The first book of my new memoir series, Four Lives and Counting, titled First Life: Life’s Too Short for Regrets, is now available globally on Amazon in both in ebook and paperback versions! This book is more than just a collection of stories. It’s a journey across continents, cultures, and decades, capturing the essence of identity and the human spirit.

From Leningrad to Sydney to Jerusalem

Four Lives and Counting takes you through my early years in Leningrad, where the echoes of Soviet life shaped my childhood. Subsequently, transitioning to the vibrant streets of Sydney, where I navigated the challenges of immigration and cultural integration. Finally, the journey continues to Jerusalem, a city that is now home, where I’ve embraced my heritage and deepened my understanding of identity and purpose.

Why This Book Matters

This memoir is a testament to the enduring power of family, love, and self-discovery. It’s about overcoming obstacles, finding strength in adversity, and celebrating the small victories that make life meaningful. Furthermore, I seek to be candid in my reflections, add humor and heartfelt stories, and I hope to inspire readers to embrace their own journeys with courage and optimism.

What You Can Expect

In Four Lives and Counting, you’ll find:

• Personal Anecdotes: Stories from my childhood, adolescence, and adult life that shaped who I am today.
• Cultural Insights: Reflections on my experiences as an immigrant and how I’ve navigated the complexities of multiple identities.
• Life Lessons: Wisdom gained from facing challenges, celebrating successes, and finding meaning in everyday moments.

Join Me on This Journey

I wrote this book to give thanks to everyone who has contributed to my journey and to offer light and encouragement to those who might find themselves in similar situations. If you’re seeking inspiration, looking to understand different cultural perspectives, or enjoy a decent story, I believe this memoir has something for you.

Get Your Copy Today

Four Lives and Counting: Life’s Too Short for Regrets is available now on Amazon. I invite you to read it, share your thoughts, and join the conversation about the themes and stories that resonate with you.

Thank you for being a part of this journey. Your support means the world to me, and I can’t wait to hear what you think of the book!

Warm regards,

Mark Baranov

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Before that day, my understanding of a miracle was largely academic. I had read about miracles in the Torah, particularly the awe-inspiring miracles that HaShem performed for the Jewish people during Pesach, leading us out of Mitzrayim. However, these events belonged to another time, another place, and other people. It was challenging to personally connect with these ancient miracles, even though our teachings urged us to do so. It’s a work in progress, a lofty ideal worth striving for, but achieving that level of understanding often felt unlikely.

However, on that birthday of mine, I found myself at the center stage of a miracle. Part of me wanted to take credit for it, to bask in the glory that comes with being a protective, nurturing father who would safeguard his children under any circumstance. But in all honesty, I can’t claim it was all me.

We were at the waterfall when a few of my children decided to climb up to the water’s source. I was helping Shirah, who was the most cautious and reserved among the girls attempting the climb, clamber up the edge of the cliff. Above us, about 15 to 20 meters higher on the slippery, mildew-covered rocks, the other girls were being carefree, perhaps a little too much.

Suddenly, I heard a terrified scream. I turned my head and saw my daughter, Tiferes, clinging to a shrub as she teetered dangerously over a steep drop. In that moment, time seemed to warp. In less than a blink of an eye, I found myself at the top, just in time to catch her by her arm as she lost her grip on the shrub.

My heart pounded in my ears, adrenaline surging through me, leaving me shaking and breathless. The protective instincts that propelled me forward didn’t subside until she was back on solid ground, safe and sound. Once everyone was safely in the car, the adrenaline that had been my lifeline drained away, leaving me a spent hulk. For the first time, I noticed my legs and feet were bloodied from the scramble up the cliff. I felt like a tool of divine providence, showing signs of being well used.

Yes, I was the one who caught her, and yes, I somehow made it to her in an impossible amount of time. But in all honesty, I can’t claim any credit for it. To me, that was a miracle, one I am eternally grateful for.

Today, Tiferes, now almost eight years old, occasionally gives me a look that brings me back to that day. In her eyes, I see the same fear and relief that was there when I caught her hand. That look, that unspoken bond, has become a permanent fixture in our lives.

On that day, as a six-year-old, she said Tehilim in the aftermath of the event, cementing the moment as a miraculous reality that unfolded before my very eyes. That birthday shifted my understanding of miracles from the abstract to the tangible, from stories in the Torah to a personal experience that I will forever cherish.

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Facing this terrifying void, I found myself at the altar of Hashem, offering the only sacrifice I could muster – my prayers. My voice wavered, stumbling over the ancient words of psalms into the sterile air, a desperate plea wrapped in verses that had comforted and guided generations before me. In my mouth, they felt fraudulent. The echo of the words became my lifeline, a conduit to the divine, the only source of hope in the numbing stillness.

My tears, salt and sorrow, raced freely down my face, each drop a testament to the helplessness I felt. I offered my repentance, my atonement, my life, and I begged for mercy, pleading with a fervor that seemed to sear my soul. My ego crumbled, my pride shattered, leaving behind only the raw essence, a husk.

“I am nothing,” I cried in a voice not my own, my words swallowed by the stillness, “Your mercy, Hashem, is their only hope.” Broken, bent, and silent, I approached the door.

I paused, my hand on the door handle, my heart pounding a solitary beat. The air crackled with anticipation. Then, the door opened.

Her smile, my angel’s smile, radiated through the gloom, a beacon of hope that instantly pierced my despair. The steady drumbeat of life, the heartbeat of our unborn child, danced in the air. It was a lifeline thrown across the chasm of fear, a promise of survival.

With a gasp of surprise and delight, she exclaimed, “It’s a boy!”

It felt as if I were perched on the precipice of the highest cliff, my gaze lost in the unfathomable depth beneath me. Yet, there was no fear, only an overwhelming sense of exhilaration, an invisible force buoying me, allowing me to soar through the infinite expanse of the sky.

This was the divine dance of joy. This was gratitude, radiating from every pore, every breath. This was a second chance, a divine decree encased in the strong newborn cries of my son mixed with the joyous laughter of my wife. My heart swelled with a silent vow, a promise to Hashem, to be worthy of this mercy, to honor this gift with a life lived in gratitude and love.

From the depths of despair, I had been lifted to the pinnacle of joy. The miracle of life, the miracle of mercy, unfolded before my eyes. In the echoes of my psalms, in the rhythm of the heartbeats, I found my gratitude, my resolve, my promise. To cherish each miracle, each moment, with the love and gratitude they deserved.

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It’s been a path of many twists, of seeming triumphs and defeats.

It’s been a journey of many tales, of countless memories and lofty trails.

It’s been a wondrous adventure, with superhuman feats abound.

But mostly it’s been sublimely perfect, to share it all with you my love.

You are the very best of people, a true inspiration of our nation. You are my precious Eshes Chayil and I, your evermore beloved.

22 Sivan 5779

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An acute observer like you, will upon occasion, see this phenomenon. A mother walking down the street or sitting in a cafe with her children.

Being aware and discerning, you know that the children are hers. Not only by the contact and interaction but, also by the absence of it at times. The natural and complex human ability to focus completely on the self, even within the closest proximity of the very loved.

So it’s mother and her children, that you are sure. Looking closer at the children you notice that they don’t resemble her in the slightest. They are Caucasian with a pale complexion, light blonde hair and deep grey blue eyes in contrast to their mother who appears to have oriental roots with her complexion, her narrow cut jet black eyes and the straight flat black hair.

By this stage, you the reader, are outraged by this stereotypical portrayal as experienced by you the observer and my potentially racist descriptions.

Let me appease you, dear reader. You are drawn to these conclusions not by the mothers’ features but, by her mothers’ presence. There, I hope you can now relax the shoulders, gently turn your neck and let go of the angst and indignation which you may have a felt moment ago. Much better.

The grandmother is there and there can be no doubt that she is her mother, because of the love you see in her eyes for her child and grandchildren. Her features are not subject to debate or speculation, she is Asian.

But I digress, I believe we were talking about blood.

I want you to understand that I’m not talking about some pure-blood doctrine, which is abhorrent to you and I and all we stand for. I’m talking about God. His magnificence in everything He does.

Each child is born to the right parents no matter what they look like, expressly because only God sees the greater picture. The picture vastly obscured by, some much irrelevant observations of our acute observer or the author herein. #markbaranov

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After spending a relaxing Shabbat with friends we attended a birthday party where we were introduced to a recent arrival, we proceeded to find intersection from various places. A particular name was mentioned, whom I did not know but for some reason stuck in my head.

Afterwards, as is our custom on a Saturday night, we jumped in the car and started driving. I turned around to my wife and said, “Where to?” Only to be told about cafe Paris which is a 5min walk from home. Since we were already in the car and there is never any parking near this place we decide to drive into town for my favourite haunt, Kadosh cafe.

As per usual we couldn’t find any parking around there and decided we would park at Mamilla and walk back up.

Walking through Mamilla we stopped at Roladin (certainly not my favourite cafe) and agreed to get online to wait for a table having somehow forgotten why we came to Mamilla in the first place.

Whilst waiting outside I spotted a dear friend, whom unfortunately we could not host this Shabbat walking towards us and instantly I understood that this is why I was here at this moment, to embrace him and apologize personally. He was with friends and during the introductions, one of the names was the very one which registered earlier in the night. I recalibrated my observation about the reason for why I was there to include needing to meet this person.

As we had been shmoozing outside for a while, I asked the girl managing the list, “How long?” She told me she had no idea as they were very busy. I turned to my wife to say maybe this is not meant to be and we should just get takeaway coffees, at that moment the girl calls our name and we are ushered into the cafe.

We sit down and my wife proceeds to tell me an interesting observation. As I’m leaning in to hear better, above the din of noise around us, a mobile phone is literally shoved in my face. I look up to see the lady next to us indicating for me to take a picture of her and her elderly mother, naturally, I agree.

They get into their pose and I’m focusing the camera when I see through the screen that the lady’s head is in flames from the candle on their table. I throw down the phone and proceed to pat out the flames on her head with my hands.

After I made sure that the flames were out I removed my hands from her head and made eye contact. The lady said to me “What are you doing?” She hadn’t even realized what transpired.

At this point, after I settled down and washed my hands from the smell of burnt chicken feathers, I recalibrated the events of the evening and this now became the focal point for why I was there last night to save her disfigurement or perhaps her life even.

I said to the lady, “you should say Grace”, she agreed and instantly took out a prayer book and was saying many prayers of thanks.

So after an eventful evening, I had to further reflect and recalibrate. Perhaps I was chosen to be there at that time to bring this lady closer to GOD and perhaps that was the nuance whilst everything else was just the stimulus required for me to be the vehicle of GOD’s will.

I’m in awe of the minutiae of events which culminated in the revelation of a divine plan, and being a part of it. I simply felt I had to share. #markbaranov

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