D espite my decision not to interview all the families of young Canadian adults killed on Oct. 7 because it hit too close to home, I made one exception. In mid-February, Jacqui Rivers Vital, a native of Ottawa who lives in Jerusalem with her husband Yaron Vital, gave a Zoom talk to a seniors group from Ottawa AJ50+. They’re the parents of the late Adi Vital-Ka- plun, an Israeli-born woman with an en- gineering background, who was murdered while hiding in the safe room of her home in Kibbutz Holit. Adi’s husband was away on a camp- ing trip that day. She grabbed their rifle, bundled their two young sons inside the shelter, and barred the door. She had the presence of mind to call her dad, who was visiting for the week- end—but sleeping in a guest house across the path. She told him in no uncertain terms to stay put and not come to their rescue. She then called her husband, asked for a refresher course on how to use the weapon, and told him to stay away, too. They are convinced she saved both their lives. When the terrorists discovered Adi and the boys, she begged them to spare her children, told the boys she loved them, and opened fire at the terrorists. She killed one, before she was killed. The boys survived, although they were briefly stolen by the terrorists and carried towards captivity in Gaza, before being let go the same day. Now her parents are doing virtual speak- ing tours for North American groups, and raising funds for her surviving children. The Vitals describe her as a lioness. People in Israel consider her a hero. It was gut wrenching to listen to their story. I lay on my bed and cried into my hands. I felt like we’re members of the same club: our children died too young. Our family’s tragedy happened before Oct. 7. It changed me. But on Black Satur- day I knew I had to find a way to channel my personal grief and put it aside so that I could do what I trained to do for my whole life. Be a journalist. I can’t say how this period would have been for me had I not been able to do something: I couldn’t wear a uniform. Flying to Israel on a solidarity mission wasn’t in the cards for me, either. But I know how to tell stories. And I hope a few of them have connected with you. n
without a safe room. These families left everything behind in Israel, and arrived with their children—and a few suitcases—poorly equipped for winter in Canada. It was inspiring to see how the community welcomed these newcomers, with free day school classes, mothers’ drop-in programs at community centres, and donation drives that allowed them to pick out their own needed supplies. I cried, then. For Tiferet. For my son. I revealed that I was a newly bereaved mother. I felt I needed to show them some kindness, and show that I understood some of what they must be feeling. Journalists often don’t get personally involved with people they interview. It pre- vents any conflict of interest in reporting. After Oct. 7, I broke that tradition. This wasn’t just any story, but an existential struggle for my people. In my off-hours, I collected household items and even bought Hanukkah gifts for the children of these families. I connect- ed the adults with a tutor, reviewed their resumes, and called in favours to help their kids get to the right schools. But by February, all the hate directed at Jews in Canada started overwhelming me. I felt scared. I tried to talk about it with friends and family, but processing a daily deluge of information isn’t their job. They’re not aware of all the reported incidents, the often-exaggerated social media outrage, the repetitious police news releases. They don’t have to worry about harsh online comments about their work, which I have also received. I asked people to stop texting me links to the “antisemitism du jour ” stories, as I call them. I needed a break from seemingly infinite immersion in examples of anti-Jew- ish hate.
the heart of Snowdown, I saw police cars parked opposite the yeshivas and the day schools. I hadn’t been inside the Federation headquarters on Cote St. Catherine Road for decades. In my youth, I often visited my mother’s office there, as she worked for the community. My late father attended meetings in the building volunteering for the March to Jerusalem. The Jewish Public Library was a regular haunt. Back then, in-person community participation felt carefree. Now, as a reporter on my way to interview the Federation CJA’s CEO Yair Szlak, I had to pass through metal detectors, plus a baggage screening machine supervised by uniformed security. I felt like I was at an airport. I was told it’s been that way at the front entrance for years. And yet, this was a whole other level from what I experienced in Toronto, even after Oct. 7. “There’s nowhere to hide,” Szlak told me in a candid interview. His team was consulting with local police, the RCMP, the FBI, even with law enforcement in France, where they were more accustomed to vio- lent attacks on Jewish targets. He couldn’t go into more details, for security reasons. But appeals to the city and province for more police—including off-duty police carrying weapons to patrol schools–were going unanswered. Oliva Weizman, a local architect, was so worried about the street protests and targeted attacks that she launched a petition to get the Quebec government to provide more security. She admitted her synagogue visits now involved carefully checking where the exits were located, in the event of an attack. During my flight coming into Montreal, I’d removed a pin I usually wear on my coat lapel, featuring the Israeli and Canadian flags. I was afraid to call attention to myself. But on my way back to Toronto, after the shootings, after the Molotov cocktails, I felt mad enough to put it back on with kavanah . Screw the haters, I said to myself. Bring it on. D eeper into autumn, we started reporting stories of Israeli families coming to Canada as displaced persons for a respite from the war. While a few arrived with the intention of only staying a month or two, others made it permanent. They want peace and quiet for themselves and their children. They want to live in a house
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