By and large, I have managed to avoid going into politics and world events in my blog. I have used this space to talk about writing, my family, and my interests. However, today, I find it hard not to touch upon these larger issues. In the time since my last post today, I received some very upsetting news, and I feel the need to bring the focus on someone who inspired me to be my best, and to follow my passions, no matter where they led.

I am a graduate of the Community Hebrew Academy of Toronto. My school taught us about our culture, religion, and all the general studies. In grade ten, I had a teacher who was supposed to be teaching Tanach (the written torah). I was having much difficulty in that class. I couldn't grasp the material, couldn't understand what the teacher was trying to say, and I was afraid that I was unteachable in the subject. It was an absolutely miserable time. I went to the guidance department to try and figure out some way to salvage the remainder of the year. The advice I got from my counsellor was not what I expected. I was told that I could go into enriched Tanach. I was perplexed by this advice. If I couldn't understand what was happening in the normal stream, how could I survive enriched? I was told that the teacher of the enriched class was a special man. He could get anyone to learn. I decided to try it out.

Walking into that class that first day, I was beyond nervous. I was afraid that I would fail. I feared being laughed at. I thought I would be so far behind all of the other students that I would never be able to catch up. However, right from the start, Rav Don accepted me into the fold. He had a way of making anyone understand what he was teaching. He had a smile that was infectious. He would light up a room the moment he walked in. He knew how to reach people. His enthusiasm for the material made it all accessible.

That year, I remember that we were learning the story of Exodus. It was the year that The Prince of Egypt came out in the theatres. Rav Don planned a field trip for us. We all went to the movies, clipboards and pens in hand. We sat in that theatre and took notes on every little detail the movie got wrong. It was the ultimate the book is better experience. 

That year was filled with shabbatons, holidays, special school days, and at all of them, our teacher was always front and centre in my memories. He encouraged our interests, and fostered our love of learning. His sense of ruach and love of the school made that classroom a place of lively discussion and a safe place for disagreements on the text.

My final exam that year, Rav Don, knowing my unique position in the class, told me that I could have extra time. He understood that I wasn't as fluent in Hebrew as the other students, and that I might need the time translating the text and composing my answers. I don't think I ever studied harder then I did for that exam. All I wanted was to make him proud. On exam return day, I got my exam back. I passed with flying colours. Turning to the back of the exam booklet, I saw this note: "Thank you Ali for making me the nicest surprise. I knew that you could do it." I still have that test in my filing drawer.

After that year, I was giving the option of dropping back down to the normal stream. However, this would mean giving up being in his class again. I stayed in Rav Don's enriched Tanach class until my graduation.

Rav Don was what our school called a ​shaliach. This meant that he came to Toronto from Israel to teach for a couple of years and then he would be going home. I remember him joking that our graduation was his as well. He went back after we were done. I stayed in touch with him via snail mail. I loved getting the odd letters from him. He knew what I was up to, and encouraged my writing. He was a special man, an incredible educator, a father, husband, and friend.

It pains me to be writing about him in past tense. But today I received the news that he was murdered by a Palestinian terrorist in an attack not far from his home. I don't want to think about the way he died. I will not give his attacker power by wasting words on what he did. I will remember Rav Don always with a smile on his face, encouraging a nervous young girl to do her best, and learn to love an ancient text. He taught me that it was okay to question, that this was the best way to learn. He taught me to believe in myself and in my abilities. He is a big part of the reason that Hadariah exists, and to think of a world without him teaching, learning, and smiling that smile is a blow to the heart.

My heart and prayers go to his wife and children. May they find comfort among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

Every time I hear this song, I am transported back to that theatre, surrounded by my classmates, questioning the changes to the story.


** It pains me to say this, but hate and nasty comments are not welcome here.

It's November once more, and for many many authors, that means it's that time of year when writing can become a bit frenzied as we work to meet the daily word count and end of month goal of finishing a first draft of a 50,000 word novel. Now, this year, I was all ready in the process of writing a first draft. I am currently hard at work writing Book Five of my Sitnalta Series, a book that I'm calling The False Princess. This book has been exceptionally difficult for me to write, because I've always known what's going to happen towards the end of it. This has been a scene I've been dreading writing. And last night, as I hit 60,000 words, I got to THAT scene. I really wish that I could talk about it here, and I hate vague-blogging, but I kind of need to purge my feelings on some things. Now, I have never shied away from killing people in my books. People who have read my writing know that. Aside from one notable exception, people who die in my writing tend to stay dead. I was never really a fan of magical resurrections, even in a world filled with magic. For me, as a reader, knowing that there was some undo button out there tended to cheapen the character's sacrifice, or lessen the tension of what was going on. So, when I do what I did, I knew that there was no coming back from that. Of course, as the one controlling the keyboard, I could always hit backspace (and I did. Several times.)

I have a lot of trouble killing characters that I love. And yes, as their creator, I put a lot of work into making them real, and giving them life. I know that there are authors out there who almost seem to relish putting a sword through their fictional babies, and that's fine for them. But in this case, it was particularly hard. My husband walked in on me sitting by my laptop crying. It was as if I'd lost a friend. And in a way, I had. Some of these characters had been with me for twenty years. And I knew that the scenes to come would be draining to write. I'm still working through them. This blog is my distraction for all the sticky, messy writing work that comes next. This book kind of feels like a monster to write. It's certainly going to be the longest in the series so far, and it effectively closes a chapter in Colonodona's history, and in the lives of all of these characters. I wish I could tell you what I did. I still feel guilty, even after sleeping on it. But I won't undo it. It's too important that it happened. Maybe soon, we can have a proper conversation about it, with no names redacted. :)

Until publication day! (My optimistic rallying cry!)