2013-05-25T06:58:48-04:00 Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=avrum-rosensweig Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Avrum Rosensweig Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1826486 2012-08-25T07:13:28-04:00 2012-10-25T05:12:06-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/ Sarah and Chaim Neuberger Holocaust Education Centre at the Lipa Green building in Toronto, with Ve'ahavta Street Academy (VSA) students. VSA is a school for the homeless and near homeless. It is operated by Ve'ahavta, the Canadian Jewish Humanitarian and Relief Committee.

I'm watching the students as Mike, our host, explains the history of the Second World War and the Holocaust. And I'm considering as I do, the questions VSA students, survivors of the street, might be asking as they listen to a presentation on the disenfranchisement of my people. What are addicts and former addicts thinking when Mike sums up his presentation saying, "This isn't a very happy story"?

I've just had a short talk with a student, a fellow who spent 17 years in American prisons including Folsum State Prison and San Quentin. He calls Gherda Frieberg, a survivor and our speaker today, "noble."

I'm sitting next to a stoic woman whose introduction into the sex trade began at 11 years old on the streets of Toronto. I ask her if any of this -- the video, the gruesome facts of the SS, shocks her. She said her father had told her a lot about the Holocaust. I asked her if what she just saw -- Germans beating children relentlessly -- reminded her of her own situation. She said, "I'll have to think about that."

"The world seemed to care as little about the Jews as did the Nazis," said the voiceover as we watched a film about the death of six million Jews.

I thought, this statement must resonate with our VSA students. But with all my curiosity about the effects of Nazi tyranny on the Jewish people, and the bravery of the Warsaw ghetto soldiers and the impact of film footage of the atrocities on the VSA students, I find myself getting smaller and smaller in my theatre chair. I'm a shrinking Jew.

I have tears in my eyes as children descend the cattle cars and women are stripped naked, their gold teeth extracted, their infants pulled from their arms. I am humiliated and so saddened by the savage experiments of Dr. Mengele and feel scared of the world and its efficient ability to mobilize against my people, should it want to.

I am heart broken once again hearing about the despicable "none is too many" refugee policy of the Canadian government, and how our government is revisiting selfish refugee policies today.

The girl next to me, the one who first turned a trick at 11 years old, is clapping as Gherda begins her lecture. Gherda is sombre. She is quiet. We have to stretch to hear her. Now the former sex worker is holding herself as one does when they feel they need to disassociate from our existence, what one intuitively does when watching one human being abuse another, be it inside the fence of a concentration camp or within a shabby apartment on Parliament Street in downtown Toronto.

Gerda is talking about her mother. She explains to our group that her mother was running around the house looking for a sweater to give to her husband as the Gestapo pulled him away. A sweater -- that garment of warmth, anathema to storm trooper boots and leather coats.

Gherda continues, "My sister was picked up. They came for me and took me to a concentration camps where we would work on spinning mills. My mother stood there, her husband gone and her children gone." She tells the VSA students sitting in the Holocaust Museum, "It is then we became homeless." What must everyone around me be thinking? They are homeless.

Gherda said that the Nazis took away my family, my friends, but on Yom Kipper we fasted. On Passover we used the bones from dead birds for the Pesach plate. "We watched the free birds flying above us. We were imprisoned only because we were Jews," Gherda lamented.

I'm looking around at our VSA students. One is rubbing her eyes. Another is twirling her hair barely visible in her seat. She too has slumped down.

"My victory," Gherda said, "is my children and grandchildren. But the killing doesn't stop in the world, Somalia, Sudan and now Syria. I feel the pain everyday. I lost 172 family members. And I still think it can happen here. Don't think otherwise."

Gherda was liberated on May 9. She is holding her head in her hands as she tells us this, as though it's the first time telling her story, while she says, "we wondered whether we should bring children into this world. But we did. We built a life. It took a lot of courage and strength. But in a country like Canada it was possible."

One of our students, who suffers some form mental illness, sits quietly and still. She is normally loquacious, chatty and fidgety.

Gherda concludes, "In a country like Canada, no matter how bad your life is, it's possible to make it better." Our VSA students listen. Some shake their head in agreement. Some stand up immediately and walk out. They seem overwhelmed.

Most of the VSA students approach Gherda and hug her. They all have tears in their eyes. Gherda hugs them back. They have all survived one more day.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1642154 2012-07-04T16:23:00-04:00 2012-09-03T05:12:07-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
A day before his arrival to Toronto I learned that Saudi Arabian sheiks were staying at the same hotel he was booked into. I therefore decided to call Shamir's staff in Montreal, where he was speaking, to determine if this was a breach of security.

I asked the hotel front desk if they would put me through to the Shamir party. The phone rang and the voice that answered sounded distinctly like that of the second longest serving prime minister in Israel, Yitzchak Shamir. It was gruff and deep, not one easily mistaken.

I said, "Hello". The response came quickly, and seemed annoyed. "Hello." It was then I realized I was talking to the successor of Menachem Being, a the man responsible for Operation Solomon, which brought 14,000 Ethiopian Jews to Israel in 48 hours only days before a coup in Addis Ababa.

"Is this Mr. Shamir?" I asked. He replied it was. I searched for the words I needed to deliver. Instead I stated: "Mr. Shamir, this is Avrum Rosensweig. I am co-coordinating your trip to Toronto. I've followed your career, and you've done quite a job."

He was gracious and replied "thank you". Finally I said, "I'm sorry to bother you sir, but some sheiks are staying at the hotel we have you booked for you in Toronto and I'd like to know if we should move you." He replied, "That is for my staff to deal with. Please call back." He hung up. I was sweating.

I called back a moment later. Again, it was that voice, the one that dealt with the follow-up to the Camp David Accords with Ronald Reagan in the Oval Office and negotiated the immigration of a hundreds of thousands of Jews from the former Soviet Union.

Once again Shamir said hello. But this time, someone answered the other line simultaneously. It was Shulamit, his (late) wife. She said hello too. All of a sudden I was privy to a very brief and quirky conversation between the former prime minister of Israel and the former first lady. Annoyed, they questioned one another as to why the other was calling from a room only meters away.

I privately enjoyed the repartee between the two, one which would never make the history books, but was mine to archive. I remained very still and quiet on the line. They hung up, and so did I.

Finally I called hotel security directly. Soon enough Shamir's security team called me back and we dealt with the problems at the front desk in Montreal and the issue of his hotel in Toronto.

I met Mr. Shamir at the doors of his new hotel, the Royal York. He was pleasant. We entered the elevator. I remember my nerves and thinking what if we get stuck, what would we talk about? Should I ask him why he refused to retaliate against Saddam Hussein during the 1991 Scud missile attacks, or would that be silly?

While we rode the lift I explained to Shamir that I was the one who had called him in Montreal, asking if we should change hotels. He replied to me, "Oh you are the one who caused such a revolution in my life." I had nowhere to hide in that ancient relic of an elevator and sheepishly smiled and apologized.

***

Shamir's speeches were done and the very brawny contingents from metro police, the RCMP, the OPP, and the anti-terrorist squad had gone home, He was packed up and I bid him adieu at the entrance to his hotel room. I extended my hand to this person who had once led the Stern Gang, a pre-Israel hardline underground group. I presented this diminutively tall man with a century old book on the Torah from my diseased father's library. He would have liked that. My father was very right wing. Mr. Shamir thanked me and seemed genuinely appreciative. I then said to him, "I'm sorry to have caused such a revolution in your life," He replied, "I wish that all the revolutions in my life had caused such little damage."

He smiled. The elevator doors opened up and the man whose name meant "thorn that stabs and a rock that can cut steel" was gone.

***

I did one walk through of his room to see if I could find anything of interest. He had forgotten my father's book. I was a tad perturbed. As I walked out of his hotel room it struck me how much I was in awe of people like Yitzchak Shamir who were giants in their time, with a unique ability to hold an entire people on their shoulders and fight for Israel's very existence.

Yitzchak Shamir died on June 30th, 2012. The revolutions he fought in his lifetime stirred up many. The revolution I caused in his life gave him pause to smile.









.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1643804 2012-07-03T14:09:01-04:00 2012-09-02T05:12:16-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
We surfed the internet and came upon an instructional YouTube video on the secrets of creating this very thirst quenching summer drink.



My boy's beautiful little hands squeezed and twisted the lemons extracting the juice we would sell for 50 cents a cup. After boiling water and sugar, pouring the lemon concentrate into the pot along with some cold water and ice-cubes, and having Booby do a taste-test (at which time her mouth turned down all sour-like; so we added more sugar) our product was ready.

We created a sign to affix to a tree stating: A Lemonade Stand with a Smile, and prepared a melange of nuts and raisins to give away for free.

One of the key things required for our stand, I told my precious child, was a box of his money for change. I explained that if someone gave us a five dollar bill we would dive into the box and fish out $4.50 and return it to them. It was then the struggle began.

My son asked me why we would give people our money. I tried to understand his perspective and gave another example of giving change, drawing upon our experiences at No Frills with the cashier. As much as I presented the fundamentals of SK Economics (senior kindergarten) my son couldn't adjust to the idea that we would give away pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, loonies and toonies that he loved so much.

A week prior, we had counted all of his change on the floor of his lime green and sky blue room and discovered that he had over $200. One of the coins dated back to 1943. In my son's rationally magic mind the coins were his, and giving them away to a passerby was tantamount to tossing a Backyardigan doll over the balcony. Why would we do that?


I stretched my Daddy-explanation muscles as taut as they would go, in an attempt to convince my son there was no other way to operate a profitable lemonade stand. But then it occurred to me that the idea of entrepreneurialism was exciting me, not him. My son is a collector and like many children, given the chance, he would gather and fill up our entire condo with tennis balls, because they are his favourite balls. He wouldn't sell them.

This refreshing concept became clearer later on in the day when he asked me if we might somehow find a million green, yellow and orange tennis balls by the side of the road, to keep and play with. I tried to temper his dream a tad and added that his idea was fantastic because we could open a tennis stand and sell a bunch of them to other tennis ball lovers. Once again, he looked at me with a puzzled and quizzical face and said, "Daddy, why would we sell the tennis balls. I love them so much?"

So there it was. On Canada Day 2012, something stunning occurred on a quiet street in North York.

My little collector and I gave away the lemonade, for free!

Every time a person walked by our wagon, instead of requesting the vast sum of 50 cents for the once to sour drink, we wished them "Happy Canada Day" and happily handed the individual lemonade we made from scratch. And it worked. Most of the passersby accepted the offer. The anxious woman walking her Shelties smiled widely after sipping our lemon libation and nodded in appreciation.

The young Mexican man, going off to work on our national holiday, said "muchas gracias" and "mmmm," followed by a "Happy Canada Day" acknowledgment. The mid-aged Pilipino woman with artistically painted toenails handed a cup to her elderly Russian, Latin professor friend in a wheelchair, while both of them congratulated us on our spirit and Canadian goodwill.

We received compliments on how "real" the lemonade tasted and how fortunate we are to live in a country like Canada, where free lemonade is still accepted from people we don't know.

Canada Day 2012 was special to my son and me because we offered a creation of our own to our fellow Canadians, with a price tag of joy and unity. By taking the money out of the equation a whole new world opened up to us, one in which sharing and lemons were the main ingredient, and the outcome, a stronger sense of brotherhood and sisterhood between us and our neighbors.

There is something to be said about being a collector of money, rather than a merchant banker. My son taught me that, or perhaps he reminded me of it that on Canada Day 2012, a most memorable and thirst quenching day.

(Please let me know please, if you have a million tennis balls to spare. Thanks.)]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1625713 2012-06-27T08:10:00-04:00 2012-08-27T05:12:06-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
I love Canada every time I stare at the expanse outside my balcony and see 80-foot Maples blowing in the wind. It is then I realize our's is a country flowing with beauty and majesty. I loved Canada even more, the morning I arrived in Vancouver and saw the North Shore Mountains in the distance and was amazed at the utter splendour of our home, our Native land. We are oh-so-handsome.

I love Canada because I have sat in a circle with our Aboriginal brothers and sisters and listened to their teachings of Turtle Island and heard the mightiness of their drums. We are a country blessed with very rich roots.

I love Canada as a Jew, because religious Jews can walk to synagogue on Shabbat with their side curls and religious garb visible to all unlike France where such a display could be dangerous. We are a 'multifaith' country. אני אוהב את קנדה (Hebrew: I love Canada)

I love Canada even though we have not entirely accepted our blemishes particularly having to do with Residential Schools, because I know we will. We are a nation that understands growth.

I love Canada because our popular last names are Smith, Singh and Ng.

I love Canada because our citizens in St. John, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island practice hospitality as heartily as Middle Easterners, even when they have 12 children and are having a tough time making ends meet. We can be a warm people. Lord tunderin.

I love Canada because I have seen the results of the tsunami in Sri Lanka and know that Canada has few natural disasters. Canadians are such a fortunate people. And we wish others well. And we help.

I love Canada because our cuisine includes pad Thai, sushi, burritos, cholent, fettuccini, duck l'orange and Toad in a Hole. We are always hungry for a creative dish.

I love Canada because of Quebec and its splendour, distinct nature, its joie de vivre and its most attractive and stylishly dressed people. J'aime le Canada.

I love Canada because I was born here and one normally embraces his/her birthplace even when a government policy is unkind or credit card interest rates are unfairly high. This is my home and whenever I fill out a form which includes my p.o.b. the answer is always -- CANADA.

Why you #LoveCanada


25 Reasons For Loving Canada
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1619485 2012-06-23T00:00:25-04:00 2012-08-22T05:12:22-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
A creative writing contest for the homeless with a top prize of $2000. Really?

About a decade ago, Veahavta, the Canadian Jewish Humanitarian and Relief Committee, launched a contest for the homeless. It was a writing contest and anyone who lived on or near the street (jumping from bed to bed) could enter.

Veahavta's volunteer-led workshops in a dozen different shelters and drop-in centres are encouraging people to enter. And they did. In its first year, 20 people entered and were judged for their prose and poetry.

People thought it was unusual to offer such a contest to individuals who worry day-in and day-out about surviving. But the homeless found sense in the contest. Over the years, more and more men and women submitted and word got around that the odds of winning a prize -- about 10:1 -- were good.

The homeless understood that they have a voice and what they had to say about their lives. The abuse, the camaraderie on the street, the government agencies set up to help them, their relationships and a plethora of other insights, were worth writing and reading.

They recognized that Veahavta was serious about the contest, and proof was in their choices of judges which have included Tony Blair, Mia Farrow, Michael Ondaatje, Ron Maclean of Hockey Night in Canada, Pat Capponi, Steve Paikin and spiritual leader, Eli Rubenstein.


In 2005, Theresa Schrader, a prostitute and crack addict entered the contest. Theresa figured it was time to turn her life around after building a five page rap sheet and losing two children to children's aid. There was only one way her life could go, and that was up.

Theresa was homeless for 10 years, which gave her lots of time to think. She put pen to paper and began to write, and what flowed out of her was a story about a John who beat the hell out of her and left her for dead. Theresa wrote that her first thought after the thrashing was how she was going to score some crack, and how the cop who showed up at the scene exhibited great caring. She won $1000 at the time. She took the money and partied and then that was it. Theresa was done. Finished. Her days as a crack addict and sex-worker were over and her new life began.

Today, Theresa is in the employ of Veahavta. She is responsible for the creative writing contest for the homeless, and is the founder and administrator of Veahavta's Street Academy, a school for the homeless in partnership with George Brown College. Theresa is beautiful.

In 2012, the prizes, sponsored by corporations and families including Kernels Popcorn and Camp Manitou, were given out at the Parkdale Activity-Recreational Centre. Toronto Argonaut great, Pinball Clements showed up and encouraged the audience made up of homeless participants, philanthropists and volunteers, to recognize that "they are perfect just the way they are."

To encourage his point, Pinball said, "My little girl told her mom that she didn't want her feet to grow. Her mom asked her why over and over again until she finally got the answer out of our daughter. She replied, 'because daddy said he loves me just the way I am'".

"Through all my trials and tribulations, I embrace life with jubilation. Life is short as I know, but if I fall I'll take the blow. Be true to yourself. Do not take shit. Do not ever give up." - A Creative Writing Contest Participants

The Jewish people have been called the "People of the Book". Essentially this means we are a curious lot, intellectualize in abundance, read a lot and investigate the soulfulness of life. It made sense, therefore for Veahavta to establish a creative writing contest for the homeless to encourage those people living on or near the street to do the same, develop their minds and souls. The believe was that writing down one's thoughts and feelings might in of itself be a solution to homelessness. Theresa has proven that to be true.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1638751 2012-06-03T08:22:45-04:00 2012-08-03T05:12:17-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/ a powerful letter to Prime Minister Stephen Harper. They asked the federal government to cancel its plans to cut basic medication for refugees. They also spoke out against the idea of designating specific countries as "safe," and therefore unlikely to produce valid refugee claimants. Under new rules to take effect on Canada Day, refugees from designated countries will no longer have access to even emergency health care, and will effectively lose the right to appeal the results of their refugee hearings.

Later in June, the Canadian Jewish News published an article about the letter, along with a response from federal Citizenship and Immigration Minister Jason Kenney. On behalf of Canada's more than 26,000 family physicians and refugee lawyers across the country, we'd like to take this opportunity to respond to Minister Kenney's comments.

As members of Canada's Jewish community, we'd also like to express our pride in Toronto's rabbis. As a community, Jewish Canadians do not want to see refugees denied health care. We also do not want to see the doors shut to refugees fleeing persecution and violence in countries like Hungary. Rabbis, you represented our community well, and we thank you.

*People from "Designated Countries" (DCOs) will not lose access to urgent, essential and emergency care until the DCO policy takes effect, which may be a matter of some months. In addition, according to Citizenship and Immigration Canada, people from DCO countries who made their refugee claims before June 30th will still receive the same coverage as most refugees even after the DCO policy comes into effect.

Dr. Sandy Buchman is President of the College of Family Physicians of Canada, which represents more than 26,000 family physicians nation-wide.

Maureen Silcoff is a refugee lawyer, member of the Canadian Association of Refugee Lawyers and former member of the Immigration and Refugee Board. She represents many Roma clients fleeing violence in Hungary.

Dr. Sandy Buchman on Minister Kenney's statements around cuts to refugee health care:

Minister Kenney: "I've been in parliament for 15 years, and I don't recall ever receiving a letter from the Toronto Board of Rabbis suggesting Canadians' lives are jeopardized by not having public insurance for 'life-saving medications.' I find it peculiar they would choose to raise this concern for rejected asylum claimants or those with [fraudulent] claims."


Dr. Buchman: The federal government is cutting off basic medications for active refugee claimants under the Interim Federal Health Program (IFHP). In addition, Canadian citizens have access to basic medications through various provincial social assistance and subsidy programs.

The College of Family Physicians and Surgeons has issued a formal statement on this issue. We oppose the federal government's decision to cancel supplemental health benefits for refugee claimants under the Interim Federal Health Program, and we call on the federal government to reverse this decision.

Minister Kenney: "I don't see anyone arguing that we have a moral, legal or humanitarian obligation to provide taxpayer-funded health insurance to people visiting Canada or illegal immigrants."

Dr. Buchman: The federal government never provided health care for visitors or people without legal status in Canada. They are cutting off basic medication, preventative health care -- and, in some cases, emergency care -- for people with active refugee claims.

Minister Kenney: In his interview, the Minister states that Hungarian asylum seekers come to Canada in part to get supplemental health benefits.

Dr. Buchman: Doctors are telling us that Roma people fleeing Hungary are arriving with diagnoses and prescriptions. In other words, they have access to health care in Hungary -- that's not why they're coming to Canada.

Minister Kenney: "Refugees coming from countries in the European Union, where they have universal health care coverage, will have to get their own health insurance..."

Dr. Buchman: Exactly. Roma refugees are not coming here for the health care.

Maureen Silcoff on Minister Kenney's statements around cuts to refugee health care:

Hungary is widely expected to be on the list of designated countries. Refugees from designated countries will lose their right to even emergency health care and will be effectively denied the right to appeal their refugee hearings.

Minister Kenney: The article states that, 'In April, Kenney said he believed many Roma claimants from Hungary were making false claims...'

Maureen Silcoff: Over the past three years, I have represented many Roma clients from Hungary. They are assaulted on the streets by neo-Nazis. They show me photographs of swastikas spray-painted on their homes along with death threats. They are kicked, shoved and beaten by skinheads on the buses. Molotov cocktails are thrown into their homes.

These types of incidents are corroborated by all major international human rights agencies, which have also documented that police do very little to protect Roma and are, in fact, themselves implicated in abuse. Recently, we have also heard about an upswing of anti-Semitic rhetoric and activities in Hungary. The government itself has espoused anti-Semitism. Hungary is simply not a safe country for minority groups.

Minister Kenney: "One cannot, nor does our new system propose, to reject claims from [designated countries] as this letter suggests."

Maureen Silcoff: Refugees from designated countries will have very little time to prepare for their hearings. In addition, they will effectively lose their right of appeal. Finally, by stating publicly, and often, that refugee claimants from Hungary and other designated countries are 'unqualified,' the Minister casts a chill over refugee claims from these countries.

It is also worth noting that the federal government's criteria for designating a country as 'safe' under Bill C-31 does not take into account human rights conditions. Canada is the only country in the world to establish 'safe countries' without factoring in their records on human rights.

Minister Kenney: The article states that, Kenney questioned rhetorically why Hungarian citizens seeking refuge from their state didn't take advantage of their "full mobility rights" within the European Unison.

Maureen Silcoff: People from EU countries can't make asylum claims in other EU countries. France is deporting Roma people. They can't simply go live where they want.

Minister Kenney: "Thousands of unqualified claimants consume massive resources..."

Maureen Silcoff: Roma refugee claimants from Hungary are not unqualified. There is a well-documented rise of fascism in Hungary. People are facing violence on a daily basis because of who they are.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1472862 2012-05-06T00:00:49-04:00 2012-07-05T05:12:02-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
While there are many positive developments over the last few generations having to do with human interaction, such as multiculturalism and the integration of people of all backgrounds in our society, the one area we will be remembered for negatively is our decision to marginalize our elderly and demonize the process and reality of growing old.

One day Western society will be remembered for our inelegance in managing our older people.

I saw the loneliness in the eyes of our elderly when I conducted religious services at a local home for the aged. It is a loneliness that stems from familial, societal and communal abandonment and it looked oh-so grey.

Imagine you are 80, someone who loved socializing with friends, all of whom are now gone. The phone rings -- it is a young man selling time-shares. You talk for a long while and ask him to call tomorrow, because you need to look forward to something.

Imagine you are 85. Your mind is rich with wisdom, knowledge and advice accrued from decades of life experiences, such as the escape you made from your homeland with a baby in your arms, or getting your children through school by working three jobs.

Yet at the end of your days you sit alone in a room of insulting space waiting for a melodramatic soap opera on TV so you can stifle the noise in your geriatric mind that speaks so loudly about days past.

We have abandoned our old folk, and done so effectively. Why? They are not wounded animals wandering off to the forest to lick their wounds and die. Seniors are not ugly because of their wrinkles or yellowing fingernails. Their folds and crinkles are exquisite like the trunks of an aging redwood.

We are the unsightly ones, sad and tragic members of this silly "Botox age," committed to the absurd and fleeting dogma of physical perfection. Mark Twain said, "Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been." He was right.

We need to reverse the disrespect we have shown our elderly. We need to apologize in an authentic manner so that our seniors believe us. We then need to take our aging family members out of the Home for the Aged, so that they don't sit alone, bemoaning the final chapters of their lives and gagging over that putrid smell of sterility. Let them feel surrounded by the love they introduced us to.

None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.
~ Henry David Thoreau

For those we cannot bring home, we need to establish regular visiting programs through our synagogues, churches, mosques, schools and families. Let us adopt the practices of Natives who bestow the valued title of "elder" upon their aged, and from Asians who position their matriarchs and patriarchs in places of honor by asking them for advice with serious intent. Let us do the same with our elderly.

Let us revisit a model of reverence and value for the aged that integrates senior men and women back into our community and props them up as our wise leaders and teachers. Let's give back to our seniors what they so deserve: respect.

My Aunt Sylvia, of blessed memory, used to say, "This business of growing old is not a very nice one." And she knew what she was taking about because she lived until she was 93 years old.

Sylvia knew what it felt like to be looked on as an "old woman," because she had been sexy and attractive in her earlier days. She knew people would often speak to her like "the old lady" because her mind was like a steel-trap -- healthy and sharp, right up until her last days.

Soon we will be the elderly. We need to prepare. Let us do so knowing our natural inheritance includes weakened and spindly legs and a spine that will curve like the bend of a ram's horn. Let us be conscious of the fact that youth is followed closely by the creases, and wisdom, of age.

A positive generational legacy is crucial. Ours will be incomplete if it does not include great honor and respect for our elderly, and an acceptance of the mistakes we have made in our handling and mismanaging of our seniors.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1429988 2012-05-04T10:30:07-04:00 2012-07-04T05:12:04-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
We learned that of the Americans who served in the war, 58,220 soldiers were killed and 150,000 were wounded. We knew thousands of Americans came here to avoid the draft. We remember the fatal shooting at Kent State University, the riots at the 1968 Democratic Convention and the 1968 massacre at My Lai by Lieutenant William Calley. What we don't remember is the fact that between one and three million Vietnamese were killed, and that others were affected by this pugnacious battle.

One of them walked into my home the other day to install California shutters.

He was born in 1960, the same year as I was. His name is Thic* and he remembers well the corpses piled up outside his home after America changed her policy and pulled out her troops.

Thic told me he was "scared" throughout his childhood in Saigon. Today he often zones out recalling his family's bombed house and the dead and dying just inches away from him.

"I wake up just seeing the dead people," he said as he measured my windows. Thic is anxious. A little shirty. He is tired.

The elegance in his demeanour, though, reminded me of Phan Thị Kim Phúc, the little girl in the famous picture, running down a road naked near Trảng Bàng, after a napalm bomb was dropped on her village June 8, 1972.

I interviewed Phan a few years ago on a radio show called: Marty & Avrum: The Food Guys. She was the face of the war, but today she is mostly another quiet forgotten survivor of just another atrocious war fought in our world. What I remember about her is that she was truly lovely and respectful, even of those who attacked her village.

I think of the people on our Native reserves, in Rwanda, Cambodia, the Congo, Liberia, Sudan and in South America where massacres were as popular as omelettes. I think of genocides who chuckled like tricksters who get away with pulling the chair out from under the clown.

I wonder how those people are doing, what they might be fixing in people's homes and how they're sleeping.

I think of how many survivors are walking around our planet with their pain and suffering overshadowed by statistics and historical accounts focused on battles, the costs and the effects of those far-away wars on our oil bills.

Our world is populated by Thics. Today they can be found in places like South Sudan where children are butchered, or crawling off to the thickets with machete slashes to their heads.

Their childhoods, like Thic's, have been stolen from them.

One day, one of those grown-up children might just deliver a deep-dish pizza to your home, or lay some laminate down in your Florida home, only months after jumping a vessel in a Canadian harbour and finding a room to live in.

When you see that scar on his cheek, asks him about it. (I wonder if Holocaust survivors were asked by strangers about the concentration camp numbers on their arms?) Once you've heard their stories, figure that he is suffering alone.

Then introduce him to someone in your community, maybe a person who has suffered through a war. Give him some moments of solace knowing that others care and want to make his life better.

Get some new blinds. Help the Thics.


*name changed]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1434205 2012-04-19T11:13:19-04:00 2012-06-19T05:12:01-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/ Thursday, April 19th is Yom Ha'Shoah, a day when we remember those who perished during the Holocaust. "A Sunny Day in Auschwitz" is a short story about a woman, a child, who was one of six milllion Jews to die at the hands of the Nazis. On Yom Ha'Shoah, we think of every human being murdered under Hitler's regime, and remind ourselves of the forces of evil that exist in our world today, with a commitment to challenge them, and fight them wherever they may be. May we all come together as a world, a community in peace and harmony.

A Sunny Day in Auschwitz

It was a cool spring day, and the sunlight shone kindly down on Auschwitz. Beyond the barbed wire, villagers walked briskly to church in their Sunday finest.

Eva walked in queue with the other women and children toward "the showers," a place the adults knew was the gas chamber. They were 200 meters away.

A beautiful, young Hungarian Jewess took a rebellious step sideways, and the guards yelled, "Keep the line straight."

Eva considered the peculiarity of the guards' demand while people walked to their death. It was exaggerated, and reminded her of the chastising she had received from her German music professor in Budapest for scratching her nose during her finest piano recital ever. "What a strange culture," she thought.

Eva felt a tap on her arm. She looked down and saw the cherubic face of a disheveled little boy. He didn't want to be alone in Auschwitz.

"Have you ever wanted to fly like a bird?" Eva asked in Yiddish.

The boy looked up at the hideously gaunt woman. He nodded his head and said, "I've always wanted wings, but never knew how to get them." Eva hid her giggle.

"Here's what you do," she replied. "When you're in the shower, and it starts getting hard to breathe -- you know, like when your head is stuck in a pillow -- take the biggest breath you can," she showed him, "and soon afterwards you will find your wings. Okay?"

The little boy assured her with an impish wink he would do just that. They were 100 meters away from the showers.

Eva lifted her eyes up to the sun and remembered the warm waters of the Danube flowing through her toes. She could hear her mother and sister's embarrassingly loud laughter as they splashed about in the waves. Her father's dignified and splendid face appeared to her and she smelled the familiar aroma of vanilla and cinnamon on his hands. His fingers touched her face.

"Eva," the baker said to his daughter, "one day when you need to be protected and I cannot be there to help, promise me you will say the words of the Shema in my place."

The proud daughter promised the noble man, and kissed his hands.

The shower was 50 meters away. The little boy squeezed Eva's hand. She knelt down so as to become small, and caressed his muddied forehead. "Vos is dine nomin? What is your name?" she asked.

"Sol," the little Jewish boy replied.

"Well Sol, pleased to meet you. My name is Eva, and I'm happy to be your friend."

The little boy seemed quite pleased to have made a new friend, and skipped and hopped, quite undisciplined, in and out of the line. The guards missed Sol's outburst.

They reached the showers. Eva directed Sol inside and turned for a moment, searching for a glimpse of humanity in the eyes of the guard. The doors closed, and the women cried. The air became thinner, and Sol breathed as hard as he could. Eva raised her head and sang "Shemah Yisrael HaShem Elokeinu HaShem Echad, Hear O Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One."

The doors swung open, and Eva glided out into the fresh air. Sol flew by her at top speed, and shouted to his new friend that he had followed her instructions and found his wings.

"Wow, Sol! You look like you've been flying forever," she yelled back.

A peacefulness began to settle in Eva's soul. She flew past the showers, the barracks, and the train tracks, and saw everyone who had ever come to Auschwitz, and their lives before. Eva sobbed for the Jewish people. She cried for humanity and she roared furiously, "I know we can do better."

Her spirit rose above Auschwitz. It had done so in life, and it did so in death.

It was a sunny day in Auschwitz, and children played beyond the barbed wire.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1423536 2012-04-15T00:19:09-04:00 2012-06-14T05:12:01-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/ Hockey Night in Canada, stood in a classroom at George Brown College (GBC) and told the story of Frank O'Dea, the co-founder of Second Cup, who was at one time a homeless panhandler living on the streets of Toronto. Ten students listened carefully to the account and watched as Maclean simultaneously jotted a phone number on the blackboard.

"Frank got off the street," the hockey commentator said, "because he had mentors who helped him. "This is my home phone number." Maclean pointed to the blackboard. "If any of you ever need help please feel free to call me or my wife," he concluded.

The men and women Maclean was speaking to were all students of Ve'ahavta's Street Academy (VSA), a school for the homeless or near-homeless started in 2011. Maclean is the co-chairperson together with local Jewish community members, Paul Lindzon and Karen Ehrlich.

VSA is one of the most successful programs of a local non-profit called Ve'ahavta: The Canadian Jewish Humanitarian & Relief Committee which was started in 1996. Its mission statement is to encourage all peoples to play a role in "tikkun olam," repairing the world.

Maclean joined the school's leadership team after hosting a Ve'ahavta gala and has lectured at each one of the three eight-week sessions. His explanation for doing so is a philosophical one and rooted in the concept that we are all somehow connected and responsible for one another. I asked him to illustrate his belief. He responded: "Avrum, a track and field sprint relay coach Mike Murray of Vancouver liked to say, 'The power in each of us comes from all of us.' That's VSA. When I'm in the classroom, there are always two teachers in the room."

Maclean added that he finds it easy to reveal his true character at VSA knowing that "each student by virtue of his or her attendance had the courage to do likewise."

And he's right. I have also taught VSA classes and when I did I learned that my students were men and women who have had brutal lives right here in Canada, and the fact that they still had hope and enough gumption to apply and attend VSA was huge. Their stories reminded me of those I've heard from Holocaust survivors and victims of torture.

One student in the sex trade said her goal was simply to be normal after having suffered an entire life of sexual and mental abuse. Another learner told me about the day his alcoholic father walked him, as a 10-year old, to Children's AID and left him there. A third student shared with the class how at 14 years old she would have to step over her cracked-out mother lying on the floor, to exit their apartment and go to school.

Indeed it takes a lot of bravery to commit to attending a formal school setting knowing that failure is a real possibility. I consider my own fears of looking silly in front of an audience I'm speaking to or falling down in front of my peers. I appreciate what Maclean meant -- "the courage to do likewise."

VSA was the brainstorm of Theresa Schrader, a former prostitute and crack addict. Two years ago she called me with a request for a summer job after winning Ve'ahavta's Creative Writing Contest for the Homeless and cleaning up her life. I told her about an article I had read in the New York Times of a man who gave philosophy courses in the streets of the Big Apple and how it might be a good idea for us to do something similar -- to launch a school on the streets of Toronto. The Jewish people are called "the People of the Book" and I figured appealing to the intellect of those living on or near the street could strengthen their core and soul and perhaps be a solution to their homelessness and suffering.

Schrader agreed but with her characteristic moxxy challenged me by saying it would be wiser to take the school inside to a controlled environment and call it an "Academy," a place of higher learning for older students.

After some finagling with my board VSA was born. GBC became our full partners and offered our students all the advantages of the college's regular students including a gym and library pass. We decided we would pay the students to study so they wouldn't have to worry about income for that period of time. (In the Orthodox Jewish world men will often get paid to learn Torah. This system of pay-and-learn is called Kolell). We would bring in catered food every day so they wouldn't be hungry when they learned and we would buy the students a metropass so travel would not be an issue.

Schrader assembled a very reputable cadre of teachers including Michael Cooke, the former vice-president of Academics of GBC, Harvard-educated Elan Divon, and local businessman and philanthropist, Michael Diamond. Class themes include: communications, life skills, awareness, diversity, academics, hope and inspiration.

Ve'ahavta hopes to enhance VSA so that it becomes a full-time school for the homeless and possibly franchise the concept around the world as a way of rescuing people from the horrors of living on the street by building their confidence through a worthy intellectual pursuit.

"For those hours together (at VSA), we're in an honest, loving moment which we can hold going forward to settle us in storms....That someone will love us, and that we may love them. " - Ron Maclean

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1415587 2012-04-10T14:36:36-04:00 2012-06-10T05:12:01-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/ apology on behalf of the board of Maple Leafs Sports & Entertainment needs to be analyzed to be understood.

He begins by thanking "you" for your "unwavering passion and loyalty" to the Leafs. By doing so, he clearly sets a hierarchical tone for this letter found on the Leaf's website -- he being the boss, and we the fan and consumer. It is a wise move, similar to Crest expressing appreciation for our regular brushing with their product. Interestingly, in his next line, "Like every fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs," Tanenbaum aligns and endears himself with the regular folks who pay a tidy little fortune to attend the very disappointing Leaf Games. In the first paragraph, Tanenbaum wisely switches his identification from owner to fan letting us know he is suffering too.

He goes on to say, "The Toronto Maple Leafs are a public trust with the greatest fans in the world." Wikipedia defines public trust as follows: "The concept of the public trust....is that within the public lies the true power and future of a society; therefore, whatever trust the public places in its officials must be respected." One would think Tanenbaum is suggesting, we the fans, have some say in the construction and future of the team.

While it is true that a mass protest and refusal to attend Leaf games would likely shift ownership and management direction, the truth is the Leafs are a company, run by a board of directors -- and quite profitable at that. While the apology issued by Tanenbaum is a nice thing to do -- referred to by one tweeter as '"classy" -- this particular line is simply not true. Leaf ownership has shown time and time again that they do not take the public into consideration when determining their plans or price points -- the most expensive in the hockey world.

Leaf's nation has been dying for a real star, like Rick Nash, to join the team for many years. They have voiced their opinion on blogs, tweets and phone-in shows, and then waited patiently until the trade deadline. It came and went and public trust was once again eroded. The team did not respond to the community's outcry.

The third paragraph is the most difficult to understand. Tanenbaum states, "Ownership believes in the plan for the Maple Leafs." In that same paragraph he writes, "We are 100% committed to ensuring we ice a team that competes with the NHL's best." These two statements appear to be contradictory. The plan mapped out by Brian Burke, obviously with ownership's stamp of approval, didn't work.

If this is the plan Tanenbaum is referring to, how are we to take this apology? If it is not his "100% commitment" to creating a team that is competitive in the best hockey league in the world, now would have been a good time to let us, the fans, know how it might look. Clearly, Burke is here to stay as well as most of the 2011/2012 lineup.

The apology falls flat at its conclusion. Once again, Tanenbaum hurls accolades at we, the fans (which now includes him), by saying, "Maple Leafs are privileged to have such passionate and loyal fans. We do not take that for granted. " This is the second time Tanenbaum compliments the people paying the gate and adding millions to the coiffeurs of a very weak team, in the hottest hockey market, after missing the playoffs seven years in a row. It's like the minister handing around the hat during services, thanking the parishioners for their generosity, while rain drops drip through the broken church roof once again.

The apology letter issued by Tanenbaum was a decent thing to do. He might have considered, however, including general manager Brian Burke's signature on it, and even the captain Dion Phaneuf's, to enhance the effectiveness of the message. Further, in a press conference, the team's coach said he hadn't seen the letter before it was posted. He should have.

Words however, at this point are not enough. Like the New York Mets who have lowered seasons tickets for 2012, it would behoove Maple Leaf Sports & Entertainment to do the same for single tickets and the exorbitant cost of ACC food and their licensed sporting goods.

A more sincere apology at this point in the lives of Leaf's fan would be felt if our team's ownership sacrificed something of their own, and that would likely mean cash.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1392115 2012-04-09T08:41:57-04:00 2012-06-09T05:12:01-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
My colleagues and I were surprised Warren lasted so long on the streets, and when he passed away last Halloween, we quietly shared the sentiment "perhaps this is good; maybe Warren has found peace."

Warren, about 45, lived near my organization's -- Ve'ahavta's -- former offices at Yonge and Eglinton. He was on the streets for a long time and became a straggly impish, rascally elfin of a man. In some ways Warren was what we expect homeless people to be -- disheveled and unaware. In other ways, he was like you and me.

What happened in Warren's world? It's difficult to say other than the fact he drank, had epilepsy and was appreciated by most of the locals, businesspeople and many of the police and EMS. His baseball hat sat starkly in the middle of the walkway and seemed to jingle with enough coins for a meal -- a solid measurable for investor confidence in a panhandler.

(Warren was entrepreneurial. The word on the street was that he stashed cash. Sometimes this effusive gentle man complained that the hospitals were cheap, not providing him tokens to get home -- an underground parking lot.)

Warren loved his mother and would visit her on weekends. I was always perturbed though at why a mother wouldn't take in her son. I imagined she was likely worse off than he was. One winter morning he told me his mother had died. A few months later he said he had been with his mother, at her place, the night before. (A long time ago, I stopped asking about the inconsistencies in street people's stories.)

Warren used to be a manager of a Sporting Life. He would walk the floors of this busy and upbeat store no doubt encouraging staff to educate themselves on the various sweat suit weaves. Then, later on, after the fits took over, we'd frequently find Warren sitting on the pavement with a gash to his forehead, or deep cuts on his fingers. These two disparate images were challenging.

(Warren would tell us that there were times when "regular" folk would walk by him and hit him just like that. He explained that they seemed to resent him for being homeless. He figured he must have made them feel vulnerable.)

I wondered what Warren brought to our world; what was his journey all about?

Warren needed community and found it on the streets. Just like your community is in your neighborhood or the church, his was on the pavement, huddled together with other people struggling to stay alive.

He taught me that my universe is contained, just like his was and that in some ways we are all alone in our existence. He was the "stranger" to us, an individual we had to care for.

There was something panjandrum, self-important about Warren, and despite the beatings, the cold, the heat, alcoholism, epileptic fits, loneliness and disappointment, he never lost a twinkle in his eye. He was present when we'd speak and kept his playful personality intact until the end. He smiled a lot. He was a bit of a rascal too.

Now Warren is being eulogized in Huffington Post, unlike another homeless person who might have died alone and unknown, last night somewhere in Toronto.

RIP Warren. Thank you for coming by.

"Love the stranger." (Deuteronomy 10:19)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1407358 2012-04-05T21:03:58-04:00 2012-06-05T05:12:01-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
This year's Leaf season has been very confusing. Sometimes the Leaf family acted like men, and other times, like beasts.

There were good times, as an example in October, 2011, when Leafs were 7-3-1 and sat atop the North East division. Leaf fans and the media embraced the team. Phil Kessel was our town's poster boy having been chosen the player of the month. The 30 guys on the roster were respected and the Leafs expressed the same back to us through their solid play. Coach Ron Wilson seemed happy to be back and the snarkiness he was known for in interviews was somewhat muted. The black-and-white overview Canadians often have of life was sitting comfortably in the white zone and respect was mutual.

The month of November reflected a positive 7-6-1 record and our love affair grew with the new Leafs. Brian Burke was touted by sports writer Danny Gray as the "'Head of State" and "Head of Government" of the most storied franchise in the NHL. Romance was flowing and so many of us went to sleep with dreams of a Stanley Cup. It was then we were more men than beasts. Respect was abound and Lupul bobble heads could be seen everywhere. We were proud of the Leaf's annual visit to Sick Kids Hospital and the "Luke's Troops'" program responsible for inviting over 200 Canadian Forces soldiers to our games.

This year came with a win against Tampa Bay and the Leafs record was a respectable 19-15-5. Brian Burke's plan seemed good and the squad worked arduously and skated proudly. January's win-loss was 7-5 and overall we were 25-19-6, on the road to the playoffs.

February means purification but it was far from that for the Leafs. One after another we lost, finishing the month with ten losses and four wins. Wilson was unraveling and who would be in net that night was a guessing game. Gustafson or Reimer? Who knew?

The Leafs were lethargic and so was Leaf Nation. The ACC had grown quiet. My five-year-old son cried when Florida beat us 5-3. We lost 10 games and won 4, a debacle. We were 29-28-7 and then the curse set in -- the old Leafs were back.

March was a mess. Four wins and ten losses and four goalies (including the Marlie's Ben Scrivens and Jussi Rynnas) between the pipes. Wilson was deflated. You could see it. The Leaf's fans were taking the flags off their cars and loud public chants at the ACC called for Wilson's ouster. They were heeded. Wilson was out. Randy Carlyle was in.

It was here, at this exact time when the separation occurred, when we walked out on the Leafs and they abandoned us. Once again the Leafs, smack in the middle of the biggest hockey market in the world, wouldn't make the playoffs. Dion Phaneuf looked like he was suffering on the ice and media pundits began to question his leadership more intensely. Did he deserve to be captain? Where was his shot? Why didn't he drop his gloves more often?

Like a teenager who loves his Dad today but is critical of every move he makes tomorrow after not getting what he needed: Leaf's Nation lost total respect for the city's hockey team. The fact that Phil Kessel and Joffrey Lupul had been the top forwards in the NHL a few months prior, made no difference to the guys sitting in the green seats or downing a burrito at a Firkin.

Fans wore paper bags on their heads at the game mocking the players as the crowd belted out "Let's go Blue Jays," as if spitting on the ice. And there was Kessel hanging around the blue line while the puck was bouncing around Scriven's pads. He was waiting for the kill, but not too concerned with protecting the nest.

Disfunctionality had set in once again. We had become beasts again. Respect was gone.

How unique sports is that way. We pay for the right to witness the joy, sorrow, weakness and courage of a 30-team squad and management. They, the players, get paid and watch us, as they skate around the ice pretending not to catch the writing on a cardboard sign stating, "Tyler, I love you." In reality we're both watching each other hoping to be seen, that is until the gauntlet falls. And it did.

With a few games left in the season the heartbreak is back. The question we have to wonder about now is, will we, the Leaf fans, and the 30-man roster of Leaf players recapture the mutual respect we once had, or will the beast emerge again sentencing us to another year of scraped knees crawling around in the bushes of hockey despair?



]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1392036 2012-04-04T11:18:07-04:00 2012-06-04T05:12:02-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
Canadians embrace Canadian things we're proud of, such as the invention of the telephone by Alexander Graham Bell in 1876, Banting and Best's discovery of insulin in 1922, and the creation of Trivial Pursuit in 1979 by Chris Haney and Scott Abbott.

But Canadians generally don't take ownership of the atrocities committed in 132 Canadian residential schools from 1840 to 1996, when Canadian racism was at its peak and many of our government officials, security forces, and church "leaders" terrorized our aboriginal peoples.

"O Canada, our home and native land"?

We celebrate the good chapters in our history, but respond to the bad things with, "Well, I wasn't there." But residential schools are as much part of our peoplehood as Stalinism was to Russia's, and our failure to accept this fact reflects our compartmentalized relationship with our own history.

Residential schools were established by the federal government to show our native peoples the "superiority" of European-Canadian society -- "to kill the Indian in the child." Children were taken from their parents and sent away to schools that were often run by sexually abusive teachers. Native children, including Inuit and Métis, weren't allowed to speak their languages or practise their religion.

The memoir A Stranger at Home reveals the terror a child felt upon returning home from a residential school and hearing her mother yell, "She's not my daughter," a statement that reflected the distance created between the two.

It's not clear how many aboriginal children died or were killed in residential schools by our Canadian ancestors, but documentation by Dr. Peter Bryce, general medical superintendent for the Department of Indian Affairs in the early 20th century, reported to the ministry that from 1894 to 1908, the mortality rate in Western Canadian residential schools was between 35 and 60 per cent, representing about 50,000 of our children over that time.

"True patriot love"?

As a Canadian, as a Jew, I'm sickened to share with you that in 1928, Alberta's Sexual Sterilization Act was passed, allowing students of a residential school to be sterilized with the principal's approval. At least 3,500 young native females were sterilized this way. Knowing this, I can understand the feelings of young Germans today when dealing with aspects of their country's past.

"The True North strong and free"!?

We know native children were murdered in Canada because of a cultural genocide orchestrated by our government. (Prime Minister Stephen Harper has apologized for this.) We know Ojibwa mothers had their hearts ripped apart while RCMP officers, following orders, tore their kids away from them as their fathers stood by, emasculated. Yet you won't find any of this in most board of education history books. You have to squint to find a memorial to our native children. You won't find a Jewish-native committee.

"We stand on guard for thee"?

Just as we were present in spirit when Banting and Best discovered a serum that would save the lives of our family members, we were equally represented when 132 residential schools operated across Canada and systematically destroyed the lives of our aboriginal people. Canadian history -- blemished and glowing -- is ours.

To be Canadian is to be compassionate. To be Canadian is to be destructive. But it's also to be much more. Either way, pledge "never again" to residential schools. Embrace our history in its entirety and ensure a better future for our native people.

"With glowing hearts"? Not entirely.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1402535 2012-04-04T09:47:58-04:00 2012-06-04T05:12:02-04:00

Avrum Rosensweig http://www.huffingtonpost.com/avrum-rosensweig/
Since my father's death, I have often wondered about a very condensed period of time -- the second before one dies, the exact second one does die, and the second immediately following death. If I could slow those ticks on the clock down and watch body and soul through multi-dimensional goggles, what would I see? I suspect that within that tiny space of movement I might see the face of truth.

Death. Most of us avoid being to close to it whenever possible. We shun its shadowy appearance and hovering smell. Yet there are those who specialize in death, neither ignoring it nor shrouding it in protective symbolism. These people are members of the chevrah kadisha, men and women whose chosen mitzvah -- deed -- is to prepare a body according to Judaic laws prior to burial.

I have a close friend who has taken calls morning, noon or night over the last 18 years as a member of a local chevrah kadisha, summoning him to a funeral home to clean a mait [body] and prepare it to meet his/her maker.

Together with a group of his childhood friends, my friend participates in this process that he finds neither daunting or eerie, and, in fact, has taught him "the raw and real meaning of humility."

The group of four arrive at the funeral home within minutes of one another. They enter a room you and I will likely never see, where a body of a male man or child lies lifeless on a table -- sometimes a person they once knew. Men prepare men. Women prepare women.

Quietly, with great respect, they wash the mait with nine measures of water (taharah), keeping the eyes and private areas covered until necessary. Instinctively aware of each other's role, they cleanse the mait thoroughly and wrap the body in white linen tachrichim (shrouds) while reciting special prayers.

Sand from Israel is placed on the mait reflecting a kabbalistic imperative that a part of the Holy Land should lie with them. Pieces of bone china are placed over the eyes to protect them from glaring sunlight when tchiyat hametim (the Jewish belief in the resurrection of the dead after the coming of the Messiah) occurs; and wishbone-shaped twigs are placed in both hands to help the person stand up when that day arrives.

The mait is placed in a coffin and wrapped in an intentionally damaged prayer shawl. The tallit is made "unkosher" so that a full and complete holy item is not buried. Outer shrouds are added, and the team asks the body for mechilah (forgiveness) for the invasive act of uncovering it.

Forty minutes have passed, and the lifelong friends depart, speaking little about their partnership in their work, considered to be a chesed shel emet -- a kindness of absolute truth -- as no personal repayment can or will be received.

My friend says there is nothing extraordinary about what he does, but humbly adds he has great respect for his partners, "for they are good people."

His wife told me, "What my husband and his friends do is an act of selfless chesed. It's the greatest thing anyone can do."

Whenever my friend arrives home after participation in taharah of a mait, he hugs his children. He does this, he says, because he is clear about the lesson: "Life is short and I know it will end one day.

"Being on the chevrah kadisha, I have come to understand there is no room for arrogance because we all leave this world the same way and I want to make the most of each day " he says.

Death. To some it is a reason to hide. To others it is the consummate equalizer and an opportunity to perform a unique and honourable mitzvah. To me it is three seconds of utter mystery -- the cloud that lays over top truth.

Three seconds.








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