My Family’s Journey To Canada

By Rabbi Yosef  Wosk in Vancouver

Yosef Wosk is the Director of Interdisciplinary Programs in Continuing Studies at Simon Fraser University where he has developed seminal programs such as The Philosophers' Café and The Academy for Independent Scholars. In addition to receiving an honorary doctorate of letters, he holds doctorates in Religion & Literature [Interdisciplinary Studies] as well as in Psychology, and Masters degrees in Education and in Theology. Yosef, who is an ordained rabbi, has lectured at a number of universities and institutes of higher learning throughout the world. Identified as one of the top ten thinkers and most thoughtful citizens in the province, he is an appointed member of The Order of British Columbia, a recipient of The Queen's Golden Jubilee Medal and included in Canadian Who's Who.  Active in communal affairs — especially in the areas of education, library, museum, the arts, social services, heritage conservation, philanthropy and religion — Yosef is a media commentator, public speaker and published author.  We are honoured that he has agreed to share his family’s story with us.  

One of the first memories that my grandparents, father and uncle had when they arrived in the new country, Canada, at a unknown port named Halifax, after a 7,000 mile trip overland from Odessa and across the great ocean—was of a worker from the Jewish Immigrant Aid Society (JIAS). He welcomed them to these Western shores, directed them to the train that they would travel on for the next five days, gave them a salami, a loaf of bread, some water and a few dollars, and wished them good luck. 

My family was forced to flee from persecution that followed in the wake of the Bolshevik revolution. My father was born in 1917 in the midst of the revolution and the family endured ten more years of pogrom persecution before finally being able to escape in 1928. A relative had moved to Vancouver a few years before. When he was able to, he arranged for our family’s sponsorship and safe passage. My grandmother sewed a small jewel into the lining of my father’s coat; that was all they were able to bring with them. They had to abandon a farm and an apartment building that they owned in Odessa. They could not sell these properties for fear of their imminent escape being discovered. The night before they left, my father who was then ten years old, remembers the family going down to the basement where they burnt thousands of roubles that otherwise would have been stolen by the enemy. 

In Vancouver my family was welcomed by a caring community;  but one that was overburdened with assisting new immigrants. Much of the responsibility fell upon family members who were already here as well as the synagogues and the newly organized Jewish Community Services. People worked hard and with a depth of integrity that we rarely see today. It was not a rich community. Most families struggled to make ends meet from week to week. It took awhile to meet new friends, get settled in school, find jobs, learn the language, and understand the complexities of not only a new country, but a different civilization. There were no special English classes in those days and so my father, who was eleven years old but who didn’t speak a word of English, was put in a grade one classroom where the children taunted and teased him, crying out “You big dummy!” One boy his own age befriended and defended him. They remained friends for the rest of their lives. 

It was a bewildering time, and yet this new beginning was still better than the persecution that they left behind.  

My grandfather, father and uncle started a small business collecting old pots and pans that they repaired and polished and then sold for a few cents more. A few years later they were able to afford a horse and buggy that helped to collect junk for repair. My father dropped out of school in grade six to work full time helping to support the family.  

Ten years later they saved enough money to open their own store; they had only one used radio for sale and not even $100 in the bank. Over the next few decades they were blessed with success and eventually opened a dozen furniture and appliance stores. They also branched out into real estate. They built or purchased a number of apartment buildings and hotels. My father never forgot his difficult childhood, one in which he had no toys, a time when he was almost killed twice by the Cossacks, a time of exile and forced resettling. In spite of these difficulties he was not a bitter man and he always had a good attitude and a cheerful demeanor. When the family was able, they contributed to assisting others less fortunate than they were. My grandfather used to say to his sons: “If you make a dollar, save ten cents, give ten cents to charity and spend the rest if you must.” In the last many years of my father’s life he reached levels of tsdakkah that demonstrated a high level of generosity. Instead of giving only “ten cents” to charity, he would even borrow from the bank in order to assist others. 

Perhaps you can identify with this story of difficult twists and surprising turns of family support and communal recognition, of being uprooted in the midst of a storm of confusion and settling among roots in a foreign yet promising land. And when the time will come that you, too, will feel safe and secure then it will be your time, your turn, your honour and responsibility to help the next wave of inevitable immigrants from a far and distant land.