memoir – Page 2

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.

Determined to help others

Photos from the book include Joy Karp speaking to a group of people at a Terry Fox Run in Whitehorse. (photo from Rick Karp)

Creating a Lasting Impact: The Amazing Life of Joy Esther Karp was recently published.

Written by Rick Karp, who was married to Joy for 49 years – many of them spent in the Yukon – the account tells of her determination to make a difference and how she made numerous contributions to society, while having to overcome life-threatening issues every few years.

Joy Karp died in 2017.

“I promised Joy a few weeks before she passed that I would ‘tell her story,’ and that is what I have done. People need to know who she was, what she accomplished throughout her life, how caring and supportive she was for others,” Rick Karp told the Independent.

Two of the setbacks Joy Karp faced were a heart attack, after giving birth to twins in her early 20s, and a car accident, in which she was thrown from the vehicle onto a frozen Lake Ontario, smashing the bones in her left foot; she had to wear specially made shoes thereafter.

In 1986, the Karps moved from Ottawa to Whitehorse, where they brought the first McDonald’s to the North and were deeply involved in the economic, social and cultural fabric of the Yukon. But this didn’t protect the couple from life’s vicissitudes.

Joy was kidnapped in 1992 and buried in her car for close to 17 hours. The kidnappers shackled her wrists and ankles, blindfolded her, put a bag over her head and left her there without needed medication, despite knowing she had heart issues.

“After the kidnapping, Joy suffered horribly for years from PTSD and, a couple of years later, her heart gave out and she had to have a quadruple bypass operation,” Rick Karp said.

In addition, Joy’s foot was severely damaged after the kidnapping, and doctors considered amputation. The Karps, though, demanded that the doctors pursue another course, which allowed her to keep her foot.

A few years later, Joy had her first case of cancer and required operations, chemotherapy and radiation. The cancer returned after several years and proved incurable.

“The doctors thought it was a heart issue and all that Joy needed was a pacemaker,” Karp said. “The X-rays that they did to determine the positioning of the pacemaker showed that the issue was a cancerous growth that had developed in her right lung and had reached out and attached to her heart.

photo - Rick Karp’s book about his wife, Joy, was recently released — Rick Karp’s book about his wife, Joy, was recently released. (photo from Rick Karp)

“They said that it was inoperable and that Joy only had about three months left, but she survived for close to 11 months.”

Despite all these adversities, Joy had an innate ability to understand and see the potential in others, to learn what they needed, and then make things happen for them, said Karp. People were always drawn to her, he said.

“This was one of the amazing things about Joy. She thought of others. She was a great listener. As a student, she helped her fellow students with assignments, and she had the ability to resolve issues.”

One of Joy Karp’s legacies is the McDonald’s Hands-On Business Training Program. The story begins in Ontario in the 1970s, with a job she had helping an owner-operator grow to five stores, and managing the head office. Confronted with a high turnover rate in some towns, the owner approached Joy for a solution.

She created a training program in 1978 and implemented it at local McDonald’s restaurants. By the early 1980s, according to Karp, the program was used throughout the fast-food chain.

“This is a three-year program that takes employees, or others that apply, through training and development that solidifies their knowledge of all of the stations in McDonald’s, training in customer service, and all aspects of how the restaurant operates,” he said.

“Then, to the right people, the program offers the chance to rise from crew person to crew trainer, to swing manager, to assistant manager and to manager – it offers career opportunities. Also, embedded in the program is the concept of ‘promote from within,’ which has been adopted by businesses, well, everywhere.”

Among other accomplishments, Joy organized service and customer satisfaction workshops for the Whitehorse Chamber of Commerce when the city played host to the Canada Winter Games in 2007. Her efforts, Karp said, were recognized by the event’s organizers.

Additionally, she played a key role in bringing the Special Olympics to Whitehorse, helped arrange for an outdoor play area and training computers at the Yukon Child Development Centre, and was pivotal in obtaining funding to make the Yukon Arts Centre wheelchair accessible. In 2013, she wrote The Power of Service: Service Through the Eyes of Customers, a book that emphasizes the importance for businesses to develop relationships and trust with those they serve.

Creating a Lasting Impact can be purchased on the Bookstore page at rwkarp.ca. A signed copy can be ordered by emailing Karp at [email protected].

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Light as a metaphor for life

Itai Erdal, with his mom, Mery Erdal, z”l, on screen, in How to Disappear Completely, which opens at the Historic Theatre in Vancouver March 15. (photo from The Chop Theatre)

Itai Erdal’s award-winning How to Disappear Completely, which has toured the globe, will be at the Historic Theatre in Vancouver March 15-22.

Created by Erdal, with James Long, Anita Rochon and Emelia Symington Fedy, How to Disappear Completely premiered at the 2011 Chutzpah! Festival. The one-man show then toured internationally, being performed in more than two dozen cities around the world before COVID hit. The March run marks its first remount since the pandemic.

“It’s been a dream come true,” said Erdal about traveling with the production. “Performing this show is the closest thing I have to hanging out with my mom, so being able to introduce my mom to so many people around the world has been wonderful. I also got to do it in Hebrew – I performed the show in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and many of the people in the audience knew my mom so that was really special.”

Erdal immigrated to Canada from Israel in 1999. The following year, he found out his mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer and only had months to live. He returned to Israel to be with her as much as possible and, during that time, encouraged by his mother to do so, he shot hours of film and took hundreds of photos.

“We laughed a lot, and you can see it in the show,” Erdal told the Independent in 2012, when How to Disappear Completely had its first remount. “It’s a tragedy turned to joyful memories,” he said about the piece, which also focuses on his approach to theatrical lighting. Erdal is a multiple-award-winning expert in lighting design.

“This was the first show I wrote and the first time I performed, so we had to come up with a theatrical device to explain why a lighting designer is standing on stage and telling this story,” Erdal told the Independent in an email interview earlier this month. “So, the premise was that this was a lecture about lighting design, and I ran all the lights from the stage. The connection between my mother’s story and lighting design wasn’t obvious at first, but when we started doing workshops, the audience loved all the lighting stuff and responded very strongly to it. I wanted to show how a PAR [parabolic aluminized reflector] can get warmer as it dims, so I took it down one percent at a time, and people got emotional because they thought about the life leaving my mom’s body. The show is full of these accidental metaphors, and the lighting became the emotional heartbeat of the show.”

Over the 14 years since he first wrote and performed How to Disappear Completely, Erdal – who founded the Elbow Theatre – has co-written and performed several other works: Soldiers of Tomorrow, Hyperlink, This is Not a Conversation and A Very Narrow Bridge. So, while How to Disappear Completely hasn’t changed much since it was written, Erdal said, “I am much more relaxed as a performer, so the show got better.”

He added, “The main thing that’s changed in the past 14 years is that I have become a father and I understand better why my mother said it was so important to be a parent. I often think about what a great grandmother my mom would’ve been and I wonder how she would’ve handled some tough parenting moments.”

Erdal doesn’t tire of performing How to Disappear Completely, and he sees how affected audiences continue to be.

“Creating this show has been the most exciting and rewarding thing I’ve ever done,” he said. “You would think that reliving the hardest moment of your life on stage every night would be a daunting task, but it’s a joyful experience. My mother was smart and funny and her personality really shines through. Every time I perform the show, there is a lineup of people waiting to talk to me after, wanting to tell me their stories about finding love and about losing their parents, and I love connecting with them and feeling that my show might help them a bit with their grief.”

And that’s what makes this very personal show widely popular.

“Unfortunately, almost everyone in the world knows someone who died from cancer, and the grief of losing a parent is something almost everyone can relate to, so the show has many universal themes,” said Erdal. “It also deals with loneliness and the search for love, which are also very relatable themes.”

For tickets to How to Disappear Completely, visit thecultch.com/event/how-to-disappear-completely or call 604-251-1363.

Moving into our new condo

Living in a condominium steps away from the Seawall and the marina is surreal. (photo from flickr.com/photos/nuntz)

Nobody would deny that the concept of a new home is exhilarating. It’s the packing up a lifetime of belongings, and having to sell and give away a plethora of things that plunges you into ice-cold reality. And let’s not forget the joys of the actual move.

A therapist once advised me to “get comfortable with uncertainty.” Hmmm. That’s like saying, “Learn to enjoy having hot oil poured down your back.” I think not. Much as I strive to embrace that pithy advice (and, on occasion, even succeed), I am just not cut out for it. You can only imagine how well I did with our recent move to a new condo.

It’s been almost a month and I still can’t find my passport or oven mitts. Not that I’m planning to travel anytime soon. But I would like to cook.

Without exaggeration, I packed at least 75 boxes and countless bags of belongings to shlep from our two-bedroom apartment to our new place. And lest you assume that we did what most retirees do and downsized – our collective wisdom ushered us into a bigger space. It is a condo with a kitchen large enough to land an aircraft carrier – which has always been a dream of mine (the size, not the aircraft carrier part). But the dream turned into a miniature nightmare when we moved in and I realized that I had next to no general storage space. Hall closet? Big enough to house a miniature turtle. Bathroom cupboards? Spacious enough for an extra roll of toilet paper and some air freshener. But I do have my humongous kitchen, and you can bet that I plan to cook and bake till the cows come home.

If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that you can’t have it all. You prioritize and maybe get 80% of what you originally wanted. Then, you just have to swallow the 20% and move forward. And get creative. Despite my apparent whining, I am truly feeling blessed and in awe of where we live now. We are mere steps from the Seawall and the marina, flanked by gorgeous condos. We are forced to peer daily at the spectacular mountains and sparkling lights of downtown. I keep asking myself, “Is this really my new neighbourhood?” When I come home and walk down the hall to our place, I feel like I’m in a hotel. Surreal, to say the least.

I had always been fiercely protective of our rental apartment and South Granville – we had great neighbours, little coffee shops where I was a regular, we were walking distance to grocery stores, drugstores, restaurants and the beach. Having lived in that apartment building for 37 years, I was their longest tenant. It was really all I knew. I had not lived in a house since I left home in 1974 to go away to university. Owning a home was always something I aspired to do. Until it became an unreachable reality. Being a single librarian until I was 53, owning a home was a pipe dream.

Then, I married, and we enjoyed our little love nest until October 2023, when we learned that our building (along with half the neighbourhood) was going to be torn down so high-rises could be built. Thank you, Broadway Plan! At first, I freaked out. And then, I started packing. I knew not where we would end up, but the writing was on the wall. Actually, the first indicator was in the summer of 2023, when men started hammering little metal plaques on the trees in our area and spray-painting the sidewalks. It was cryptic, for sure, but the mystery didn’t last long.

In February 2024, the company hired to “transition” renters into new homes held a Zoom meeting with all the tenants in our building. No promises were made, but the starkness of the facts hit us like ice water in the face. Right of first refusal. Financial compensation. Rent top-up. Blah, blah, blah. The one phrase that stuck with me though was TRPP – Tenant Relocation and Protection Policy. Luckily, tenants do have some protection, but it doesn’t solve the fundamental issue of unaffordable housing that plagues this city.

Time passed, we considered our options, I fretted over everything. It was a maelstrom of emotions. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the possibility that buying something could actually be within reach. But, events collaborated, luck joined the party, I took my head out of my nether regions, and, voilà, the unimaginable happened! We bought a condo!

Now, I am trying to “get comfortable with uncertainty” and change (as though change is a dirty word). I got my first test when I figured out that my lovely oak desk, which my beloved father, alav ha-shalom, bought me, wouldn’t fit in our condo. Our second bedroom has a Murphy bed and, well, let’s just say that my oak desk is the size of a blue whale. Living in that big river in Egypt (denial), I hoped against hope that something would happen and either the desk or the bed would miraculously shrink overnight. Not a chance. So, I paid movers to move the desk into the condo and, two weeks later, I paid them to move it to the SPCA Thrift Store. And, while I tried to heed my late father’s advice to “cry over people, not things,” I failed miserably. I had a full-on, deep-dish cry-fest after dropping off the desk. All I could do on my drive home was to talk to my father’s spirit and tell him I love him, and tell him how much I miss him, and how much it meant to me that he got that desk for me specially.

I had to do something to honour my father. So, I decided to toast him. Knowing he liked Cutty Sark Scotch, I spent the next hour driving to three different liquor stores to find it, and was finally successful. It was only then that a sense of calm came over me. Maybe it was the Scotch. Maybe it was my dad telling me it was OK to cry over him. Whatever it was, the desk is now in its new home. And so am I. And both of us are very happy.

And I finally have a big kitchen, in-suite laundry, hardwood floors and I don’t face south.

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is 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.

Enthralling must-read

We Are Here! We Are Alive! The Diary of Alfredo Sarano, with historical commentary by Roberto Mazzoli and translated from the Italian by Avigayil Diana Kelman, is a book of double magnitude.

We Are Here! We Are Alive! is a riveting diary, with fiction-like suspense and drama, written in northern Italy during the Second World War under Mussolini’s fascist regime and Nazi German occupation, combined with an outside scholar’s comments, which set the diary into its day-to-day historical events. To make the reading easier, the diary is astutely printed as though typewritten, while the commentary is in regular book font.

Originally published in 2017 by noted Italian publishing house Edizioni San Paolo, in Milan, We Are Here! We Are Alive! garnered wide praise in Italy’s general press and from the country’s leading officials and public figures.

It must be accented that first-person Holocaust memoirs were usually written after the war, and the memoirist had to choose from past events and sort them out in the calm of peace time. A diary like this, composed in situ, while in hiding, is rather rare – and likely more reliable than one written with the fluidity of memory after events.

“This is the story of how this chapter of the history of Italian Jewry unfolded, which I experienced day by day,” writes Sarano. Kept for more than 70 years in a drawer by his daughters Matilde, Vittoria and Miriam, Sarano’s diary reemerges from the past, adding new, precious pages of history to the record of the genocide of the Jewish people.

We Are Here! We Are Alive! is the result of Mazzoli’s research, the Italian literary scholar who brought Sarano’s diary to light, placing it in the historical context of the time. The book accents the heroism of Sarano, who portrays himself humbly and with modesty. Yet, he was the farsighted secretary of the Milan Jewish community, the man who saved thousands of lives by hiding from the occupying Germans the lists of community members. The fact that he knew the entire list by heart, names and addresses, bore heavily on Sarano, and he realized he would have to escape detection by the Germans for the safety of the entire community.

The Germans relied thoroughly on these communal lists in various cities for their roundups and deportation of all known Jews to the death camps.

One tragic incident revolves around the Venice list. When the Germans came, they ordered the president of the Jewish community, Giuseppe Jona, to hand over the list. He quickly found a secure place to hide it and then committed suicide before the Germans could get to him.

In Sarano’s diary, we also learn about, and take joy with, the Jewish soldiers from the Land of Israel who fought the Germans in Italy during the Second World War as members of the Jewish Brigade, and helped save countless Jewish lives.

In his introduction, Mazzoli describes the fascinating background as to how this remarkable book came to be written. It is the combination of persistence, good luck and serendipity.

Mazzoli had been looking for information about a good-hearted Nazi officer, Erich Eder, who, in 1944, when the German army had already occupied northern Italy, had at great risk disobeyed orders and helped save local refugees, including Jews, from deportation. Mazzoli had read a few details in a memoir written by an Italian friar and wanted to contact Eder, but in vain.

Then, through a series of coincidences, he ran across the three Sarano sisters and learned about their father’s diary. It is here that Mazzoli learned more about the humane German officer, whose family back home in Bavaria had also saved a Jewish woman by hiding her in their house.

When the Sarano sisters became acquainted with Mazzoli, they entrusted him with their father’s precious manuscript with the touching words, “These pages have been waiting for you.” And then Mazzoli spent several years reading and notating the diary.

In We Are Here! We Are Alive!, we learn how ordinary peasants and kindly friars in the small town of Mambroccio and other places were able to thwart the Nazi plan of total annihilation of the Jews by hiding them in remote villages and sustaining them until liberation. There is even a moving description of how the Sarano family, with the help of the villagers, was able to celebrate a seder while in hiding.

Sarano served for decades as the secretary of the Milan Jewish community, until he made aliyah in 1969. That year, some 25 years after the events, in the town of Bnei Brak (near Tel Aviv), a memorable, emotional reunion took place, when Padre Sante Raffaelli, the friar who was instrumental in saving the family, visited the Saranos.

We Are Here! We Are Alive! is a must-read, enthralling book. It is so beautifully translated from the Italian by Kelman that one would think this diary was originally written in English.

Curt Leviant’s most recent novels are Tinocchia: The Adventures of a Jewish Puppetta and The Woman Who Looked Like Sophia L.

Campbell’s art at Zack

Artist Olga Campbell and her grandson Arlo, for whom Campbell wrote her memoir, Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson. (photo from Olga Campbell)

Recently, Olga Campbell published her third book, a memoir, Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson. Campbell’s new solo show with the same name opened at the Zack Gallery on Jan. 9. It features a selection of paintings and sculptures from the book, as well as a short film.

“The film starts the exhibition,” Campbell told the Independent. “It contains my photographs of Vancouver and its people. It is called Everybody Has a Story. The show and the book portray one of those stories – my story. But millions of other people have their stories, too, and, in the film, in my photos, I tried to tell some of those stories.”

Campbell said, “The book and the show are my answers to the questions my grandson asks. He is interested in our family’s past. We are very close, he and I. We just went to Nepal together. I thought I would write this book for him, as my legacy.”

The book does not concentrate exclusively on pain and tragedy, on the deaths of her family members in the Holocaust. It also celebrates the power of art and writing as a transformational and healing tool. Besides letters to her grandson, the book includes Campbell’s poetry and art, essays written by the artist, and her family’s traditional recipes. (See jewishindependent.ca/a-multidimensional-memoir.)

The Zack Gallery show is a subset of the book, a selection of paintings and sculptures the memoir highlights. The paintings are mostly collages based on the artist’s photographs. Each photo is Photoshopped into infinity, so none of the faces in the paintings have any resemblance to their origins. Campbell likes to experiment with images, looking at them from different perspectives, applying different approaches. Like her inner child who never grew up, she plays with them, making up different stories for different levels of perception.

One of the paintings, “Corridor of Memories,” has a couple of faces looking at the viewer with thoughtful, slightly anxious expressions. Behind those faces, a long corridor stretches into an unknown distance. The memories that come from that distance seem diverse and unsettling, a mix of positive and negative, but different for everyone.

image - “Corridor of Memories” by Olga Campbell — “Corridor of Memories” by Olga Campbell. (photo by Olga Livshin)

“There is bad there but there is also some good stuff there,” she said. “I played with the faces in that painting. I thought it would be interesting to make them three-dimensional. That’s how I came up with the sculptures in the show. They are the result of the images unfolding from 2D to 3D.”

Another painting that underwent a similar metamorphosis is “Shall We Dance? – self meeting Self.” Campbell explained: “I took this image from the confines of a frame and brought it to life by making it three-dimensional. The title, ‘self meeting Self,’ refers to the small self, the individual, the ego, meeting the Universal Self, and the ensuing dance of Self-discovery, joy and wonder of life.”

The 3D dancers – a thickened silhouette of the flat painted image beside it – rotate. They are accompanied by the song “Shall We Dance,” played by a tiny music box, when someone winds it up.

image - “The Sky is Falling” by Olga Campbell — “The Sky is Falling” by Olga Campbell. *(photo by Olga Livshin)*

Sometimes Campbell’s reconstruction of images results not in an additional dimension but in a deepening complexity of the original idea. In “The Sky is Falling,” she took a person’s outline from the painting beside it and embellished it with everything that she felt was relevant to our hectic lives. Unlike most of the other paintings in the gallery, there is no face in this one. The grey danger hangs over all of us, regardless of our facial features or skin colour.

“There are lots of similarities in our world today and the one that preceded WWII,” said Campbell. “That’s why I put a crow in that painting. A crow is a traditional symbol of death, but also of transformation, of change and the future.”

Like the book it is based on, the show is not linear. It reflects the artist’s response to various events in her life, both happy and sad, from her coming of age, to the current war in Ukraine. Both the memoir and the show emphasize Campbell’s personal journey through the beauty and the trauma of life, so inextricably entangled together.

At the gallery on Jan. 23, 7 p.m., Campbell will discuss her book and her art in an event co-presented by the Zack Gallery and the JCC Jewish Book Festival. Campbell’s exhibit will be on display until Jan. 27. To learn more, check out the artist’s website, olgacampbell.com.

Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].

Robinson kicks off book fest

The JCC Jewish Book Festival opens Feb. 22 with Selina Robinson talking about her memoir, Truth Be Told. (photo from JCC Jewish Book Festival)

This year’s JCC Jewish Book Festival opens Feb. 22 with Selina Robinson talking about her recently published memoir, Truth Be Told.

Most Jewish Independent readers will be familiar with the events that propelled Robinson to write this book. The first chapter, called “Four Fateful Words,” starts at what some people may think is the beginning – when, during a Jan. 30, 2024, webinar, Robinson said the state of Israel was reestablished on a “crappy piece of land.” But she believes she had been targeted for months.

“It was sloppy language, nothing more, but it provided the Gotcha! for anti-Israel extremists to build a case that I was racist, Islamophobic, intolerant and an evil monster that needed to be canceled,” she writes.

“In an ideal world, it would have been the extremists who were dismissed, not me. In an ideal world, we would be blessed with leaders who can differentiate between right and wrong.”

Truth Be Told covers the fallout from her comments. Premier David Eby initially seemed prepared to stand by Robinson, but the political pressure – including from a group of Muslim clergy who threatened the NDP’s access to Muslim voters unless Robinson was dismissed – soon led to him firing her from cabinet, though he never used the word.

“I told the premier that if he wanted my resignation, I would give it to him, but he needed to ask for it,” writes Robinson.

“In the end, he didn’t fire me and I didn’t resign, although the undeniable conclusion of the call was that I was no longer in cabinet.”

After taking some time to absorb the situation, Robinson rallied.

“As part of my t’shuvah [repentance], the premier asked that I make a series of calls to Muslim community leaders,” she shares. “I began to think: What if I could engage with these groups and bring the Jewish community and the Arab and Muslim communities together in some way? These two heartbroken communities, both fearful for their families overseas and feeling powerless to effect change, could find commonality in that shared experience, at the very least. Action is always an antidote to hopelessness and helplessness. I could do this as part of my role as an MLA and the government could take credit for doing something meaningful that makes a positive difference for both these aching communities. For me, this would be a profound form of redemption, of t’shuvah, and also of tikkun olam [repair of the world].”

But this ray of light was soon extinguished, the idea being deemed “too political.”

“I knew in that moment that this was no longer my place, no longer my government, no longer my political party,” writes Robinson. “A place and a party where I belonged would recognize the opportunity for someone who was seen to have transgressed to do some good. My place, my party, would recognize the value of bringing people together. A place where I belonged would not be afraid to try something unique and potentially powerful.”

Robinson quit the NDP and finished her term as an MLA as an independent. She was going to retire anyway, but this was not how she wanted her political career to end.

And it was quite a career. With a master’s degree in counseling psychology, Robinson spent most of her working life as a family counselor and in senior roles in various social service agencies.

“I never planned to enter politics,” she writes. “The first real engagement I had was speaking to Coquitlam City Council, my hands shaking, in support of an emergency cold weather refuge for homeless people proposed by a church in my neighbourhood.”

One of the councilors suggested she run for council, and she did. She was elected to Coquitlam City Council in 2008 and reelected in 2011. Truth Be Told gives readers a glimpse of what that experience was like, what Robinson accomplished as a councilor, and more. We find out how and why she made the leap to provincial politics in 2013 – a decision in which the late John Horgan played a pivotal role. The memoir is dedicated to Horgan, for whom Robinson had great respect and a close relationship. As premier, Horgan was the one who appointed Robinson minister of finance after the 2020 election that gave the NDP a majority government. She held that position through COVID, the government managing to file budget surpluses despite the challenges the pandemic brought.

“What saddens me right now is that people are losing faith in government,” writes Robinson. “That is especially distressing because if anything should have renewed people’s faith in government, it was the collective response to the pandemic.”

When Horgan stepped down as premier in 2022 because of the toll his cancer treatments were taking on him, Robinson began to more seriously reflect on her own future. She had been in public service for so long, she wanted to spend more time with her family. In Truth Be Told, we learn more of her own fight against cancer – a fight that started in 2006, a fight she seems to have won, finding out on Oct. 6, 2023, that her cancer had disappeared. The celebration was short-lived. That evening, news started coming in of Hamas’s terror attacks on Israel.

Robinson’s ambivalence about running for reelection was one of the reasons she didn’t pursue the party leadership vacancy Horgan’s departure opened. Other candidates bowed out, and Eby was anointed the new leader of the BC NDP and became premier in November 2022.

Robinson calls herself an “eternal optimist,” and that attitude has served her well. Despite being effectively demoted by Eby after he became premier, Robinson threw herself into the position of post-secondary education and future skills minister. It is interesting to read about some of the issues in that sector, and of the other portfolios Robinson held, as well as get some insider knowledge of how politics works and about the personalities of the people who represent us.

The crux of Truth Be Told is Robinson’s “four fateful words,” the reactions to them, and what was said and done – or, more importantly, what was not said and what was not done. Many of her colleagues were “quiet allies,” not willing to speak out.

“There are lessons from my experience that transcend my personal story,” she writes. “There are lessons for our democracy about the necessity to stand up to coercion from interest groups and harassment from mobs. There are lessons for leaders about how to act (and how not to act) when presented with choices between what is easy but wrong and difficult but right. There are lessons about speaking up rather than remaining silent.”

Truth Be Told is about a person doing what they passionately believe in, a person living their values – some of which were instilled at Camp Miriam, where Robinson was a counselor in her youth – and trying to make what they feel are positive contributions to the world.

Given what happened to her, Robinson could be forgiven for giving up and going quietly into obscure retirement. But that’s not who she is. She asks Canadians to have the courage to speak up, while recognizing that we should not “kid ourselves that a millennia-old problem will be resolved in a day.” She ends her book with calls to action, suggestions of what we each can do to counter antisemitism, as Jews (for example, don’t hide, “engage respectfully or not at all” and don’t give up) and non-Jews (speak up and engage with Jews, among other things), and as a society (for instance, protect students and nurture real inclusion). She includes some resources for readers wanting to explore various topics more.

In the “Final Reflections” chapter, Robinson writes, “We will never be perfect. The world will never be faultless. But repairing the world must always be our guiding star. Our reach must always exceed our grasp.”

Profits from the sale of Truth Be Told will be donated to the Parents Circle-Families Forum (theparentscircle.org/en) and Upstanders Canada (upstanderscanada.com).

The JCC Jewish Book Festival runs Feb. 22-27. For the full list of events and participating authors, visit jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival.

A multidimensional memoir

With her latest book, Olga Campbell sets out to leave a legacy, one that encompasses the trauma of the past but also the richness of the present and hope for the future.

Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson is Campbell’s third book. Her first, Graffiti Alphabet, comprised photographs of graffiti she found around the Greater Vancouver area. Her second, A Whisper Across Time, was her family’s Holocaust story.

The first essay in Dear Arlo is about Campbell’s parents, Tania and Klimek. They lived in Warsaw. “They were surrounded by family and friends and had much to look forward to,” writes Campbell. “Then, in 1939, everything changed. The Nazis invaded Poland from the west, the Soviets from the east. Life as they had known it stopped.”

Klimek would be arrested by the Soviets first, a pregnant Tania two weeks later. They were sent to different Russian prison camps. They survived, but the baby didn’t, nor did any of Tania’s family, most notably, her twin sister and parents, Campbell’s maternal grandparents.

“Several months after their release from the prison camps, my parents found themselves in Baghdad, Iraq,” writes Campbell. “By that time, my mother was pregnant with me and could go no further. I was born in Baghdad on February 14, 1943.”

Eventually, after living in both Palestine and the United Kingdom, the family came to Canada. It wasn’t an easy life, learning a new language and new culture, or a long one for Campbell’s mother, who died at 52 of cancer.

image - A page from Olga Campbell’s memoir Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson, which features letters, art, poems, essays and recipes — A page from Olga Campbell’s memoir Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson, which features letters, art, poems, essays and recipes.

Campbell shares her stories and wisdom with readers as a grandmother speaking to her only grandson, Arlo, with whom she obviously has a special relationship.

“I am writing this book as a legacy for you,” she writes in the first letter to Arlo. “A multidimensional memoir. A compilation of my writing, my art and a few family recipes. These writings and art are my responses to events in my life. The losses, trauma, grief … and the joy, happiness and love. It’s about the angst and awe of life, which is ever-changing, full of challenges but also magical.”

Brief letters to Arlo are spread throughout the memoir, which is gloriously full of Campbell’s artwork – painting, mixed media, sculpture and more, all of it in colour. A graduate of Emily Carr University of Art + Design, she has had many exhibitions since deciding to become an artist in her 40s, having started her professional life as a social worker. She has participated in the Eastside Culture Crawl since its inception almost 30 years ago, and has been a consistent part of the West of Main Art Walk (Artists in Our Midst) as well.

In addition to the art and letters in Dear Arlo, Campbell includes some of her poetry and essays. She shares how she came to write her second book, her experiences dealing with intergenerational trauma, her path to spirituality, how she found courage, and more.

She writes about losing her husband, in 1994. “Along with him, my plans and dreams for the future also died,” she writes. He died of a stroke at 49 years old – the pair had been together for 32 years, married for 26 of those years.

She shares the story of how she came to have her current dog, Nisha. “I was very sick in September 2019 with what my doctor now believes was COVID, before anyone had heard of COVID,” writes Campbell. Struggling many months with breathing difficulties, she turned, in desperation, to Ganesha, a Hindu god. “My wish to him was to remove all obstacles to my physical, emotional and mental well-being.”

A couple of days later, there came a knock at her door. Two work acquaintances were there, asking if she could adopt a rescue dog. Campbell did, and Nisha “was extremely timid, jumping, trembling and shaking at every sound, every movement. I held her all day every day for the first week to calm her down and get her used to me. She is still a little timid but every day she becomes more brave. She is playful, full of fun and great company,” writes Campbell. “She did remove all obstacles to my physical, emotional and mental health.”

Another uplifting essay is the one on how Campbell has “never come of age.” When she paints and creates with friends, she feels like she is 5 years old, she says. When with her teenage grandson, she also feels like a teen, and sees “the wonder of the world.”

image - A page from Olga Campbell’s memoir Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson — A page from Olga Campbell’s memoir Dear Arlo: Letters to My Grandson.

Campbell has role models, older friends and neighbours who still have bucket lists and exercise regimes. Having traveled much herself – Myanmar, Morocco, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, Laos, Turkey and other places – she now wants “to do inward travel. To get to know myself and others around me. To find the mystery inside. To nourish relationships with the people I know and with new people that I meet.” She wants to have different adventures: “Creative adventures, people adventures, spiritual adventures.”

There are more than a dozen recipes in Dear Arlo – from an apple torte that a 5-year-old Arlo bet Campbell she wouldn’t make (which she did but he never ate); to cabbage pie and Russian salad, recalling when Arlo was teaching himself Russian; to broccoli and cheese soup, vegetarian meatloaf and ginger apple tea, in response to Arlo’s request for some recipes.

Campbell is grateful for many things.

“I have had a good marriage and a wonderful family – my lovely daughter, her loving partner and my wonderful grandson Arlo,” she writes.

“I have dealt with losses and tragedies in my life, including the premature death of my husband, but I survived, and now I am happy. Those intense feelings of sadness that I grew up with no longer plague me. I can be triggered, but on the whole, I am fine.”

The memoir ends as it begins, with a letter to Arlo, who, says Campbell, has been “the best grandson I could ever have imagined.”

She writes, “The past provides us with valuable lessons that we can use to inform our present and future. A sense of connection and continuity with the people who came before us. This adds a depth and richness to our lives. I look forward to having many more adventures with you.”

We get to see Arlo grow up, in photos throughout the book. And the photo placed squarely in the centre of this last letter is perfect: Arlo in the driver’s seat of his new red convertible, toque on, giving a thumbs up, smiling, with Campbell beside him, also bundled up for a cold drive, but also with a big smile.

To purchase Dear Arlo or Campbell’s previous books, visit olgacampbell.com.

Campbell’s artwork is on display at the Zack Gallery Jan. 8-27, with an artist reception Jan. 9, 6-8 p.m. Campbell speaks as part of the JCC Jewish Book Festival on Jan. 23, 7 p.m., in the gallery.

Escape from Soviet Union

A photo of Reuven Rashkovsky from the book An Improbable Life: My Father’s Escape from Soviet Russia, by his daughter, Dr. Karine Rashkovsky. Here, Reuven is pictured with a MIG 19 Soviet fighter plane. At 18, he was drafted into the military, conscripted for three years.

Perusing the pages of the Independent’s predecessor, the Jewish Western Bulletin from the 1960s and ’70s, demonstrates the centrality of the movement for Soviet refuseniks in Jewish life of that time. Jewish communities in North America and elsewhere in the West were deeply devoted to the Jews behind the Iron Curtain who sought to emigrate to Israel and other places of freedom.

That movement, ultimately, was a largely Western phenomenon. In a new book, Vancouver’s Dr. Karine Rashkovsky shares her family’s story. An Improbable Life: My Father’s Escape from Soviet Russia, and others of its still-emerging genre, open the narrative to the stories from the other side of the Iron Curtain, those of the refuseniks who Western activists were trying to free.

The Soviet Union, Rashkovsky writes, was a country based on an ideology intended to eliminate ethnic and religious lines, but which counterintuitively insisted that every citizen’s internal passport indicate their nationality – and for Jews, regardless of their geographic origins, their nationality was “Jewish.” And that “nationality” meant slammed doors in the face of opportunity for those carrying that mark.

The book is a personal testimony – written by the daughter in the first person from the perspective of her father, Reuven – but it is also part of a larger story of the struggle of refuseniks and the lives they eventually made for themselves.

After his escape from the Soviet Union, Reuven fought in the Yom Kippur War, attained a PhD in Israel and France, and both he and his wife narrowly avoided being on the hijacked Air France flight that was the centre of the famous raid on Entebbe, Uganda.

In the preface, Reuven calls his life, “a kaleidoscope of hardships and failures.” But there are plenty of successes also.

Reuven’s parents were born in Bessarabia, in what is now Moldova. It was a highly multicultural area and they spoke German, Romanian, Yiddish, Hungarian, Ukrainian and Russian. When the Romanian fascists took over their town, the family fled, but went east to Odesa, rather than to Palestine or America.

When Germany invaded the USSR, Reuven’s father was drafted into the Red Army. His facility with languages put him in the intelligence unit and he assisted in interrogating prisoners of war. He was severely injured during a Luftwaffe bombing raid and, because he was an officer, the family was evacuated to a military hospital in Uzbekistan. There, he learned to walk again and returned to service, participating in the capture of Berlin, in March 1945. Reuven was born in Uzbekistan, in November 1945.

After the war, the family relocated to Belgorod-Dnestrovsky (now in Ukraine but under shifting sovereignty for centuries and known by at least 13 different names and transliterations over time). His father was a police officer and his mother worked 25 years in a fish cannery, which was relatively good fortune for the family in terms of providing protein, thanks to fish she smuggled out of the factory in her bra.

Eventually, they would be a family of seven, with five surviving children. At age 6, Reuven was responsible for taking care of his younger siblings all day while the parents were at work.

In response to antisemitic bullying, Reuven became a scrapper, taking his malnourished body to the gymnastics coach at school and forcing the coach, through the power of determination, to take on the unpromising-looking young Jew. As his biceps grew, the bullying receded. But the discrimination became more insidious and systemic.

In the home of a more well-off classmate, Reuven discovered books. Together, they devoured foreign works in translation, “free from Communist Party propaganda and boring Soviet patriotism.” This set Reuven on a trajectory of skepticism and dissidence that could have ended badly (and, along the way, did have bad moments – but ultimately resulted in freedom and a very successful life in the West).

Reuven’s teachers ascertained that he wasn’t a fan of the Communist Party and so he did not get a favourable reference for university. After 10th grade, he got a job at a slaughterhouse, then became an apprentice electrician. He began night school, where his facility with numbers shone and where his politics were not known and he might get a recommendation for university.

At 18, he was drafted into the military, conscripted for three years.

Eventually, the American allies of the refuseniks forced the American government to put conditions on the sale of American wheat, upon which the Soviet economy depended. The 1974 Jackson-Vanik Amendment tied trade in this necessary commodity to visas for Soviet Jews. Until then, of the several million Jews in the USSR at the time, just a few hundred had been permitted to leave.

Reuven was part of a group of about 25 Jewish youths who decided to hold a hunger strike to demand emigration. They took a petition to city hall and police soon blocked the exit. They were taken before authorities and subjected to “a long lecture on how inappropriate it was to think about leaving our Soviet paradise for Israel, that aggressor capitalist country, a puppet of America.”

When an interrogator threatened the group with imprisonment, one of the dissidents explained to the KGB officers why that was not a good idea.

“She calmly explained to him that we’d communicated with Western journalists and passed them our names and plans for the hunger strike. We’d also alerted these journalists to expect a phone call before midnight to tell them what had happened today. If we didn’t call them, they would tell the Western media about us. Katya went on to tell the colonels what would happen if we were arrested: America wouldn’t sign the contract for selling wheat to the Soviet Union, which would harm the whole country. And Moscow would come down hard on Odesa’s KGB for causing such a disaster.”

The next morning, Reuven and his family went to the government offices first thing. The entire family was granted the right to emigrate except for Reuven’s brother Fima, because he was serving in the army. But the authorities finally agreed that everyone would be allowed to emigrate after Fima’s military service. Reuven’s parents refused to abandon their son and decided that Reuven and his sister Hanna should go on ahead to Israel and the rest would follow later, which they eventually did.

Traveling through Moscow, at New Year’s 1971-’72, Reuven was put up at the apartment of a friend’s mother. There, he met Fania, who was visiting from Kyrgyzstan. She didn’t know anything about Israel and it had never crossed her mind to emigrate. A few shots of vodka in, Reuven told her he would be waiting to marry her if she ever decided to come to Israel.

“It was crazy of me to say such words – to offer marriage to the most innocent girl I ever met and one I had only known for hours – on my last evening in the Soviet Union,” he says. “Of course, I was both very stressed and excited that I was leaving the country, and I had been drinking quite a lot of vodka to relax a bit.”

That was the beginning of a happy 50-something-year marriage that continues today.

Freed of the Soviet Union’s antisemitic shackles, Reuven’s career took off. Hebrew University was looking for a Russian-speaking mathematician to teach first-year students, then he developed a curriculum for high schoolers with advanced math skills. An opportunity landed in his lap to teach at an elite Israeli school in Paris. Friends who had migrated to New York extended an invitation, which led to a side journey to Toronto, where Reuven’s career took another turn and the family became Canadian.

While they were living in Paris, Reuven was unable to attend his brother’s wedding in Israel, in June 1976, but Fania went. On his way to the airport to pick her up on her return, Reuven heard that terrorists had hijacked an Air France plane to Uganda. Reuven was beside himself. It turned out, Fania had missed the plane and was rebooked on a later El Al flight – but jammed phone lines prevented her from notifying Reuven for several days.

Jews of a certain age remember the fight for Soviet Jewry. The Rashkovskys’ book, An Improbable Life, is a story of what they were fighting for.

Rashkovsky is part of the JCC Jewish Book Festival on Feb. 24, 6 p.m., at the Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver, along with Sasha Vasilyuk, author of Your Presence Is Mandatory, a debut novel, based on real events, about a Ukrainian World War II veteran with a secret that could land him in the Gulag, and his family who are forced to live in the shadow of all he has not told them. Visit jccgv.com/jewish-book-festival.

Approaching final judgment

I know I have sinned. Haven’t we all? How then to achieve redemption when I have this whole mountain of transgressions looming over me? I can see it clearly every time I look in the mirror. Was it Yogi Berra who said, “Don’t look back, they may be gaining on ya”? Well, I do look back, and I do see the mountain of my failings.

My problem is that I don’t really, really believe that all those things on the pile are so bad. But then I think about “the Judge,” and hope that He is a reasonable entity. Haven’t I all sorts of mitigating circumstances that I could raise to alleviate any judgment? (I know the record in history shouldn’t lead me to be so confident.)

I have read that, in ancient times, He was pretty harsh because He had to be to prove a point. Rules were immutable. Those who erred against His rules were just erased. The earth opened up and swallowed them up. Some were turned to pillars of salt, some swept away by raging waters, impaled on the swords of the righteous who were rewarded, ravaged by plagues or the Angel of Death. All manner of things of a nasty kind were visited upon those who crossed Him. He sure hated to be contradicted.

But Abraham was able to negotiate some matters with Him, and Jacob wrestled with the angel and survived. Job was restored to his honoured state, and Jonah survived his defiance of the Almighty. David was even able to mollify Him in spite of his own heinous crimes, and he retained the honour of having a descendant who would usher in the End of Days.

Surely these are good signs. Why couldn’t I negotiate a soft landing? I have written some poems, like David, and I can’t imagine that my sins approach the gravity of his biggie. What about all my good will, my good intentions, the milk of human kindness that pours from my being – they have to count for something.

OK, obviously I will not be given the right to build the Third Temple in Jerusalem – and I’m not sure that’s a very good idea right about now, anyway. I also will not likely be recognized as a light upon my nation, or any nation. Even though I think some of my doings are worthy and my writings are prophetic and of divine origin. I have tried with all my might to be a hero. (Well, most of the time!)

I will be happy and satisfied if my grandchildren continue to speak to me, or at least say hello. I accept that mine will be a small life. It took me quite a few years to accept that the best things I ever produced were my children. And a great-grandchild! And I can’t even take all the credit for that.

I was hoping I would accomplish more, but I guess my spirit was too weak and small in size. I was hoping I would make some small mark on the wall of time. Now I would be satisfied if I could point to an unsigned abrasion. That’s how it is when reality sets in and we look around us at all the time that has flown. I ask myself, when is it that I will actually begin to do those world-shaking things that I had inwardly resolved, or foolishly promised, to do?

I will have to be content with the derring-do of my children and grandchildren. And my great-grandchild, the beautiful Shaked! Mayhap they will be blessed with those better elements of DNA that did not find their fruition in what I was able to offer.

I look forward to seeing it all when I have passed the final muster. I know I will have a real negotiating job to do. That may be my finest hour. After all, none of us knows the final outcome. Those with the strongest faith and belief carry forward what is essentially a fervent hope. I can join that congregation. I can look forward to the trial that defines my redemption. I can look forward to viewing the future that will become my children’s past. That is worth fighting for with all the heroic energy I can gather.

Whether or not the energy I consist of returns to the vast storehouse from which new lives are dispatched, I know that the DNA I leave behind will not be relegated to dead storage. I retain the hope, as do all who came before me, and follow after, that there are redeeming qualities in what I leave behind, whatever my personal fate.

I know that whatever the outcome for me regarding redemption, there will be some part of me that is reincarnated. We are all blessed by that potentiality. What a glorious vision that presents! I shall hope it is not watered down by my sins. I shall hope that my potentials will not suffer from my bull-headed insistence on attempting to negotiate a private treaty of redemption, that they will not be diluted as a punishment.

Yet, I do still hope to strike a better deal than I deserve for my delays, my prevarications, my impatience with the disciplines of orthodoxy, my confidence that time has tempered the rigidity of Mosaic law. No votes, please – there are so many who would speak out against me and so few to argue in my favour. I confess I have been seduced by the convenience of laxity in the face of strict religious practice.

Perhaps I can find a good lawyer. It is always a great idea to present a good case. I intend to be an active participant in my defence and to energetically press my case. I wonder what the rules are in that court of last resort. I intend to call my children and grandchildren as character witnesses.

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.