Goodbye to a Mensch
Yesterday, my brother-in-law, Israel Gencher, was buried in Ottawa. I sat and watched the funeral online, from across the country, seeing his children and my sister grieve, seeing his mother so upset.
He passed away from pancreatic cancer, a few weeks shy of his sixtieth birthday.
A line of people, in the Jewish tradition, shoveled the back of a spade of dirt onto his coffin.
It seemed odd, at first, watching people -- not just metaphorically or administratively but actually literally -- bury their kin.
It felt somber and insufficient when it began, but as it progressed and more dirt was shoveled into the hole, it was a moment of inherent decency in an otherwise bleak occasion: this notion that right until someone's very last moment of existence, loved ones will be there to take care of them.
Sruli was a Hell of a human being, one of the most impressive people I've ever met, let alone known. And I say that after twenty-five years as a print journalist in which I interviewed basically everybody and the horse they rode in on.
He worked as a defense lawyer. He didn't defend the big corporate types, he didn't chase the big money so often grounded in the amoral or immoral. Instead, he represented mostly down-on-their-luck everymen, people who'd made a terrible mistake or three -- or, more often than people might expect, hadn't done anything all, but had no one on their side.
He worked ungodly hours, he took calls from prisoners at Remand when the rest of us were sleeping with what seemed alarmingly regularity. He took on pro bono and charity cases. He did it because he knew that without that work, the system couldn't even be seen to be fair, let alone achieve it. He did it because unless every one of us has a good defense, a system of justice cannot truly be just.
And when he wasn't fighting the good fight? He was an even better person. He was a family man, with three great kids and a wife who -- I can say this, she's my sister -- can be as challenging as any bright, engaged person. He saw everyone's foibles, and forgave them because he recognized his own. He had great humility, sometimes too great to be as happy as he deserved. He has a large extended family including brothers and parents who were as close as family can get, truly adoring each other.
More than anything, he embodied a character I saw in my father and grandfather: humility. The notion that every person is worthy in their own way, that everyone is worth fighting for. That not one of us will get through life unjudged or without error. That we are all worth forgiveness, love, chances to do better.
Sometimes, it seems we live in a world now that is bereft of dignity. It's easy to look at a world that, due to living online, seems to be reverting to a base sense of tribalism and selfishness, and to think somehow that we are becoming less humane, less decent. That only those who make the most noise and attract the most attention really matter.
I don't think that's true. But we are tribal, and we believe in each other, and, as great as that can be, it can also lead to us being easily misled, often for long periods of time and about each other. Suspicion, fear, distrust -- they're all fodder for the greedy and the selfish, all division for the gain of a very few.
But those most fractious and negative elements, ultimately, miss something essential to this life. They miss what it means to be truly loved.
When decent people die, they achieve a sort of immortality that can only be measured when a person's time has come and gone: they are remembered with love and respect, and cared for until the very end, until they return to the world from whence they came.
The best people I've known, and Sruli was most assuredly one of those, have the emotional resiliency to live and love in a world that is so full of fear, judgement and selfishness it astounds me.
That they rise above it and bring others with them -- which in many ways Israel did with my entire family -- is a mitzvah, a blessing as the Hebrew folks say.
It is the character that makes humanity worth fighting for. It is an inherent and admirable decency that Israel Gencher had in spades.
Anyone who knew him was luckier for it. I would like him to know that I loved him, and admired him. That when times are dark, there will always be a light that those who knew him can see, and it will help them find their way.
He passed away from pancreatic cancer, a few weeks shy of his sixtieth birthday.
A line of people, in the Jewish tradition, shoveled the back of a spade of dirt onto his coffin.
It seemed odd, at first, watching people -- not just metaphorically or administratively but actually literally -- bury their kin.
It felt somber and insufficient when it began, but as it progressed and more dirt was shoveled into the hole, it was a moment of inherent decency in an otherwise bleak occasion: this notion that right until someone's very last moment of existence, loved ones will be there to take care of them.
Sruli was a Hell of a human being, one of the most impressive people I've ever met, let alone known. And I say that after twenty-five years as a print journalist in which I interviewed basically everybody and the horse they rode in on.
He worked as a defense lawyer. He didn't defend the big corporate types, he didn't chase the big money so often grounded in the amoral or immoral. Instead, he represented mostly down-on-their-luck everymen, people who'd made a terrible mistake or three -- or, more often than people might expect, hadn't done anything all, but had no one on their side.
He worked ungodly hours, he took calls from prisoners at Remand when the rest of us were sleeping with what seemed alarmingly regularity. He took on pro bono and charity cases. He did it because he knew that without that work, the system couldn't even be seen to be fair, let alone achieve it. He did it because unless every one of us has a good defense, a system of justice cannot truly be just.
And when he wasn't fighting the good fight? He was an even better person. He was a family man, with three great kids and a wife who -- I can say this, she's my sister -- can be as challenging as any bright, engaged person. He saw everyone's foibles, and forgave them because he recognized his own. He had great humility, sometimes too great to be as happy as he deserved. He has a large extended family including brothers and parents who were as close as family can get, truly adoring each other.
More than anything, he embodied a character I saw in my father and grandfather: humility. The notion that every person is worthy in their own way, that everyone is worth fighting for. That not one of us will get through life unjudged or without error. That we are all worth forgiveness, love, chances to do better.
Sometimes, it seems we live in a world now that is bereft of dignity. It's easy to look at a world that, due to living online, seems to be reverting to a base sense of tribalism and selfishness, and to think somehow that we are becoming less humane, less decent. That only those who make the most noise and attract the most attention really matter.
I don't think that's true. But we are tribal, and we believe in each other, and, as great as that can be, it can also lead to us being easily misled, often for long periods of time and about each other. Suspicion, fear, distrust -- they're all fodder for the greedy and the selfish, all division for the gain of a very few.
But those most fractious and negative elements, ultimately, miss something essential to this life. They miss what it means to be truly loved.
When decent people die, they achieve a sort of immortality that can only be measured when a person's time has come and gone: they are remembered with love and respect, and cared for until the very end, until they return to the world from whence they came.
The best people I've known, and Sruli was most assuredly one of those, have the emotional resiliency to live and love in a world that is so full of fear, judgement and selfishness it astounds me.
That they rise above it and bring others with them -- which in many ways Israel did with my entire family -- is a mitzvah, a blessing as the Hebrew folks say.
It is the character that makes humanity worth fighting for. It is an inherent and admirable decency that Israel Gencher had in spades.
Anyone who knew him was luckier for it. I would like him to know that I loved him, and admired him. That when times are dark, there will always be a light that those who knew him can see, and it will help them find their way.
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He was a lovely guy Allan, thank you for that.
I am one of Sruli’s close friends, and he had many to be sure. I grew up with him since kindergarten and he became a true brother to me. He epitomized Goodness, Laughter, Gentleness, Loyalty, Honour, Kindness, Selflessness, Humility, Respect, and Love...all rolled up into a larger-than-life teddy bear.
I have a profound emptiness now with his passing, although amidst my tears are chuckles of laughter and several smiles as I recall the many memories of our childhood. We have lost a Great One! Thank you, Ian, for your touching article.