Every spring, as blossoms return and days grow longer, something else quietly unfolds across Canada: Jewish Heritage Month. Officially recognized by Parliament in May 2018, this observance is still unfamiliar to many and seldom promoted—and that, in itself, speaks volumes. There are no fireworks or fanfare. No hallmark traditions yet—nothing like the glow of Hanukkah candles or the gathering around Passover seders.
But once I learned about it, I paused.
For those of us who identify as Jewish Canadians, this month offers something rare: a dedicated time to reflect, share, and claim the stories we’ve carried quietly for generations.
A Time to Be Seen: The Immigrant Experience
I grew up in Montreal, where bagels and smoked meat were as common as poutine. Our Jewish identity was not hidden, but it was not always visible either.
My family fled Communist Hungary in 1949, arriving in Montreal in 1951 with only the skills they had acquired in their homeland; everything else was left behind. For two years, they relied on Jewish charities in Vienna and Montreal to get by. Our only living relative in Canada had arrived just shortly before us.
Home was in the immigrant neighbourhood now known as the posh Mile End. Back then, in the post-war era, the Jewish immigrant community — like the one in Mordecai Richler’s “Duddy Kravitz” — stretched toward the lower meadow of Mount Royal. Across the street from our apartment was a shtiebel, and nearby, the Palkovich home housed a kosher restaurant. We lived in a small apartment above a storefront on Esplanade Street.
The Jewish Public Library was on one corner, and the YMHA (Young Men’s and Women’s Hebrew Association)—the Jewish counterpart to the YMCA and YWCA—was nearby. Montreal’s communities were deeply segregated by language and religion. French Catholic schools did not accept Jewish children, so those of us not attending Jewish day schools went to English Protestant public schools.
At Bancroft Protestant Public School, where I attended, the “Protestant” part meant reciting the Lord’s Prayer and pledging allegiance to the Canadian flag. Almost all of us were immigrant Jewish children—refugees from post-war Europe. I knew only one Christian classmate. My mother hired a local teenager to walk me to school during my first week. After that, I was on my own.
I also attended Talmud Torah, the Jewish afternoon school on Fairmount Avenue, four afternoons a week and on Sundays. On Shabbat afternoons, I participated in Bnei Akiva, a religious Zionist youth group led by Rivka Palkovich. Every summer, I went to Camp Moshava, a religious Zionist summer camp, first in Gillette, Pennsylvania, and later in Peterborough, Ontario, once the Canadian camp was established.
Although most of my classmates were Jewish, I often felt different because my family was more religiously observant. We kept kosher, followed Sabbath rules, and had little money. My mother worked six days a week as a hairdresser in a Jewish-owned beauty parlour on Park Avenue and Laurier—next to the Eveready Bank, which is still there today. My father found work in Jewish-owned clothing manufacturing businesses.
My little sister Anita took a different path for her education due to polio, a reminder of the unique challenges each of us faced as immigrant children. She attended the Montreal Children’s Hospital’s “Crippled Children’s School” before moving to regular classes at Outremont High.
By the time I finished elementary school, the Jewish immigrant community had begun moving to Outremont, NDG, Dollard-des-Ormeaux, and Côte Saint-Luc. We soon followed.
I was fortunate to attend Outremont High School, known for its academic excellence and its upscale, mainstream student body. I cherish those years and credit them with much of what I know today. Fifty years later, I filmed our reunion, reconnecting with dear classmates.
Though Montreal offered relative safety, it was not free of the antisemitism we had known—Catholic in tone like Europe’s, but with subtler Protestant undertones from English Canada. Still, Canada offered us citizenship, public education, and the opportunity to rebuild.
By the time my family arrived, Jewish Canadians had already established institutions, synagogues, and charities that helped newcomers like us find community. Jews had long been part of Canada’s earliest colonial settlers, and by then, these foundations were over 100 years old.
To me, Jewish Heritage Month is not about romanticizing the past. It is about telling the truth of it—and about being seen.
Not Just for Us
Jewish Heritage Month is not just a time for Jewish Canadians to remember and reflect; it is an invitation for everyone to listen and engage.
We cannot acknowledge this month without addressing the ongoing rise of antisemitism in Canada and around the world. From hateful graffiti on synagogues to online abuse, centuries-old prejudice is manifesting in new and dangerous ways. This observance reminds us of our community’s contributions and our ongoing vulnerabilities.
Antisemitism rarely begins with violence; it starts with narratives told about us rather than by us. It thrives in the shadows of conspiracy theories and outdated myths that are falsely presented as truth. These are not simply misunderstandings; they are tools of exclusion used to isolate and erase.
This is why sharing our authentic stories is so important. We do not seek sympathy; we want to be understood. We do not aim to be seen as exceptional; we wish to be part of the broader Canadian conversation.
When we discuss Jewish Heritage Month, we are not asking others to celebrate us; we are asking to be seen clearly, without distortion. In an era where misinformation spreads more rapidly than understanding, visibility is a crucial form of protection.
More Than Our Trauma
Celebration in May is meaningless if we face vilification in June. Recognition must go hand in hand with the equal protection promised by our Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Education must lead to understanding and empathy—the only true pathway to reconciliation.
While Jewish identity is often framed by historical and personal trauma—and rightly so—we are so much more than that. Our heritage is reflected in literature, music, humour, and a profound belief that God created a good world for all to enjoy, where every human being is equally valued.
We all have the free will to choose goodness and hope.
This month provides an opportunity to celebrate this perspective. It is a time to highlight the artists, activists, scientists, and dreamers whose Jewish heritage has shaped Western civilization for centuries.
Why It Matters
Canadian Jewish Heritage Month is more than a symbolic gesture. It’s a reminder that Jews are woven into the fabric of Canada—not only historically but also today in classrooms, courtrooms, kitchens, and concert halls. We are here, and we have always been here.
So, if you’re Jewish, take this month to tell your story. If you are not, seek to hear one. Attend a local Jewish Heritage Month event or read a book by a Jewish Canadian author. Share a film or piece of music that has influenced our community. Visit a museum or delve into a digital archive to learn more about the Jewish experience in Canada.
That is how we build something stronger— not through slogans but through our stories and active participation in Canadian civic life.