Exile: Portraits of the Jewish Diaspora

A BOMBARDIER BOOKS BOOK

An Imprint of Post Hill Press

Exile:

Portraits of the Jewish Diaspora

© 2020 by Annika Hernroth-Rothstein

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-64293-187-7

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-188-4

Cover design by Cody Corcoran

Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect

This is a work of nonfiction. All people, locations, events, and situations are portrayed to the best of the author’s memory.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

For Theodor and Charlie

My greatest blessings and my true north

Contents

Jewish Glossary 

Introduction 

Djerba 

Uzbekistan 

Cuba 

Morocco 

Iran 

Finland 

Siberia 

Sweden 

Turkey 

Palermo 

Venezuela 

An Ever-Dying People? 

Acknowledgments

Endnotes

Jewish Glossary

Alef Bet The Hebrew alphabet.

Bar Mitzvah [Bat Mitzvah] The term applied to a Jewish boy [girl] who has reached the age of thirteen [twelve], indicating that he/she is considered an adult in the eyes of Jewish law and therefore responsible for following all laws and commandments of Jewish observance (the term literally means son [daughter] of the commandments).

Brit Milah The ceremony in which a Jewish boy is circumcised. The Brit Milah (or Bris) takes place on the eighth day of a boy’s life.

Bubbe, Zayde The Yiddish words for grandmother and grandfather.

Chanukah Literally, dedication in Hebrew. The winter holiday commemorating the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem after a group of Jewish warriors called the Hasmoneans defeated the Syrians who had defiled the temple and attempted to force the Jews to assimilate. Also spelled Hanukkah.

Chevra Kadisha Jewish burial society/undertaker, responsible for preparing and sitting with the dead before burial.

Chutzpah Audacity and/or extreme self-confidence.

Daven To pray.

Diaspora/Galut Diaspora means dispersion and Galut means exile. Both words signify Jews living outside of the Land of Israel, away from a vibrant Jewish community; Galut is also used to describe the time period since the destruction of the Second Temple at Jerusalem.

Erev Literally, evening in Hebrew. When placed before the name of a Jewish holiday, it means the day before the evening that begins the holiday (since days in the Jewish calendar begin at sundown, Jewish holidays begin in the evening).

Goy/Goyim Hebrew and Yiddish term for a non-Jewish person/persons; meaning gentile.

Hareidi/Charedi Ultra-orthodox Judaism.

Havdalah Literally separation. The ceremony that marks the end of the Sabbath on Saturday evening.

Hechsher A rabbinic stamp of approval designating a product as kosher.

Hevruta A study partner (usually applies to study of Torah in a yeshiva).

Kabbalat Shabbat Special prayers and songs included as part of Friday night services to welcome in Shabbat.

Kibbutz An Israeli cooperative village.

Kittel A robe that is worn by religious Jews on Yom Kippur, when leading High Holiday services, when leading a Passover seder, by grooms at weddings, and as a burial shroud.

Kosher Derived from the Hebrew word kasher, which means proper or pure. Most commonly used to describe the dietary law of the Old Testament or Torah, it can be used as a term for something that is proper and good.

Maariv Evening prayers.

Machzor A Jewish prayer book for the High Holy Days.

Megillah Literally scroll in Hebrew. There are several books in the Jewish bible referred to as scrolls, but when used by itself, this term usually refers to the Scroll of Esther, which is read on Purim.

Mensch Literally meaning person or man in German and Yiddish but has come to mean person of integrity and honor.

Meshuge Yiddish word meaning crazy.

Mezuzah Literally, doorpost in Hebrew. Refers to a small rectangular box or other container, found on a doorpost in a Jewish household, which holds a parchment containing several passages from the Torah.

Mincha Afternoon prayers.

Mitzvah Literally means commandment and can also mean good deed.

Moreh [Morah] Hebrew for a man [or woman] teacher.

Pesach The Hebrew name for the holiday of Passover.

Purim A holiday, celebrated a month before Passover, commemorating the victory of the Jews over the evil Haman who sought to slay the Jews of ancient Persia.

Rabbi A teacher of Torah, derived from Rav meaning great one and Rabi, meaning my master.

Rebbetzin The Rabbi’s wife and/or a female religious teacher.

Rosh Hashana The Jewish New Year.

Saba, Savta The Hebrew words for grandfather and grandmother.

Shabbat The Jewish Sabbath, which begins at shortly before sundown on Friday night and ends about forty minutes after sundown on Saturday.

Shacharit Morning prayers.

Shalom Literally means Peace, commonly used as a greeting between Jews.

Shema A prayer recited in most Jewish services, as well as at bedtime and when death is imminent; one of the most important and well-known prayers in Judaism.

Shikse A non-Jewish woman.

Shiur A lesson on any Torah topic, such as Misnah, Gemara, Halacha, and so on.

Shtetl A town or village with Jewish inhabitants, commonly found in Eastern Europe before World War II.

Siddur A Jewish prayer book.

Simcha A joyous occasion; a celebration, usually related to a lifecycle event.

Simchat Bat Literally, celebration of a daughter in Hebrew. A celebration of the birth of a Jewish baby girl.

Smicha/Semikah A rabbinical ordination.

Sukkah Literally booth or hut in Hebrew. The temporary dwelling in which Jews live during the holiday of Sukkot.

Sukkot Literally booths or huts in Hebrew. The fall holiday commemorating the forty years spent by the Jews wandering in the desert before entering the land of Israel. The main ritual of Sukkot is the construction of huts similar to those in which the Jews lived in the desert and dwelling (which usually means eating and sleeping, weather permitting) in them for a week.

Tallit A Jewish prayer shawl worn by men during service in the synagogue.

Tanakh The entire Jewish bible including the Torah, Prophets, and Writings (Tanakh is an acronym of the names of the three sections of the bible: Torah, Nevi’im and Kethuvim).

Tefillin Small black boxes containing sections of the shema attached to leather straps and worn around the head and arm during prayer. Also called phylacteries.

Treif The opposite of kosher, meaning impure, as in not adhering to Jewish dietary laws.

Tzadik/Tzadika A righteous man/woman.

Yeshiva A seminary for Jewish studies.

Yom Kippur The Day of Atonement, the most important day in the Jewish calendar.

Introduction

Afew months after I had entered high school, the boys with the boots showed up. I called them that because they had paired their historically accurate Hitler Jugend uniforms with shiny 10-hole Dr. Martens, white laces dramatically contrasting their perfect oxblood shade.

I could always hear them approaching, the boys with the boots. The sound of rubber soles against linoleum would cut through the noises of my high school hallway, and as soon as I turned around, there they were.

My family had settled in that sleepy Swedish coastal town some seventy years earlier, leaving the big city for a better place to raise a family. The war came, and what happened after that I only know through scattered pictures and hushed-down questions. I was told life had become difficult, so they adapted, as the children of their children would also be taught to do.

The boys with the boots would talk to me sometimes. Without a hint of aggression they would tell me that my relatives had become soap in camps, not too far away from where we stood, and that I should follow suit. There was no physical violence, not even once. Instead they would sit next to me in the cafeteria, wait for me at the top of the stairs, or stand to attention as I passed by them. I didn’t know why they despised me, but I knew that it mattered. It mattered to them, and so, it had to matter to me.

When I was fifteen years old, I shaved my head. It was a last resort, a final measure, after spending years changing for and adapting to a world that seemed set on viewing me as a stranger. I had tried so hard. Taming the wild, dark curls, bleaching and straightening to resemble the shiny blonde girls. It didn’t help; neither did hiding in bathrooms and libraries to escape the silent warfare that recess had come to be. It was as if the more I altered myself to be like them, the more they despised me for even trying.

The whole process took over two hours, and when I finally met my own gaze in the bathroom mirror I could see that the venture had been in vain. All the traits I had grown to despise—the big nose, the wide mouth, and the bushy black eyebrows—were all the more visible without the aid of untamed hair. That was the night I realized there was nothing I could do to change what made me deserve all this hatred. It was also the first and last time I ever saw my mother cry.

My mother sat me down and told me that once, when she was just a little girl, she had gone driving with her father. Suddenly she had asked him what it meant that they were Jewish, and why all the children at school were telling her that she was. Her father had slapped her across the face and yelled, Don’t ever say that word again! If anyone asks, we are Walloons. That’s what you tell them. Walloons. They rode back to the house in silence, and my mother did not broach the subject again.

The history of my family has shaped me and, ironic as it may seem, the hatred that I was subjected to during my adolescence actually helped form my Jewish identity and confront me with who and what I am: a Jew in the diaspora, a survivor among survivors, and a link in a vast chain that spans across the world. The hatred I faced—that all Jews face—made me start asking the questions that led me to the writing of this book: what make us special; what makes us stay Jewish despite all of this; and why have we survived through the ages when every age has offered up another threat to our existence.

In the past few years, Europe has exploded, from gruesome murders in Belgium and France to riots, torched synagogues and defaced Holocaust memorial sites, along with a dramatic spike in hate crimes all over the continent. Jews are being singled out and persecuted, once again. Most recently, Paris and Copenhagen were added to the list of cities synonymous with terror, as more Jewish blood was spilled before the eyes of the world. In response to these escalating threats, many have called for a universal Aliyah, a return to Israel, saying that we Jews have no home in the diaspora. But the truth is that it has been our home since the Babylonian Exile, and that we diaspora Jewry carry many different identities within us.

The boys with the boots were on a mission to scare me, to make me feel shame over my Jewishness and to hide in the shadows like so many other Jews before me. For whatever reason, they accomplished the opposite and set me on a mission of my own: to solve the puzzle of my own identity as an exile and a citizen, a Jew and a Swede, and to turn the darkness I was taught into a light among our scattered nation.

For too long, the Jewish diaspora has been described as a problem to be solved, but with this book, I wanted to show the other side of our beautiful Jewish people and highlight the history, culture, and lives of my brothers and sisters all across the world. This is more than a book for me, more than a cultural project; this is my reply to the boys with the boots—the pushback I was too scared and vulnerable to offer at the time.

The communities represented here are of course not a full representation of the diaspora; communities of great historical importance such as Iraq were unavailable to me due to security concerns, and others had to be neglected due to time constraints. What I have tried to do with this project is offer as comprehensible an image as possible, showing a wide array of social, economic, and geographical circumstances. Any areas or countries not covered in this book should not be seen as a reflection of their importance to me or the Jewish people.

Today, I wear my big, curly hair with pride, and I embrace all the facets of my being. I feel gratitude toward the boys in the boots for confronting me with this identity and, in essence, bringing me closer to my people. Were it not for those boys, I may have been another statistic, another European Jew faded into the woodwork. Instead, I am a proud representative of my brothers and sisters, and this book is my love letter to them.

Djerba

Adir is guiding me through the labyrinth that is Hara Kbira town, annoyed, because we’re late for the Hanukkah candle lighting, right after Shabbat. The man hosting us is a leader within the community, described by those who know him as a modest macher . When we finally get there, half of the island’s Jews seem to be cramped inside his humble, white stone house.

Before I lose track, I count eleven cats in the house, all in various stages of age and care. The house is chaotic, yet warm, and a TV is on in the combined bedroom and living room, blaring what seems to be the Tunisian version of The Voice. There are Israeli and Tunisian flags on almost every surface and framed pictures of rabbis I don’t recognize on every wall.

Our host is dressed in traditional Tunisian garb, a full-length djellabah and a matching fez, and you can tell his standing in the community by the way everyone orbits around him, hanging on every word of his elaborate blessings. Adir, usually full of a young man’s swagger, is quiet and submissive in this setting. He falls back for his elder, and, without really knowing why, I follow suit.

Everyone says the blessing in unison, and while we’re singing, the minarets start wailing, calling all Muslims to prayer. I’m the only one to react, losing my momentum a bit; the others go on as if the loud Arabic is nothing more than white noise. Once we’re done, I make a comment to Adir about the interruption, saying the call to prayer threw me off. He doesn’t really answer; instead he points out that the front door has been open this whole time.

There is nothing to fear from the outside for the Jews of Tunisia. Could you say the same about Europe?

Point taken.

Placed atop the African continent, just a couple of hours flight from the major European capitals and a stone’s throw from the Middle East, Tunisia has historically been vulnerable to invasion and cultural influence from all sides. It seems as if anyone with ambitions of greatness has, at some point, passed through Tunisia: from the Vandals, to the Byzantines and Phoenicians, Romans, Jews, Arabs, Spaniards and Turks to, most recently, the French. Even though the Muslim Arabs clearly won the war for Tunisia’s identity—ninety-eight percent of the population is Sunni Muslim—everyone who passed through, conquered, or colonized left a cultural indentation on the country’s soul, making it a sparkly kaleidoscope of human history.

Tunisia is both the smallest and the richest of the African countries, despite its meager natural resources, and it has amassed its riches through agriculture and by using its geographical advantage—being reachable from Europe, the Middle East, and the rest of the African continent—to build its modern economy on trade and tourism.

I arrive in Djerba, a beautiful Mediterranean island just off the coast of mainland Tunisia, on the first day of Hanukkah. The island is truly a hidden gem, its picture-perfect beaches and picturesque villages relatively undiscovered by Western tourists, and traveling there feels almost like traveling through time.

Though I packed my own candles and hanukkiah, it turns out that I will never use them once. That first night, I venture out of my hotel to take in the city lights. Just a few steps into the walkabout, my eyes fall on a shop called Shimon Bijouterie, and I’m immediately drawn inside. Met by an explosion of color, from the painted ceiling to the heavy gold necklaces hanging from the thick, stone-clad walls, I’m struck by two men standing at the counter—one older, with thick, silver hair; one younger, with hair as dark as night. The older man is dominant and charming, schmoozing the customers and running the show, while the younger stands always a step or two behind him, shy but intense in that low-key mysterious way. They are quite obviously family—the resemblances are clear as day—and while I wait my turn, I watch the relatable scene of a son and a father, the submissive and the dominant, working together in a harmony that must have taken half a lifetime to perfect.

My French is rusty, but we get by. Alternating between French and Hebrew, I learn that this is one of several Jewish jewelry shops in the neighborhood of Houmt Souk, and that Shimon and his son Avi Chay are the third generation of Djerba Jews to manage this particular establishment.

Shimon sees my Magen David necklace and smiles. Given my broken Hebrew, he asks if I’m Jewish—and how in the world did I end up here?

I tell him my story, and, without skipping a beat, he exclaims, OK, then. Let’s go light some candles together.

Avi Chay closes the shop doors, and we stroll out almost immediately. It’s not an oddity here to lock up shop several times a day to accommodate for the varied and disparate religious practices of this unique place. Djerba, small as it is, contains Muslims, Jews and Christians, and while radically different, all three groups are living a traditional and observant life. Everyone here is religious in some way, and all the shopkeepers have a prayer schedule to which they adhere. We walk together through the narrow streets of the market, and there—just around the corner—is a bright blue door leading to one of the most beautiful synagogues I have ever seen.

It’s tiny, really, just two small rooms with a large bima in the middle, all of it slathered in white and blue tiles. To my left is a metallic hanukkiah, and next to it a large Coca Cola bottle filled with oil. As the men begin to file in, I withdraw to the back, watching them put on their tallitot and prepare.

Then they start singing, and I’m taken aback by how the Jewish prayers are sung with Arabic-style melodies. These are not the traditional Ashkenazi songs that I am used to, moving from word to word in an orderly fashion. Instead, there is evocative wailing, the clear telling of a story where every word is saturated with meaning and experienced anew, each time. It is exotic and wonderful and somewhat meditative in nature. It’s both louder and more joyous than I’m used to. Despite being the only woman in this shul in a strange and faraway land, I can’t help but join in.

Our Journey to Djerba

Legend says that when Emperor Nebuchadnezzar II destroyed Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem in 586 BCE, members of the Jewish priestly class, the Kohanim, settled on the island of Djerba in present-day Tunisia. The Kohanim carried with them a vestige of the destroyed Temple and placed it in the synagogue they built on the island. The El Ghriba synagogue, as it is called, became a place not just of worship, but of pilgrimage. In fact, the yearly pilgrimage to the island of the Kohanim is a