My Mum Sylvia Green died on the night of 2nd February 2025. This is what I said at her funeral.
Most of us knew Sylvia as an exemplar home-maker - a wife, mother, grandmother, and of course daughter. She fulfilled all of these roles to the max, and though she didn't really think men and boys needed to know how to cook, she did manage to teach me most of what I know about that.
And she was a transmitter of Jewish culture too, in language and home ritual and family stories, and of course food. Most of what is important to me about my Jewish identity is what came to me from my Mum.
But though she would have been the last to say so, she was also an intellectual. She loved books, and theatre and film. She would tell me the story of a film that she had seen, and it was like I'd seen it myself. She was a wonderful story-teller.
This was despite the fact that she'd had almost no formal education at all. Her school life wad disrupted by the war. She stopped school at nine years old when the family moved to Brighton to escape the Blitz, and she never really went back.
Her psyche was shaped by the war. She told me stories of the terror of nights spent in air raid shelters, of coming in the morning to find familiar buildings gone or in smoking ruins. Her rather was a registered alien, never naturalised as British. He had to report weekly to a police station. And he was never naturalised because of what happened to his own father, deported to Russia during WW1 for refusing to be conscripted in to the British army.
All of that shapes a person. My mum struggled for years with depression. Most of that struggle took place inside her. She never let it impact on how she behaved towards others. Mum was always in motion, always doing things for other people. Even when I visited her in the care home where she sat wheelchair bound, she was offering to go and make me a meal.
She was resilient and brave. When Louis was born in Sydney, she got on a plane, by herself, even though she had never spent a minute abroad without Dad before. She took a courier flight to Australia via Tokyo, and she told us how she'd left the hotel to go for a walk in a city where she spoke not one word of the language and could not read the street signs.
Although it was Dad who told the stories of his activist past, Mum had her involvement too. She was probably the only person who took part in the 35s Group of Jewish women protesting for the right of Soviet Jews to emigrate and also went to Greenham Common, with Ruth, Minnie, Sharon and Karin to protest against cruise missiles.
And I want everyone to know how much fun she was - not only when she was a lovely booba to our boys, but also when I was little, and we sued to schlep all over London to medical appointments, and we would make up stories about the people we saw in the tube - who was a spy, which one was going to a secret meeting, and so on.
And that's how I want to remember her, not as she was in her very last years, but how she had been for all the years before.
Post script - thinking of all the things we went through, like her teaching me to drive, and the time we had a front wheel tyre explode on the motorway en route to Manchester and did a 360 skid into the hard shoulder, and me walking round the lake at Valentines Park with her, trying to offer her undergraduate-grade psychotherapy...