conversation about someone’s life and journey. It’s about memory, voice and capturing the stories that might otherwise be lost. Because, when someone is gone, you don’t care how long the recording is. You just wish you had one.”

photo - Shane and Andrea Foxman — Shane and Andrea Foxman *(photo from Shane Foxman)*

Foxman was born and raised in Toronto. His career took him to many places in Canada, including British Columbia in 1998.

“I was working at a television station in Edmonton when I was hired by Global Television to cover the legislature in Victoria,” he said. “After two years as bureau chief there, I was transferred to Vancouver, where I continued covering news and eventually began hosting and producing a variety of programs.

“In 2009, I hosted and co-produced Seeking Stanley, which became one of the most successful television programs in BC history. The live show aired after every Vancouver Canucks playoff game and during the team’s 2011 run to the Stanley Cup Final. Viewership topped one million people an episode in the Lower Mainland.”

Vancouver ultimately became home for Foxman. He met his wife Andrea here, and the couple has a 16-year-old daughter, Arlo.

He is deeply connected to the Jewish community. Most Independent readers will have been at an event emceed by Foxman. He has been on various boards and worked for five years at Vancouver Talmud Torah as associate director of development, retiring from that position last year so he could focus on his company.

Foxman’s decision to switch from journalism to production came just over a decade ago, influenced in part by the changing media landscape.

“Newsrooms were shrinking and budgets were tightening,” he explained. “There was less time and space for deeper, long-form storytelling, the kind of work that really excites me.

“I found myself wanting more creative control and more depth in the kinds of stories I was telling. I wanted to slow things down, spend time with people, and really explore their journeys in a meaningful way.

“Opening my production company allowed me to focus on long-form storytelling. I picked my projects and they weren’t constrained by airtime. It also gave me the flexibility to build something sustainable while still doing what I love most: helping people tell their stories.”

He said, “Every person has a story – about where they came from, what shaped them, the obstacles and challenges they faced and the moments that defined them…. There’s something powerful about giving people space to speak in their own voice. At its best, journalism isn’t just about reporting facts – it’s about capturing humanity.”

One of the first things visitors to Foxman’s website will notice is the photo of him and Andrea (which accompanies this article). It was taken at a charity event they attended a few years ago. The photographer asked what kind of shot they wanted and the couple joked, “We want Andrea to photobomb me.”

“He took one click, dead serious, and said, ‘Got it,’” shared Foxman. “We didn’t believe him at first, but when we saw the picture, I just loved it. I immediately thought, if I ever needed an album cover, this would be it. It perfectly captures both seriousness and fun – two things I hope come through in my work and in life.”

Foxman Productions is “a small, hands-on company,” said Foxman, who is involved in every project, from concept development and interviewing, to editing and final delivery.

“That said, one of the advantages of my years in television is the professional network I’ve built,” he said. “Depending on the project, I bring in experienced camera operators, editors, sound technicians and graphic designers – people I’ve worked with and trust. The team is top-notch.

“Every project is different, so I assemble the right people for the job. Clients get the personal attention of working directly with me, combined with the production quality of seasoned broadcast professionals.

“But, at its core, my role is listener,” he said. “That’s the most important part of the work.”

Foxman’s preparation for an interview involves research and conversation.

“I spend time speaking with the person beforehand to understand the shape of their life – major chapters, turning points and family background. That way, when we sit down to record, the conversation can flow naturally rather than feeling like a checklist,” he explained.

“For the interviewee, it’s all about feeling comfortable and unpressured. It’s not an interrogation or a performance – it’s a guided conversation, often reflective, sometimes emotional, sometimes humorous. There’s no right or wrong way to tell your story – it’s your story.”

The final product can be audio only or video, which may include photos, documents or other visual elements.

“The goal is always to create something that families can return to again and again. It’s not just to remember facts, but to hear tone, laughter and personality,” said Foxman.

“I believe every person and/or family has stories that matter, and every voice deserves to be remembered. Preserving these conversations is more than just creating a record – it’s about connecting generations, sharing lessons, laughter and memories, and leaving something truly meaningful for the future.

For more information about In Your Own Words, go to foxmanproductions.com.

Life’s full range of emotions

Bonny Reichert will be in Vancouver on March 4 to talk about her new memoir, How to Share an Egg, as an epilogue to the JCC Jewish Book Festival, which runs Feb. 21-26. (photo by Kayla Rocca)

When Bonny Reichert was a kid, living in Edmonton, her baba, who had come to Canada as a teen on her own in the early 1900s to escape pogroms in Ukraine, would come to stay with her family for the weekend and “the house brightened,” writes Reichert in How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love and Plenty. “She arrived as though she were fleeing all over again, with parcels and packages and a giant soup pot wrapped in a tea towel, knotted to make a handle. Things were hot or cold or frozen. I didn’t know to wonder if she’d stayed up all night rolling and pinching and stuffing for us. Pekeleh, she called her bundles, little packages. Pekeleh also means burdens. Yiddish is like that.”

As with pekeleh, meaning both treats and worries, there have been many contrasts in Reichert’s life, opposite things or states of being existing simultaneously. Her memoir is fascinating for the challenges she has faced and the way in which she has dealt with them. Readers can hear the award-winning writer in conversation with Marsha Lederman on March 4, 7:30 p.m., at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver, in a JCC Jewish Book Festival epilogue event.

How to Share an Egg is the telling of Reichert’s dad’s survival story – a story he so wanted her to share. Experiencing years of difficulty putting pen to paper, she approaches it through her own journey with intergenerational trauma, which she has felt deeply from childhood. Her mother grew up with “a dad who was quick to anger” and an “exacting” mother who taught there was only one way to do things. “That this was the same person who rubbed my feet as I fell asleep seemed impossible,” writes Reichert about her efforts to reconcile her beloved baba with her mother’s mother.

Reichert’s maternal grandfather, who had come to Canada in 1913, died before she was born. On her paternal side, she had no grandparents – her dad was a 17-year-old orphan when he came to Canada in 1947. His parents and five sisters were all killed in the Holocaust. He was one of the 1,123 war orphans Canadian Jewish Congress helped enter the country when the doors were only just starting to open again for Jews.

The Jewish Independent spoke with Reichert by email about her memoir.

JI: You were 9 when your dad first mentioned the possibility that you would write his story. Then there was the trip to Poland in 2015 that was a breakthrough. When did you actually write the first words and, from that point, about how long did it take for you to write How to Share an Egg?

BR: The very earliest work on the book started on that first trip to Warsaw with my dad. I took a few notes and some important photos, but I didn’t yet know where I was headed. After the second trip to Poland, in 2016, I had even more research and notes, but I still wasn’t sure I had a book. The more formal outlining and writing began in late 2020, in the depths of the pandemic. Including the time I spent waiting for my editor’s feedback and the editing, the book took about four years to write. I was earning a master’s degree at the same time.

JI: You write about your personal journey with inherited trauma, and you share some of the healing milestones on that journey. In what ways was the process of writing the book cathartic?

BR: When you write a memoir like How to Share an Egg, your job is to look at yourself very closely, but with objectivity, because the self becomes the central character of the book. In that close examination, you come to name feelings you previously couldn’t name, and evaluate experiences and situations that your younger self might not have understood. All of this leads to greater understanding and greater self-compassion. This, coupled with the relief of finding a way to write this book my dad always wanted me to write, has indeed led to healing and catharsis.

JI: What does your dad think of the book?

BR: He loves it and says that it has given new meaning to his life at 95. A wonderful outcome.

JI: One theme of How to Share an Egg is you finding your voice, being able to stick up for yourself when bullied, to be yourself in the face of others’ expectations (notably, your father’s). From where did you get the courage to be this open?

BR: You can’t decide to write a memoir and then hide from the personal. Readers want to see all of that raw emotion on the page. For the memoir to be successful, the true, honest person in the book should resonate with the true person inside the reader. At a certain point, I realized all of this, and I came to see I was writing about the universal human experience and there is no shame in being human. In other words, I practised radical self-acceptance to get the job done.

JI: You comment in the book about pekeleh meaning both bundles and burdens. Judaism is full of those instances, holding joy and sorrow at the same time. Can you speak about that, in the context of How to Share an Egg?

BR: People often hold a pretty stereotypical idea of what Holocaust survivors and their families are like – severely traumatized, loaded down with psychological and emotional problems, etc. I wanted to address that – to challenge it and expand on it. There is sorrow and trauma, of course, but there is also so much joy and gratitude and celebration. So, the book is meant to express this fuller range of emotion. Part of my decision to write it as a food memoir was to offer the reader pleasure and comfort, even against the backdrop of the Holocaust. A Jewish approach, for sure.

JI: Hedy Bohm, who you mention in your memoir, just had her own survivor memoir published by the Azrieli Foundation. What is the importance of having these stories out in the world?

BR: Yes, I’m so happy for Hedy. She is a wonderful person. Preserving these stories has always been of the utmost importance – firsthand testimony is obviously critical. I also believe a plurality of stories and approaches brings the humanity back into the unfathomable numbers and statistics.

JI: How often have you been to Vancouver, and what are you looking forward to most about your March visit?

BR: I was just there in the fall for the Vancouver Writer Fest! I have friends I’m looking forward to seeing and I’m hoping for some nice weather so I can walk and admire your beautiful city.

For the full schedule and tickets to the book festival, go to jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival.

Ruta’s Closet reissued

Lady Esther Gilbert speaking at Vancouver City Hall April 8, when Vancouver Mayor Ken Sim proclaimed Ruth Kron Sigal Day in the city. (photo by Keith Morgan)

Ruta’s Closet, the Holocaust narrative of the late Vancouverite Ruth Kron Sigal, is being reissued for a new generation of audiences – and the book’s author is ensuring the survivor’s inspiring story of survival and resilience reaches the widest possible global audience.

Vancouver journalist Keith Morgan, who completed the book shortly before Kron Sigal’s passing, at age 72 in 2008, has updated the publication – and created an extensive range of multimedia projects to expand the impact of the written volume.

First issued as a fundraising initiative for the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre, Ruta’s Closet was later published in the United Kingdom, with distribution there reaching new audiences.

The book recounts the harrowing survival story of the Kron family, imprisoned in the tiny Shavl (Šiauliai) ghetto in Lithuania, through the eyes of the youngest daughter, Ruta (later Ruth). Their survival against Nazi persecution hinged on the courage and resourcefulness of her parents, Meyer and Gita Kron, as well as the bravery of non-Jewish rescuers. Depicted with novel-like narrative power but rooted in rigorous research and eyewitness testimony, the memoir vividly portrays atrocities such as mass murder, a Nazi ban on Jewish births and the deportation of children to Auschwitz, while also shining a light on courage, compassion and human resilience amid the evil.

Kron Sigal didn’t live to see the book in print but she saw the final draft.

“She said to me shortly before she died, ‘You are going to carry on telling my story, Keith, aren’t you?’ And I said, of course I am,” Morgan told the Independent. “So, I took that on as a mission.”

Surveys indicating widespread ignorance of Holocaust history, combined with skyrocketing antisemitism, motivated Morgan to launch a series of Ruta’s Closet-related projects.

“We updated the book and decided it was time to go basically worldwide with this,” he said.

In addition to the re-release of the hard-copy, Morgan and his small team of colleagues recorded an audiobook and released an ebook. They revamped the existing Ruta’s Closet website and made it more interactive.

Working with Bill Barnes, a local radio producer, Morgan developed a 25-segment podcast.

“We are doing Zoom interviews with people around the world who are a part of a driving force behind an imaginative, creative initiative in spreading Holocaust awareness and education,” he explained. “I’ve got Ruth’s kids – Michael, Marilee and Elana – each week doing an introduction for book clubs.”

The VHEC has produced a downloadable guide for book clubs, as well as a teacher’s guide to the book, which makes it additionally relevant as British Columbia’s education curriculum mandates Holocaust education this year for the first time as part of the Social Studies 10 coursework.

“The beauty of it, for British Columbia, is it’s technically a local story,” Morgan said. “It’s about Ruth. It’s about somebody who came here and did a lot for her adopted society.”

photo - Journalist Keith Morgan, author with Ruth Kron Sigal of Kron Sigal’s memoir, Ruta’s Closet, is ensuring that her story of survival and resilience reaches the widest possible audience — Journalist Keith Morgan, author with Ruth Kron Sigal of Kron Sigal’s memoir, Ruta’s Closet, is ensuring that her story of survival and resilience reaches the widest possible audience. *(photo from Keith Morgan)*

Morgan, who spent many years as the crime reporter at the Province newspaper, met Kron Sigal when his editor asked him to take on a more uplifting assignment and begin a series about people doing good works at home and abroad.

“Somebody said, ‘Oh, you should talk to Ruth Sigal,’” who was sharing her Holocaust story with students. “I went to meet her. I was very impressed. She told her story and it had an amazing impact on me. I just knew this was an important story to tell.”

He found immediate support from Dr. Robert Krell, the founding president of the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre.

“Robert Krell kind of took me under his wing – he was a close friend of Ruth – and he said, ‘I’ve got just the guy to introduce to you, who will be really helpful to you for pulling the story together.’”

The person was renowned historian Sir Martin Gilbert.

“The British schoolboy in me thought, ‘How do I curtsy?’” Morgan joked.

Morgan met Sir Martin in London and got a one-on-one master course in writing about the subject.

“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘You have to tell the story as though you were writing it for your newspaper and make it accessible to all people,’” Morgan recalled. “Sadly, Martin died [in 2015], but Lady Esther Gilbert took up his mantle and, since then, she’s been an ally and was very important in this edition in terms of going through it, adding bits here and there.”

She spoke at a ceremony at Vancouver City Hall on April 8 this year, when the mayor proclaimed Ruth Kron Sigal Day in the city.

Kron Sigal’s story resonates profoundly with people, according to Morgan.

“We can all relate to what happened to Ruth and her sister Tamara,” he said. “It also tells us compelling stories about how, through their own devices, they basically survived and helped others along the way. We also see what other members of the family did to help the broader community.… We get this family story, which, in itself, is very dramatic, but we also get this wider picture of how a community in the ghetto work with each other, help each other.”

Morgan sees Kron Sigal’s narrative as an inspiration not only because of her survival against the Nazis but in all she did after becoming a Canadian.

“Ruth came here, an adopted country, and spent 25 years at the Women’s Resource Centre and the VHEC Child Survivors Group,” said Morgan. “That’s an example to everybody: come into a new society, an adopted country, and just roll up the sleeves and get working. Isn’t that an example to anybody that comes in?”

No less a triumph, Morgan said, is the family Ruth and her husband, Dr. Cecil Sigal, created.

“You look at that family and you think, ‘Victory!” he said. “Because they beat Hitler.”

Flying through our life

It is sunny today. (Some other today!) I am on my balcony watching birds fly. The sky is blue everywhere, unharried by even a wisp of cloud. There are sailboats on the water and there is snow on the mountaintops. The gentle breeze is friendly, ruffling the tiny hairs on my exposed skin.

Although it is before noon, I have indulged. I am inspired by a smidgen of whiskey and the smoky vapour of a cigar of unknown heritage. (I drank from a new crystal beaker my Bride purchased for me to celebrate my existence.) Sensitized by their appeal, I can see my life experience stream like an indie film before my eyes.

I am watching how the birds launch themselves into empty space, beating their wings strongly until they catch a current, an unseen wave they sense will carry them forward. Then they glide, onward and upward. They fly singly or in flocks. Those flying together know well the strength and advantage that lies in union. Isn’t that always a better idea if it can be managed?

I think back to my youth, my life path, and extrapolate to the lives of younger people, and those not so young. I recall how I launched myself into the unknown – so eager to be off on my own that I was heedless there were any dangers. Some of us hung back and had to be encouraged into flight by our near and dear. Some of us traveled in packs. Some of us remained a long time on the home perch. Some had their departures well-planned, orchestrated by vision or friends and family.

For those of us who took off, we sometimes had to walk before we could fly, we had to work hard to get to the take-off point. This might have been particularly true for those of us who were the children of immigrants, of ethnic minorities often discriminated against. When we did make it off the ground, how proud we were to be sailing in the wind of life under our own power. It was great to feel the lift of independence under our wings. It gave us energy.

We were always looking for that wave that would propel us forward. We didn’t always find it. For many of us it was work, work, work, just to stay on an even keel. We squared our shoulders and kept on keeping on. We couldn’t help seeing others on their flights ahead of us, wishing we could also really soar.

How did we learn to fly? How did we know we could? Surely, we watched others, our parents, friends, people we knew. Some of us crashed and burned, a few of us never even tried – the grapevine and the media brought us the news of these events daily. We felt the downdrafts as well as updrafts and we all had our share of scary moments. For some of us, more than our share! But most of us kept on moving, looking to gain enough speed for lift-off.

And many of us eventually did take off. We got to feel the exhilaration of flight, to feel the current we had caught through effort and attention to the tasks at hand. When we stopped to think, it was great to relish and feel the momentum we had attained, to appreciate the distance we had traveled. It was great to contemplate the things we could look forward to if we kept on flying.

Sustaining the effort on the trip was never something one could take for granted – not all of us are built for distance. When I watch flocks of birds flying south for the winter, I am always mindful that each member takes a turn at the head so the leader can rest. Most of us do not have volunteers to take a turn at the head of our efforts to get ahead, to accomplish the tasks we have set ourselves. It is almost always totally up to us alone. It is always so special when there is a partner at the ready with a helping hand. Lucky, lucky, lucky! We have to be open to that.

I am one of the lucky ones. Coming to the end of my journey, closer every day, I can see that now. The wounds I have sustained along the way, many of them self-inflicted, have not proved fatal to this point. I can rest on my perch more often and watch the passing parade.

The flights that remain for me to take are more measured and more likely to be in the thick of a flock. I am complacent when overtaken and passed by the many more eager flyers. Sometimes, I am more concerned about our companions who have fallen behind. We are spending more time in the planning for others than in the doing for ourselves. And, I do have a partner ready to give a hand. Lucky, lucky, lucky!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Sharing a special anniversary

When does something begin? I’ve been thinking about that as I go through 95 years’ worth of Jewish Independents. Well, 20 years of JIs and 75 years of its predecessor, the Jewish Western Bulletin. The JWB also had its predecessors – mimeos and letter-sized versions. The paper’s founders started counting on Oct. 9, 1930, the official first tabloid edition, when they could have started July 15, 1925, “the natal issue of the Vancouver Jewish Bulletin.” Or maybe earlier. Who knows when the idea that brought into existence what would become, through thousands of issues, the paper you today hold in your hands or read on your computer.

image - Making the cover of this special issue, where six stories jump to the inside and the rest of the stories are blurbs that direct readers to pages on the inside, was an organizational challenge. There was no way I could replicate the brevity of the 1930s articles, but I could mimic the style. — Making the cover of this special issue, where six stories jump to the inside and the rest of the stories are blurbs that direct readers to pages on the inside, was an organizational challenge. There was no way I could replicate the brevity of the 1930s articles, but I could mimic the style.

I know I’ve mentioned this fact in previous anniversary issues, that the JI could be considered five years older than the age we have deemed it to be. In looking through so many beginnings – and endings – throughout the years, it struck me again. So many organizations have multiple possibilities for the equivalent of their first edition. For example, the Louis Brier Home and Hospital was organized in 1945, but the idea for it probably came even earlier and the home didn’t open until 1946.

I share this as a caveat because, as I went through the paper’s archives, looking for other community organizations that are celebrating a significant anniversary this year, I no doubt have missed some. But my intent was good – I wanted to share the JI’s “special day” with others.

Unfortunately, I was hampered in my goal because the search function of the online Jewish Western Bulletin archives (newspapers.lib.sfu.ca/jwb-collection) is basically dysfunctional. If I had a 95th birthday wish, it would be to have the funding to have all the newspapers back to 1925 re-digitized and re-indexed, so that this priceless resource could be more accessible. In the meantime, I hope readers can embrace the random smattering of “clippings” that represent my attempt to show how the newspaper has grown with the community – our success being directly attributable to our collective success.

image - I continue to wish that the founders of the newspaper had started counting in 1925, when the “natal issue of the Vancouver Jewish Bulletin” was published. — I continue to wish that the founders of the newspaper had started counting in 1925, when the “natal issue of the Vancouver Jewish Bulletin” was published.

Going through the pages of the newspaper over 95 years is both an inspiring experience and a sobering one. Countless people, organizations, businesses and events no longer exist, but there are always new people coming into the world, coming into the community; new groups being created, new businesses popping up, new ideas being discussed, new events being organized. If the size of the Community Calendar is any indication, there is more happening in the community today than there has ever been.

During my 26 years as publisher – or, one of my other beginnings, 27 years since I was hired by the paper – there have been recessions, wars, a global pandemic, and seemingly inexhaustible antisemitism, which has increased greatly since Hamas’s terror attacks on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023. I am still processing that massacre, the ensuing war and all the other violent conflicts happening in the world, the hate and the anger that threaten to overwhelm. It never ceases to amaze and sadden me, humanity’s ability to be as destructive and cruel as we can be creative and compassionate. I won’t dwell on the negative here.

In running the newspaper, I have tried to maintain a middle ground, to be inclusive but also respect my own boundaries. I think there are concerns that should be played out in public, and others that should be dealt with privately. The JI is not a gossip rag, it is not sensationalist or alarmist. That is a decision I have made, and that our editorial board (Pat Johnson, Basya Laye and me) considers every issue.

While not ignoring the hurtful, the divisions, the controversies in our community or the larger universe, we try to cover stories in a way that doesn’t depress and paralyze action, but rather opens the door for solutions or at least positive attempts at change. We don’t want readers to put down the newspaper in despair, but rather to think about what they can do to contribute to a better world, whatever that means to them. One ad in this paper heralds the JI for being the bearer of good news – it makes me happy that people think that, even as we report the news that’s not so good.

The Jewish Independent has survived so long because of one thing: community support.

In 95 years, there has been much to mourn, that is true, but there also has been so much to celebrate. Personally, during my tenure as publisher, I have benefited from many kindnesses, from generous landlords and donors to loyal subscribers and the people who support the paper through purchasing ads.

I have met, worked with and/or become friends with some truly amazing people. I consider myself lucky to have joined the paper early enough to have met in person several of the visionaries who built the organizational foundations of this community, not to mention those of the province, even of Canada, in some instances. There are afternoon teas, lunches and gala dinners I’ll remember forever, if the mind stays healthy.

The people I work with are smart, talented, dedicated and should be earning a lot more than they are. I might own the paper, but by no means do I run it alone. The people whose names you see on the masthead every issue are integral to publishing the paper. And all the people who have been on that masthead over the years – and the many more who have not been recognized in print – have helped keep the paper going, from its first days to today. I thank you all.

I am not a journalist per se, nor an entrepreneur. I’m trained as an economist, and still make myself chuckle when I think of the most uneconomical choice I have made in my life – to buy this newspaper. But it has kept me clothed and fed, with a roof above my head. It has taught me so many things and, though I’ve not always been a willing student, I am better for the lessons.

Most importantly, I am better for all the people I have encountered on this journey. I have made many friends and acquaintances. Not all my encounters have been pleasant or easy, but I have come to appreciate more as I’ve gotten older that, behind the organizations serving the community are simply people. Maybe people I don’t always agree with, but people who are undeniably committed. They are people who believe in community so much that they give of their time, either as volunteers or staff or both, working in one place, volunteering in others. Or they give of their financial resources, funding causes in which they believe, choosing to give away some of their money rather than letting it sit in the bank or using it for personal wants and needs.

It is a privilege to do what I do for a living. I am proud to be part of this extraordinary community. Kol hakavod to us all. May we go from strength to strength….

Now let’s party. Happy anniversary to all the other Jewish organizations celebrating a milestone this year!

Leaving something behind

I am human. I share many elements of my nature with other beings on this planet. I laugh, I cry, I aspire to things, hope for things, wish for things, work for things. No different than it is for others, I am the amalgam of what I brought into this world interacting with all the stuff that has been incorporated into me through all the years since I got here.

We don’t get through life without having things stirring around inside our heads. In my head, there have always been issues struggling to get out. I long to express them, if only to myself. Gabby to a fault, I have no trouble vomiting it all out.

But getting it right inside my head before I spit it out is the wise thing to do. I must understand what it is that’s itching, burning, stuck in my craw, before I bring it into the light of day. This process can take some time, even years, even a lifetime.

Part of the issue for me is that I am driven to share my thoughts with others. I have illusions of grandeur. I really believe it matters if my ideas are shared. I believe the ideas can change people’s lives, as they have changed mine. Ultimately, though, it is up to others to make that judgment.

We have the daily issues that are urgent, demanding our focused attention in the now. These things come back to the surface when we have the luxury of time for contemplation. Are we on the right track? The decisions we are making about our careers, our partners, our children – are they the right ones for the people concerned? Such questions rise to the surface like a bad penny. We mostly shove them away again and again, not prepared to confront them. Sometimes, they are just too challenging, disturbing the bases on which we live.

If we are fortunate, we get to enjoy our share of the wonderful things in life that give us pleasure. Something as mundane as a good meal, or even a crust of bread when we are very hungry, a glass of cold, clear water when we are very thirsty. How about realizing the achievement of a goal that we have dreamed of for a long time? How about when something that is very painful stops hurting? Isn’t that a joy and a relief?

Holding a newborn in your arms, sensing the potential of new life, how about that? How about when you feel communion with another creature, human or animal, that takes you out of yourself to a union with them? That can alleviate, at least for a while, the essential loneliness that is our fate as human beings.

So, with all the pleasures and pain we are heir to, with all the wonders and horrors arrayed before our eyes and flooding into our minds, is our function only existential, is that why we are here, simply to live? Can we find some comfort and purpose in the belief in a deity that has concern for us personally? Or are we simply another life form improbably trial-and-errored successfully on this one planet out of countless more in the cosmos. The mind reels with the possibilities if we abandon our human-centred hypothesis of a caring life-force paying attention to our minuscule spot in our galaxy.

I had such simple goals when I was younger. I was going to sacrifice myself to achieve something much larger, greater, than myself. Martyrdom was my method, blood and sweat cast upon the dry soil, watering it so that flowers would bloom. So many die for no purpose. My sacrifice would have a purpose, I thought. Wasn’t that a worthy price to pay for the gift of life? Thankfully, I grew up!

Still, surely life must have a purpose beyond just breathing in and out, shouldn’t it? Is it just to be a matter of surviving? Should it be? Don’t we have a responsibility to do something about improving the world around us? These were the thoughts in my head as a young man. So many other men and women have left something behind – invention, industry, music, art, literature, leadership. We read about them. Surely, we ourselves can make a mark upon the wall of time like they did, can’t we?

I went off, like Don Quixote, to do battle, trying to subdue all the windmills I came across for the betterment of my fellow man, and to make my mark, of course. I am looking back now, very much closer to the end of my journey than to my beginning. It is not too soon to assess the results of my crusade. I did all the ordinary things, worked at several jobs I believe contained value, got married, had children. All of these were important in their way. But have they built an immortal edifice to my passage on this earth?

I face my life partner and my children and tell them that my aspirations were elsewhere and essentially were for naught. How much of the attention that I owed to them was spent on pursuing my ego-driven drive to find the building blocks of the Giza-like edifice I was determined to construct? And how ironic! My only long-term claims to fame and immortality reside in the lives I was privileged to be a part of. All my vaunted achievements with which I had consoled myself, labeling them as being worthy of merit, have vanished like dust scattered by the wind.

I retain my nostalgia for those breathless instants at the barricades. I am one of the lucky ones. I believe I have left something worthwhile behind.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.