My brother, sister and I were all gathered in our childhood home in Muizenberg the day before my parents, Abe and Pearl Davis, moved to Highlands House.

 Our home, near the Sandvlei Caravan Park, held our collective memories of days swimming in the gentle surf at the beaches from Surfer’s Corner all the way down to Sunrise Beach; going to the beautiful Art Deco shul just off the Main Road; going to Mr. Raad’s shop every Sunday after lunch for toffee apples, or Tex bars; summer socials at the Muizenberg Pavilion or at the Herzl Hall, where my dad and other men on the shul committee would sell Coke and Fanta from behind the swing doors into the kitchen, while Jimmy Retief and the Idiots or Shag played on stage.  Shabbats, yomtov, cousins from Jo’burg over the summer – all come to visit the matriarch of the family, my Bobba, Bryna Herman, who lived with us. The family home.

 So preparing to leave was not easy.  My dad, for more than 50 years active in the shul and a lifetime member and officer holder, did not want to go.  Sitting on the front verandah, in the shade, reading the newspaper or current novel or biography, for which he had a passion, was, to him, perfect.  My mom, though, could not deal easily with hearing the loud thump of my dad falling in the passage as his weakening knees gave way under him.  She found it difficult calling up the security service so that its patrolling vehicles could send out someone to help pick up my dad from the floor.  The falls were becoming more frequent. 

 My sister Annette lives in Tel Aviv.  I and my family live in San Diego.  So it was always my brother, Stan, in Cape Town, called to help.  

 One day, just after my dad’s 90^th birthday on December 2, 2003, my siblings and I made inquiries and there was one double room available at Highlands House.  The decision was a collective one that was imposed and then accepted - very quickly. By January, my parents had moved. My sister come from Israel and in her efficient, gentle way created an inventory of my parents’ life’s possessions and divided up what would stay and what would go.

 Highlands House.  Oranjezicht, Cape Town – at the foot of Table Mountain.  Not everyone who lives there is as fortunate as my parents.  My father, of blessed memory, died on October 22, 2007, aged 94, as fires consumed San Diego and Southern California.  He died less than five minutes from the home in Prince Street, Gardens, where he was born.   My mom continues to live safely, securely and contentedly at Highlands House, with new friends, some family close by, other family who visit her whenever they can from long distances away.  She is 85, reads voraciously, is interested and interesting and has made new friends and reconnected with old and long-term friends who have also moved to Highlands House.  She did Tai Chi when her knees allowed it, and now goes to exercise daily and dances when she has the opportunity – sometimes in her room on Saturday nights, listening to Golden Oldies and getting the night staff to join her!

 Some people at Highlands House never receive visitors from family or friends.  They rely on the generosity of spirit and the kindness of heart of others in the Jewish community to take care of them.  There are people who don’t remember any more who they are or why they are there – or anywhere.  There is a woman, young enough to be the daughter of many of the residents, who was the victim of an accident that left her unable to care for herself. She has no family in Cape Town. They rely on the kindness and generosity of the Jewish community.

 There are people without minds.  There are also people without limbs – either because they do not have them anymore or because their legs no longer work. Brave souls who spend their lives in wheelchairs at the mercy of others to bring them to the dining room, take them to the recreation room to watch a movie or see a concert, wheel them onto the verandah for a breath of fresh air. There, as well, are many people without money.  Those that pay help support those that cannot. There is an unspoken rule of dignity for all.

 My mom. Other people’s moms, dads, aunts, uncles, friends, neighbors, acquaintances. They live in a home created specially by the Jewish community for its elderly so that, if and when the need arose, there would be a safe and nurturing place for them to go.

 Will these places be able to continue? If they cannot continue to operate, where will people go?

 I have heard stories about people who have been dropped off at Highlands House by children who then left the country and hardly ever return to visit. It isn’t only at Highlands House.  There are stories of people who have emigrated, leaving handicapped children at Glendale, or Selwyn Segal.  There is the expectation that Jews will take care of their own. 

 Once, we used to all have Tzedakkah boxes in our homes and every Shabbat, every birthday, every Yahrzeit, every yomtov, our parents would give us money, or we would  take some of our own saved up money, and put them in the boxes.  Then, every few months a volunteer would come over and we would open the box, count the money, and give it over and get a receipt.  Grassroots charity and giving was built into our daily lives and, as children, helping to count the money. It was a natural part of life.  It didn’t matter if you were rich or poor.  The collective result is what counted. Everyone’s coins added up to something significant and worthwhile.

 As we, the widely dispersed children and grandchildren of European immigrants to South Africa and ourselves, immigrants to a new land, think about our recent history and ancestry, we need to think about our elders who had the foresight to think about their own.  They built homes throughout Southern Africa to provide care and nurturing.  These homes are old. In need of maintenance, repair, upgrading.  The Jewish population in South Africa has dwindled.  The donations from those who remain there do not cover the expenses. 

 No one has to tell you about escalating costs of materials and labor. Or the cost of raising the quality of life from that of institutional living to that which is enriching and more stimulating. 

 Chai South Africa was an inspiration at its inception and is an increasingly important source of funding for these homes.

 Let us all take a moment as Channukah approaches.  Eight days. Eight nights. Gift giving. Let us all take one night and, when we light the candles with our family or friends, or alone, dedicate this to our family, our friends, our neighbors, our acquaintances, people we used to see at shul in our youth. Our people.  Let us give something to help those South Africans and Zimbabweans who remain there. Let us help to provide support to the Jewish homes for the aged and for the handicapped so that they may continue to offer care and a safe, nurturing environment that all of us would want for ourselves.  Teach your children well and remember this mitzvah.

 Please support Chai South Africa. If not us, who? If not now, when?

 Marlene Stanger

Please use the enclosed form or visit www.chaisouthafrica.org to contribute on line.

Email: ChaiSA@jcfsandiego.org   WWW.ChaiSouthAfrica.Com