Eva Rachel Shahar

A few words about my grandmother

When I think about her, I think about history and I think about love. I think about her stories, and the cadence of her voice, and the sound of her smile, and I think about her personality, equal parts acidic and warm. When I was a newborn baby, my grandmother flew in from Israel to help my mom in those first months. I remember none of that, of course, except in memories handed down, but I always felt the closeness.

Both of my mother’s parents are gone now. Ari Shahar died in 2018. He was 90. This weekend, Eva Rachel Shahar followed him. She was also 90. Both were Holocaust survivors. My grandmother was born in Budapest in 1935. She was a child through the war, which of course shaped every fibre of her being, but hardly defined her. She grew up to be a determined woman, making an arduous journey through Europe, to Israel, establishing a life there with my grandfather, eventually welcoming my mother into their world. Soon after, they went to live for nearly a decade in Montreal, before returning to Israel to live as members of a kibbutz in the south with their four children. Through myriad more difficulties over the years, whether war, family drama, or illness, her love was felt strongly. Sometimes too strongly. She could hardly be described as an easy woman. She was complicated, and often difficult, but her love came through all the same. My grandmother had thirteen grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren. Ninety years, and a profound legacy. I miss her.