There is an abundance of street art in Bucharest. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
What could be more Israeli than the hora? Well, truth be told, the hora is not Israeli! The word hora comes from Romania. And, like the origins of the hora, the Romanian capital, Bucharest, is a place where the unexpected should be expected.
When you walk along Bucharest’s broad boulevards, one word comes to mind – palatial. There is the former Cantacuzino Palace, today’s George Enescu National Museum; the Elisabeta Palace, the private residence of the former Queen Elizabeth of Greece (born Princess Elisabeta of Romania), following her 1935 divorce from King George II of Greece; the former Royal Palace, today’s National Museum of Arts; the Romanian Athenaeum, today a major concert hall; the Palace of the Deposits and Consignments, still a bank, but today called the CEC Palace; and the Palace of Parliament.
Bucharest once had strong ties to Paris, and French is still mandated in schools. It was called Little Paris, so it should not be a surprise to see that Bucharest’s Manu-Auschnitt Palace is a copy of Paris’s Hôtel Biron (today’s Rodin Museum). While smaller in size, many older private homes were built with stunning stone (perhaps even cement) arches and columns, bas reliefs incorporating figures of lions, men and women, shields, gryphons, eagles, the angel of death, and various free-standing sculptures. In this home, the windows are in national-romantic and neo-Romanian style. Paris-inspired art deco metal work appears on door grills, door overhangs and the tops of buildings. Five classy examples of art deco building in Bucharest are 1 Piata Sfântul Stefan; the Ministry of Justice at 53 Bulevardul Regina Elisabeta; the Telephone Company Building on Calea Victoriei; the “Union” Building on 11 Strada Ion Campineanu; and 44 Calea Calarasilor.
The Old Palace of the Chamber of Commerce in Bucharest, a city full of former palaces. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
In addition to the number of stunning palaces, there is also an abundance of street art. Some of this street art is commissioned and appears on the sides of various buildings. It is often colourful and imaginative. There is, however, a lot of graffiti, which, apparently, began to appear after the 1989 Romanian revolt against the communist regime. Graffiti is illegal, but, as I was told, the consequences depend on the discretion of who catches the graffiti artist or how fast the artist can run.
Jewish presence in Romania dates to Roman times, when the country was a province called Dacia. The first mention of Jews in Bucharest is from the 16th century. Jews came to Bucharest from two directions: Sephardi Jews came from the south, mainly from the Ottoman Empire; later, Ashkenazi Jews came from the north. The latter, from Galicia or Ukraine, settled in Bucharest after having lived in Moldavia. As in other European countries, Jews were at various times tolerated, even integrated into general city life.At other times, however, they were punished in one way or another.
The Jewish population of Bucharest grew significantly, particularly in the second half of the 19th century. In 1835, some 2,600 Jews lived there; this number jumped to 5,900 in 1860. In the 1800s, nine synagogues were constructed and, by 1900, the total Jewish population had risen to 40,500, making Bucharest by far the largest Jewish community in Romanian territory. By 1930, the city’s Jewish population was 74,480. Jews settled in virtually all the city districts, especially in areas where economic growth was fastest. Bucharest’s Jews laboured as artisans, metalworkers, merchants and bankers.
In the early 19th century, there were several instances in which Jews were accused of ritual murder. This led to violence and pogroms. While, on the books, Jews were to be given citizenship, government after government dragged its feet in making emancipation stick. In general, being Christian was a prerequisite for Romanian citizenship, although a complex naturalization process was theoretically made available to Jews. When, in 1866, Jewish French lawyer Adolph Crémieux came to Bucharest to help push for Jewish political emancipation, rioters attacked Jewish shops and synagogues. Toward the end of the century, many antisemitic organizations existed, due in large part to nationalist leader Alexandru C. Cuza’s political activities. In particular, his followers organized antisemitic agitation against Jewish students at Bucharest University.
After Germany, Romania is directly responsible for more Jewish deaths in the Shoah than any other country. For most of the Second World War, Romania allied with Nazi Germany. According to official Romanian statistics, between 280,000 and 380,000 Jews were murdered or died in territories under Romanian administration during the war. Antisemitic legislation downgraded the identity of Jewish citizens to second-rate status: they lost the rights to education and health care, their property was confiscated, and they were forced to perform hard labour. In September 1942, approximately 1,000 Jews were deported to Transnistria.
Despite such treatment, most of Bucharest’s large Jewish community was spared the worst horrors of the Holocaust. Between 1941 and 1943, Bucharest-based Chilean charge d’affaires Samuel del Campo saved the lives of more than 1,200 Romanian and Polish Jews by issuing them Chilean passports, thus preventing their deportation to Nazi concentration camps.A memorial stands in front of the former Ashkenazi Great Synagogue, commemorating the January 1941 paramilitary Iron Guard’s (Legionnaires’) savage murder of 125 Bucharest Jews, an action reminiscent of Nazi techniques, with the skinning of the victims and the hanging of them on meat hooks.
Shortly after the Second World War, Bucharest experienced a great influx of Jews, as refugees arrived from concentration camps and from several areas in Romania where they continued to feel unsafe. By 1947, the Jewish population had grown to 150,000.
After the first years of the communist regime and the closing of Jewish welfare and religious institutions, Bucharest continued to be a centre of Jewish communal and cultural life due, in large part, to Chief Rabbi Moses Rosen, who coped with the inconsistencies and peculiarities of Romanian official policy – particularly during the 1965-1989 dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausescu. When former US ambassador Alfred Moses first visited Bucharest in 1976, a young Jew approached him saying, “Don’t believe what they tell you. The situation here is terrible, especially for Jews. We are blamed for everything that goes wrong. Help us get out. There is no future for Jews in Romania. Everything you hear is a lie, a lie, a lie.”
After the rebirth of the state of Israel, many Jews made aliyah. By 2000, only 3,500 Jews were left in Bucharest. Today’s Jewish life in Bucharest focuses on three synagogues, a community centre, a kosher restaurant and the Centre for the Study of the History of Romanian Jews.
In 2021, a Romanian survey reported one-fourth of respondents saying they didn’t know or couldn’t say exactly what the Holocaust was. Another 35% said they couldn’t identify the Holocaust’s significance for Romania. In 2022, the populist Alliance for the Union of Romanians (AUR) opposition party called Holocaust education a “minor topic” when it was mandated in Romanian high schools. This party currently holds 12% of parliament seats and some people predict it will become a major political force in the near future.
On a more positive note, a few years after the death of Jewish Romanian Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel, at age 87, Bucharest memorialized him with a bust in the Piata Elie Wiesel.
Finally, if you hear what sounds like a Slavic language spoken in Bucharest, it might just be Ukrainian. Since Russia began its attack on Ukraine two years ago, 11,000 Ukrainian men of conscription age have illegally fled to Romania. It is too early to say how this population will impact Bucharest life.
Deborah Rubin Fieldsis an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.
Starting in 1539, it took Spain 250 years to construct the six-level fortress El Morro in Puerto Rico, and Spain’s former power still emanates from the walls. (photo by Lauren Kramer)
I was in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, recently, when the full magnitude of the Spanish Inquisition hit me like a ton of bricks.
The scene seemed an unlikely one for a blast from the Jewish past. I was with Pablo Garcia, a fast-speaking guide with Spoon, a boutique food and history company, and we were standing in the Plaza del Quinto Centenario, in front of fortifications that were more than 500 years old.
These were fortifications Spain built in the 1500s, not long after Christopher Columbus “discovered” Puerto Rico in 1493. “Discovered,” because the indigenous Taino people had been there for centuries but, for reasons that seem unfathomable now, that didn’t matter to the Spaniards.
Back home in Spain, 300,000 Jews were being expelled, murdered in the Inquisition or forced to convert to Catholicism, with some of them practising their Judaism underground. To appreciate the kind of force they were up against, you just need to pay a visit to Old San Juan and lay eyes on El Morro.
Spain started building El Morro in 1539 and it took 250 years to construct the six-level fortress. Its thick, stone walls, 185 feet above sea level, were punctuated by garritas, dome-shaped sentry booths located shouting distance from one another, so that, when one sentry perceived a threat on the horizon, he simply yelled a warning to his cohorts. El Morro guarded the city’s harbour from invaders and its bastion, with barracks, dungeons and storerooms, still holds original cannons that face the ocean in preparation for defence.
The sites are so well preserved that, were the Spanish to resume control today, one feels certain they’d need very little additional infrastructure to guard the island. I looked at those stone walls that safeguarded the island from many battles over the centuries and marveled at the sheer strength of the Iberian Union. It dawned on me that the Jews of Spain really didn’t stand a chance against a power like this in 1492.
I was jolted back to reality when we stopped for a caffeine buzz at Don Ruiz, a coffee shop located in what was once Spain’s Ballajá Barracks. The coffee beans are from a four-generation family farm specializing in single-harvest, hand-picked beans, Garcia said. “In the 1700s, coffee was big business in Puerto Rico and one in every six cups of coffee worldwide was made with beans grown on the island. Coffee money built our roads and sealed our dams,” he said.
Over the next three hours, I wandered between restaurants in beautifully preserved, colourful buildings in Old San Juan’s narrow, brick-laid streets. I sipped soursop juice, a local hangover cure with a pear-like taste, and sampled mofongo, a pastry made from mashed, fried green plantains.
Spain maintained a stronghold on the island until 1898, when it became the US territory it remains to this day. But the Spanish influence remains pervasive, easily perceptible in the cuisine, the history of the island, the language and the islanders’ distinct cultural identity.
Garcia stopped outside a local bank with a circular symbol above the door. “That’s the seal of Puerto Rico, still used to stamp new laws to this day,” he said. The seal depicts a tower representing Queen Isabella of Castille, a lion representing King Ferdinand II of Aragon and a cross, symbolizing Catholicism and Spain’s “discovery” of the “New World.”
It struck me as interesting that these two Catholic monarchs, thearchitects of the Spanish Inquisition, are still being lauded. Their legacies are sealed in Puerto Rico’s legal documents even today, and the authority they wielded 500 years ago still can be seen in those seemingly impenetrably thick stone walls of El Morro.
Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.
There’s nothing like a weekend in Montreal, whether you’re in the mood for a classic bagel, a mouthwatering babka dripping with chocolate, or a heaping smoked meat sandwich from Schwartz’s Deli. Now that Porter Airlines has launched direct daily flights between Vancouver and Montreal, it’s a great time to explore this fabulous city, which oozes with personality, culture, history and great food.
We joined a fast-paced bike tour to see the city’s highlights, pedaling 15 kilometres through green alleyways, busy boulevards and along the Lachine Canal to get a broad overview of Montreal’s history. We rode through the Old Quarter, with its ancient stone buildings, following the canal past factories and warehouses reincarnated into swanky apartments. We puffed up the hill to the base of Mount Royal and zipped back down past the austere buildings of McGill University.
At Place d’Armes, we stopped to gaze at a pair of statues called “The Two Snobs.” On one side, a Francophone woman holds her poodle, looking with contempt at the head office of the Bank of Montreal, a symbol of English power. On the other, an Anglophone holds his pug, looking with similar disdain at the Notre-Dame Basilica, a symbol of the Catholic Church in Quebec. The statues hint loudly at the enduring, simmering tensions between English and French in Montreal.
We escaped the tourist crowds in the Old Quarter by heading to Mile End to join a food and history tour offered by the Museum of Jewish Montreal. Our guide, Avery Monette, a 23-year-old master’s student at Concordia, led us on a gastronomic feast as she described the city’s Jewish origins in 1760. That’s when Jews first arrived in Montreal to work as fur trade merchants. The community stayed small until the 1880s, when pogroms drove Eastern European Jews to the safety of Montreal’s Mile End. Over the next 90 years, it would become the largest Jewish community in Canada.
We bit into a sweet, rich cheese crown from Boulangerie Cheskie, a small kosher bakery in the neighbourhood, and then braved the cold wind to line up outside St-Viateur Bagel, one of Montreal’s two most famous bagel shops. Established in 1957 by Hyman Zeligman and Myer Lewkowicz, the store never closes. Ever. “In April 2023, there was an ice and snowstorm that knocked out all the electricity in the area,” Monette recalled. “Even then, this place was open!”
We strolled along rue Jeanne-Mance in Mile End, where frum families pushed strollers alongside us and a man wearing a shtreimel strode by, headed for the synagogue with his tallit tucked under his arm. The Jewish influence was easily spotted, with most houses having mezuzot on their doors and many with the skeleton of a sukkah in their front yard.
By the 1950s, Jews in Montreal had migrated to the middle class, and many left Mile End for larger homes in Côte Saint-Luc, Hampstead and Côte-des-Neiges. We passed the College Français, once the home of the B’nai Jacob Synagogue, which was known as the Carnegie Hall of cantorial singing in its heyday.
Our Vancouver jackets were feeling pretty inadequate in Montreal weather by the time we arrived at Fairmount Bagel, where the line out the door was even longer than at St-Viateur. Once inside, we were surrounded by garlic, pumpernickel, cranberry and muesli bagels, as well as matzah with sesame, onion and poppy seeds. While none of it is kosher, the store is still owned by the same Shlafman family that first opened it in 1949.
A few doors away is Wilensky’s, a small restaurant with origins in 1932 and family members still at the helm. With its Formica counters, bar stools and what could easily be the world’s tiniest washroom, the store feels like a 1930s time capsule. Monette orders the Wilensky Special, an original family recipe featuring beef salami, beef bologna and mustard on a grilled roll. No special requests or modifications are allowed, not for us or for Anthony Bourdain and Mordecai Richler, both of whom were customers.
On Boulevard Saint-Laurent, new stories mingle with the old. We picked up a babka at Hof Kelsten, where Jeffrey Finkelstein is turning heads with his challah, rugelach and rye. We passed Leonard Cohen’s grey-stoned triplex, a house he lived in from 1968 and that’s still owned by his family. “He was well known for padding around the streets in the slippers he bought right here,” Monette says, gesturing at J. Schreter, a shoe shop on the corner.
Between the bagels, the babkas and the Wilensky Special, it’s hard to make room for more food, but the length of the line outside Schwartz’s Deli tells us this one is not skippable, so on we go. Famous for its smoked meat sandwiches since its inception in 1928, the deli is now owned by Celine Dion and her partners, who have kept things much the same, adding a smoked meat poutine to the menu. Take a bite of one of Schwartz’s sandwiches, which literally bulge with hefty portions of meat, and you understand precisely why the little deli is such a cultural icon in the city. Quite simply, it’s unforgettable. It’s a fitting symbol for the city of Montreal, which is bursting with flavour.
Whether you come for the food, the history, the arts scene or the culture, Montreal is charmingly seductive, and so vastly different from Vancouver that it feels like an entirely different country. Now just four-and-a-half hours away, it’s an easy decision to put this sophisticated French city on the itinerary.
If you go …
• In April, Porter Airlines launched its daily round trip service between Vancouver and Montreal (flyporter.com)
• A bike tour with Fitz Montreal is a great way to explore Montreal’s highlights, with many sights packed into an exhilarating, fast-paced ride (fitzmontreal.com)
• Museum of Jewish Montreal offers regular Beyond the Bagel Tours in the spring, summer and fall. The three-hour tours include food and range from $79-$95 per person (museemontrealjuif.ca/beyond-the-bagel)
• Humaniti Hotel offers sophisticated accommodation in the heart of the city, steps from Old Montreal, the Palais des congrès and the Quartier des Spectacles (humanitihotel.com)
Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.
Congregation Sha’are Shalom in Kingston, Jamaica. (photo from Jamaica Tourist Board)
It was a muggy Friday afternoon just hours after my family and I had touched down in Jamaica for a two-week vacation, and the plan was to attend evening services at Kingston’s only synagogue, Congregation Sha’are Shalom. Too tired to argue, my kids and spouse changed clothes, we squashed six into the rental car and ventured into the city.
Though we knew the stately synagogue on Kingston’s Duke Street had been there since 1912, it still felt surprising to go inside and find eight members of the tribe leading a Shabbat service. The two-level synagogue is a magnificent piece of architecture, with a majestic, mahogany aron hakodesh filled with Torah scrolls from other Jamaican synagogues that closed or merged over the years. The ground floor is composed of sand, making this one of just five sand-floored synagogues worldwide. One story says the sand hearkens back to when Jews were worshipping in basements in Spain and Portugal, during the Inquisition, and sandy floors silenced their footsteps. Another legend says the sand is there as a reminder that we should multiply like sand on the seashore.
Sha’are Shalom has space for at least 300 congregants, but when we arrived, there were just the eight locals and the six of us. The deep, sonorous baritone of one member, who led the service from the mahogany bimah, filled the air with a spiritual melody and, above us, ceiling fans whirred, adding a reprieve to the humid evening. From the bimah, Stephen Henriques, the spiritual leader, spoke of the dispersal of Kingston’s Jewish community over the past four decades, adding that many of today’s members are interfaith. “Still, we are here, celebrating and living our Jewishness, as we have done for centuries,” he said.
We were warmly welcomed to the service, and happily joined in a kiddush of grape juice, challah and sweet Jamaican coco bread. I tried to imagine a time when the synagogue was brimming with Jews, its walls resonating with children’s laughter, congregants’ prayers and Jewish possibilities. There were times like this, but they happened many, many years ago.
Jamaica was occupied by the Spanish from 1494 until 1655. During that time, Jews from Spain and Portugal began trickling onto the island. With the Spanish Inquisition underway, those Jews became Marranos, practising their faith in secret. In 1655, when the British occupied Jamaica, Jews were able to practise their faith without secrecy, but they weren’t completely free from discrimination. Between 1690 and 1740, a “Jew Tax” was levied and only in 1831, the year of the largest slave rebellion in the country, were Jews allowed to vote and participate fully in public life.
Jewish businessman George Stiebel (1821-1896) was Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. (photo by CoCoLumps / wikimedia)
Jews had been quietly involved for years before that, but they embraced this opportunity with gusto. By 1849, eight of the members of Jamaica’s House of Assembly were Jewish. George Stiebel, a Jewish businessman who made his fortune in gold mining in Venezuela, was the country’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. He built Devon House, one of the country’s flagship mansions and a national monument today.
We continued to nibble on coco bread in the Jewish Heritage Centre adjacent to the synagogue, wishing we had more time to peruse the walls, where there is lots of historical data on Jewish contributions to the island. It was dark by the time we left, so we didn’t have time to see the memorial garden, where tombstones dating back to the 18th century have been relocated.
A few days into our stay, we left Kingston for Ocho Rios and Montego Bay on the north coast. When the sun shone, we explored Jamaica’s beaches, relishing the feel of the warm water on our skin. When the rain came pouring down, we drove to neighbouring parishes to explore small towns.
One such drive took us to Falmouth, a small town whose poverty and neglect is loudly revealed in its deeply potholed roads and dilapidated homes and buildings. Coming, as we did, from an all-inclusive resort just 20 minutes away, the disparity between the two environments was glaring.
But it wasn’t always this way. The Jewish cemetery in Falmouth is filled with the graves of Jewish merchants who dominated the once-flourishing trade here in the 19th century. When I announced we were making a stop at the cemetery, there was a collective groan from the back of the car. “We went to synagogue – now we have to visit dead Jews?” my son asked. As my husband valiantly navigated through potholes the size of small swimming pools, I tried to explain how a cemetery could be a fascinating place to explore history.
Though we were probably only a stone’s throw away from the cemetery, we never made it. After one particularly large pothole, and another ahead that threatened to drown the rental car, a decision was made. “I love you, sweetheart, but I just don’t want to get stuck out here,” my husband declared.
I couldn’t blame him.
Drive around Jamaica and safety is not a feeling that comes easily. For one, the drivers overtake with such reckless disregard for life that road accidents always feel imminent. For another, the looks you get from some locals leave your Spidey sense tingling with fear. Leave the resorts and there are few warm welcomes from the community at large it seems, with the exception of those who have something to sell. Jamaica is known for its violence, with a rate of 52.9 homicides per 100,000 people, as compared to Canada’s, at 2.5.
We turned around and headed back to the resort, where staff sweep trash off the beach daily, and food and booze are readily available day and night. Moving between the pool and the ocean, it didn’t take long to relax. As the mojitos flowed, though, my mind kept returning to those tenacious Jews who arrived in Jamaica hundreds of years ago. They came with sand in their shoes and buckets of determination to pursue their religion and build success in a new land. I wondered what they’d say if they could see Jamaica today.
Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.
Theodor Herzl, during the First Zionist Congress, in Basel, Switzerland, 1897. (photo from mfa.gov.il)
Sometime before 1223, the first bridge spanning the Rhine River at Basel was constructed, funded through a loan to the town’s bishop by a Jewish moneylender. The bridge was a significant factor in the development of trade in the strategically located city, which is in northern Switzerland, near what are now the German and French borders.
The bridge lasted almost 800 years and was replaced between 1903 and 1905. There may be only one photograph in existence in which the original bridge can be seen – a photograph with another very significant Jewish connection. It is believed that the only place one can see the original Middle Bridge, or Mittlere Rheinbrücke, is in the famous shot of Theodor Herzl in a moment of contemplation outside the First Zionist Congress in 1897.
The bridge provides a sort of bookend to the Jewish story in Switzerland. While the bridge stood eight centuries, the history of Jews in Switzerland proved far less stable than the stone Mittlere Rheinbrücke.
A pocketwatch with Hebrew characters and an engraving of the Western Wall on the reverse. (photo by Pat Johnson)
Switzerland has a rightful reputation for natural magnificence – rolling green meadows, massive snowcapped mountains, glacial streams and rivers – as well as political stability and neutrality that have made it home to a host of international nongovernmental organizations and United Nations agencies. The prevalence of cheese and chocolate also give it a delicious reputation. History is not so agreeable.
Some of that history is told in Basel’s small but impressive Jewish Museum of Switzerland. When the institution opened in 1966, it was the first new Jewish museum in the German-speaking world since the Holocaust.
Basel itself holds a special place in Jewish history – for better and for far worse. Herzl, credited as the founder of political Zionism, was not one for false modesty. After his debut as convenor of the 1897 conference, he declared: “At Basel, I created the Jewish state. In five years, perhaps, and certainly in 50, everyone will see it.”
Herzl himself did not see it. He died in 1904. But, indeed, 50 years on, the United Nations passed the Partition Resolution and, a year after that, the state of Israel was created.
The Three Kings Hotel, Basel, site of the First Zionist Congress, 1897. (photo by Pat Johnson)
There are probably only about 1,000 Jews in Basel – there are around 20,000 in all of Switzerland – yet Basel stands out not only as the birthplace of the modern Zionist movement and home to the national museum of Jewish life and culture, but also has hosted the Zionist Congress 10 times, more than any other place.
Sadly, Basel is also on the Jewish historical map for far less rosy reasons. In 1349, an estimated 600 Jews were burned at the stake in Basel and 140 children were forcibly converted. This was just part of a series of pogroms in the 12th and 13th centuries across Switzerland, some based on blood libels or motivated by allegations of well poisonings at the time of the Black Plague.
Switzerland may have a reputation as being exceptional in Europe – neutral in foreign relations, and not a part of the European Union or most other multilateral bodies – but human-made borders and the majestic Alps seem to have done little to protect Swiss Jews from the horrors that have befallen coreligionists elsewhere on the continent across centuries.
As in other places, Swiss Jews were limited by law as to the professions they could pursue. A range of deliberately demeaning regulations were in place, including homes built with separate doors for Jews to enter. Jews were forced to pay what amounted to protection money to authorities.
A Swiss Torah scroll at Jewish Museum of Switzerland, Basel. (photo by Pat Johnson)
Early in the 17th century, almost all Jews were expelled from Switzerland. Physicians were a professional exception and Jews were allowed to remain in just two villages.
After Napoleon invaded Switzerland, a series of political reforms began, some better and some worse for Jews.
Jews were formally permitted to settle anywhere in Switzerland after a referendum in 1866 resulted in a slight majority of Swiss endorsing equal rights for Jews. (The Swiss have a mania for referendums, even on issues of basic human rights.)
Migrants then came from middle and eastern Europe, especially after pogroms in Russia in the 1880s. More came from Germany after Hitler came to power, in 1933, but Switzerland, like the rest of the world, eventually slammed the doors shut, in 1938.
Swiss banks, with their uniquely secretive policies that protect the illegal and immoral, have been forced to reconcile, to an extent, with their complicity with the Nazis, as well as their profiteering from the assets of Jews who, because of the Holocaust, never reclaimed assets they had deposited for safekeeping as turmoil roiled their homelands.
The Jewish Museum of Switzerland’s display of Torah crowns and breastplates, and yads (pointers used to help read the text). (photo by Pat Johnson)
Seemingly an oasis of stability and reason in a continent aflame in fascism, Switzerland nevertheless was steadfastly determined to prevent Jews from finding haven there. After the Anschluss, when Hitler’s army invaded and absorbed Austria, Jews from that country desperately tried to enter Switzerland, but mostly were met with rejection. Likewise, after the Nazis swamped France and the Low Countries, refugees from those places were similarly spurned.
In all, about 23,000 Jews were admitted to Switzerland – but only as a country of transit. The Swiss authorities even prevailed upon the Third Reich – successfully – to stamp German passports issued to Jews with an unmistakable scarlet letter “J” to make it easier to identify and reject potential Jewish border-crossers.
Swiss authorities prevailed upon the Third Reich – successfully – to stamp German passports issued to Jews with a “J” to make it easier to identify and reject Jewish refugees. (photo by Pat Johnson)
In the 1990s, as Swiss actions during the Second World War and the Holocaust were the subject of international attention, a backlash to this critical historical assessment led to an upsurge in antisemitic rhetoric and what a study indicated was a substantial reduction in inhibitions against racist expressions toward Jews. More recent public opinion polls suggest the Swiss are among Europe’s most antisemitic populations.
An old and unresolved sticking point for Swiss Jews has been the banning of kosher slaughter, which was outlawed in 1874 and remains prohibited to this day. Since 2002, the Swiss government has allowed the importation of kosher meat, but ritual slaughter remains illegal.
For all its significance in Zionist history, Basel appears to have no commemorative plaque or similar tribute marking either its centrality in the birth of the modern Zionist movement or of Herzl’s association with it, although the museum celebrates the connection.
The Jewish Museum of Switzerland is located in a nondescript side street about a 20-minute walk from the Basel train station. It is open Monday to Thursday, 1-4 p.m., and Sundays, 11 a.m.-5 p.m. The permanent exhibition explores Jewish culture, religion and history through an impressive assemblage of ritual objects, documents, household items and testimonies. The current exhibition, Literally Jewish, which runs into next year, explores how Jews have been perceived depending on the time, language and attitude, including, as the introductory material says, “from derogatory to valourizing, ideological to idealizing.” Adult admission is 10 Swiss francs – about $15.50 Canadian – making it one of the more affordable attractions in a country where everything is gobsmackingly expensive.
Israeli artist Ya’acov Agam’s Holocaust memorial is located in Woldenberg Park. (photo by Adina Horwich)
On Friday, June 2, about 20 minutes before Shabbat candlelighting, I checked my email. I saw one from Cynthia Ramsay, editor of the Jewish Independent. We’ve been in touch for more than two years. The subject line read, “Congratulations, you are an AJPA Rockower Award Winner!”
It reminded me of the messages we all receive at one time or another, telling us we have won a million dollars, give or take. I opened it gingerly and my eyes widened in disbelief. “Adina, I have great news. You have won a Rockower award.” Several lines down, I read there is to be an American Jewish Press Association conference and awards banquet in July, in New Orleans. I immediately shot back, “Cynthia, are you serious?!” I decided right then, I am going to this. I am to be honoured for an article I submitted in March 2022, recounting my aliyah story – I live in Jerusalem – and paralleling it with that of an Israeli couple’s similar, and different, experiences with immigration to Vancouver.
The event was in four weeks’ time: July, high season, crowds, lines. I pushed past every sane reason not to go and spent the next two weeks organizing an itinerary. I registered for the banquet and reserved my room, throwing in a long weekend to Toronto before the conference to see my elderly parents and a few relatives.
As I lit Shabbat candles, I broke down in tears. Of elation and joy. It had been a long while since I cried. This meant so much to me. I was going on an ego trip! My very own!
After a 20-plus-hour ordeal getting to New Orleans from Toronto, I saw the light of day dawning on NOLA, as the city is affectionately called, combining the abbreviation for New Orleans with that of its home state, Louisiana. I was in my hotel room shortly after 9 a.m., then went downstairs to find the AJPA conference. I was warmly welcomed by Taylor and Jessica, head office personnel, who handed me a gift bag and offered me breakfast, for which I was very grateful.
I entered the assembly room and listened to a session in progress, then took a walk to get acquainted with my immediate surroundings. I later rested and prepared for the moment I’d come all this way for: the Rockower Awards Ceremony and Banquet Night. Around 5:30 p.m., I descended to the lobby, decked out in my finest, high heels and all (last time I wore those shoes was eight years ago, at my son’s wedding) and traipsed (hobbled) across the street to the Louisiana Pavilion of the National WWII Museum.
In the entrance hall, tables and chairs had been set up. Jazz musicians played a selection of local repertoire. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were plentiful. We were encouraged to have a look around the museum. Eventually, we took our places at the tables for dinner, during which, Alan Smason, AJPA president, read off the names of the winners. I could barely touch my food as I waited to hear my name. In the end he just said, “The Vancouver Jewish Independent” and Taylor came over to hand me my honourable mention certificate. I relaxed and finished dinner, the best part being the dessert: a thick slice of bread pudding, doused in a super-sweet, rum-flavoured glaze. The evening wound up with several participants heading to a bar somewhere, while others, including me, went up to Rosie’s on the Roof, right in our hotel. There, we chatted together with other journalists, from St. Louis, Dallas, Houston, Albuquerque and more.
Docent Diane Cohen in front of the aron kodesh (left) of Touro Synagogue on St. Charles Avenue. (photo by Adina Horwich)
The next day, I took the tram to a meeting I’d arranged with docent Diane Cohen, a lifelong New Orleanian, at the Touro Synagogue on St. Charles Avenue. Cohen and I sat in the front row of the sanctuary, elegant and in pristine condition, as was the entire building, which was built in 1908 – the congregation’s history goes back to 1828! She shared with me some of that history and the community’s origins and growth. Later, she showed me around the lobby, chapel and office. We had a good discussion and I felt so touched to have spent about two hours in this remarkable venue, which continues to thrive, housing an active, vibrant, welcoming community. (See tourosynagogue.com.)
The aron kodesh of Touro Synagogue. (photo by Adina Horwich)
From there, Cohen drove me to a Walgreens where I bought a bus pass. Then I bussed down Canal Street towards Bourbon. As it was midday, things were not quite hopping, but it was enough to give me an idea of the many shops, restaurants, tourist sights and traps. I could conjure up an image of what night life and Mardi Gras celebrations must be like.
The bus driver let me off, suggesting I head down to the Riverfront, where I could hop on the ferry that crosses to the other side of town. After walking about 10 minutes to the wharf, the heavens burst open with a huge shower of warm rain. I boarded the next ferry. The ride was all of five minutes, but it afforded me a skyline view of the city and, hey, I can say I sailed down the Mississippi River.
I stayed on for the return ride, then meandered along the Woldenberg Park boardwalk, happening upon a colourful panel structure created by Israeli artist Ya’acov Agam, who designed it as a Holocaust memorial, a gift to New Orleans. From any which way one views it, light glistens through the menorah and Star of David symbols, panels ever shining, even in rain, honouring the victims.
Further along, I was treated to the sight of a characteristic of the region, a paddlewheeler riverboat. Staying on course, I found my way to the French Quarter. Having lived my adolescence in Montreal, it was warming to see French street names and other remnants of the French period there. I saw a woman in a candy store washing Granny Smith apples, preparing them for dipping in a variety of sugary coatings, reminding me of the taffy apples of my childhood. The fleur-de-lis emblem was everywhere, including on the bathroom floor tiles at my hotel and the chairs in the lobby.
I returned to the St. Charles Avenue tram line, getting off a stop before my hotel to visit the Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience (msje.org). Well, what an experience, indeed. After showing my AJPA participant’s badge, Abbey allowed me in, and Jim showed me around the small but charming and interesting museum. Visitors see the historic beginnings of Jewish settlement in the Southern states, how communities formed, often with just a handful of individuals. Meetings and gatherings were held in homes, rented rooms, sometimes even at churches. Land for cemeteries was purchased. Hebrew schools instructed children. Sisterhoods held functions, raised money to support these efforts. From peddlers to grocers, small dry goods shops opened, which later flourished into department stores.
Visitors to the Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience learn about the historic beginnings of Jewish settlement in the Southern states. (photo by Adina Horwich)
Jews were involved in cotton and other agricultural production. Trade ties were woven between the various populations, be they French, Spanish, British or Indigenous. The slow, but steady influx of Jews led to the formal establishment of synagogues and community facilities and institutions. Jewish presence figured prominently and was largely welcomed. Both Sephardi and Ashkenazi Jews gravitated to this region. Various levels of observance and traditions added to the fabric, and tension. It took time to determine a way to blend customs and decide how prayers would be led. Most congregations became affiliated with Reform Judaism – as many could not afford a full-time rabbi, either visiting clergy would come once every few weeks or lay members would lead services. Many a personal story is told. Families were close.
As I moved from room to room, I imagined the hardships, resourcefulness and sheer tenacity of these early pioneers, who had fled their native lands, to reach these shores or inland, remote, rural regions, to build new lives and opportunities. Today, there is so much going on in the South: a number of Jewish newspapers, initiatives, shared enterprises. Jews hold key roles and responsibilities in their cities. Community members are well-connected to one another, both in person and digitally, meeting individual needs, celebrating and sharing lifecycle events, holidays, prayers and cuisine. I was moved and impressed by the overall sense of purpose and furthering of a common goal: to maintain and strengthen Jewish identity. This goal has been unwavering over decades, through education and diverse joint programs and activities. Also, by fostering positive and supportive relations and cooperation with fellow residents of all backgrounds.
Towards the end of the exhibit, many well-known celebrities’ photos were displayed, all of whom hail from Southern Jewish communities. I was especially enchanted by the link to a directory where one can click on any given town or city where a community existed (or still does) and read about their specific story. I have completed Alabama’s list and hope to read through every single state. Check it out at isjl.org/encyclopedia-of-southern-jewish-communities.html.
Reluctantly, I left New Orleans. Upon returning home and unloading all the papers and paraphernalia I brought back with me, I unpacked from my carry-on several beaded necklaces that had been used as table centrepieces at the banquet. As the staff was cleaning up at the end of the evening, I asked if it would be all right to take a handful. Each colour represents a value or virtue: purple for justice, green for faith and gold for power. I could use a bit of all three!
Adina Horwichwas born in Israel to Canadian parents. In 1960, the family returned to Canada, first living in Halifax, then in a Montreal suburb. In 1975, at age 17, Horwich made aliyah, and has lived mostly in the Jerusalem area. Her award-winning article can be read at jewishindependent.ca/immigration-challenges-2.
Ahrida Synagogue is one of the two still-functioning synagogues in the Balat neighbourhood of Istanbul. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
On my first trip to Israel just after graduating high school, I met a similar-aged Turkish Jew. He was also visiting Israel. He spoke no Hebrew or English, so I tried my then-proficient Spanish. Surprisingly, he responded, although not all the words he used were familiar to me. I didn’t know then that he was speaking Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish. Slow forward several years to May 2023, when I finally visited Istanbul for the first time.
While I only recently “made it” to Turkey, Jews have been there for a very long time. If you take a biblical approach, you know that, when the flood ended, Noah’s ark rested on Mt. Ararat, near Anatolia, Turkey. If you take an historic approach, Jews have lived in what is now Turkey since Roman times.
While most members of the Jewish community in Istanbul today trace themselves back to the Jews who were forced out of Spain and Portugal in the late 1400s and early 1500s, there have also been communities of Karaites, Jews who do not accept rabbinic law, but rely solely on what is written in the Hebrew Bible. As of 2014, they numbered less than 100 in Istanbul.
Sultan Beyazid II welcomed the Jews from Spanish-speaking countries – when Spain expelled its Jews and Muslims in 1492, Beyazid sent his navy to evacuate them to Ottoman lands.
Among the Jews in Turkey in the 1500s was widowed businesswoman Doña Gracia (1510-1569). Originally from Portugal, which ordered Jews to convert to Catholicism a handful of years after Spain’s decree, she moved to Istanbul so she could openly practise her Judaism. Having been a “conversa” (forced convert), she was keen to help others in the same situation. She established yeshivot and synagogues in Istanbul. She also was the first woman printer and publisher in the Ottoman Empire. She lived in the European quarter of Galata.
Doña Gracia was not the only Jew to do well in Turkey. A number of Jews had successful businesses. Many dealt with precious metals and stones; others were money changers or lenders. In the 1500s, Hekim Jacob served as Sultan Mehmed II’s personal physician – by 1800, Jews would make up 27% of all licensed physicians in Istanbul. Even today, Balat’s 120-bed Jewish Hospital or Yahudi Hastanesi is still functioning, although the patients aren’t usually Jews.
In 1666, the false messiah Shabbtai Tzvi made an appearance in Istanbul. He had visited other countries when there was the breakdown of the social order or the economy was on the decline. The opinion of Jews in Istanbul (then called Constantinople and the capital of Turkey) was divided, but the majority feared his appearance would be the cause for actions against Jews in general. When those who were attracted by his messianic enthusiasm went out to meet him and pay him homage, opponents informed the grand vizier and he ordered Shabbtai Tzvi’s arrest. After Shabbtai Tzvi’s conversion, the communal leadership decided on a course of damage control, downplaying the false messiah incident, including by attempting to prevent discussion on the subject.
At the beginning of the 20th century, the Jewish population in Istanbul was 100,000. Today, there are fewer than 20,000 Jews in all of Turkey and a new wave of emigration has started. Contributing factors are President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s tumultuous 20-year rule, with its up-and-down relationship with Israel, rising antisemitism, perceived threats to the personal security of Jews and rising anti-Jewish discrimination from Turkish society, as well as the country’s unabated inflation. Altogether, since Israel became a state, some 100,000 to 150,000 Jews have left Turkey for Israel.
In Istanbul’s Balat neighbourhood, for example, where, at one point, more than half the population was Jewish, the Turkish bath or cavus Hammami (el bano de Balat in Ladino) that was frequented by Jews in the neighbourhood is apparently still running but most synagogues have closed. In Balat, only two are still functional: Ahrida Synagogue, with its unusual bima in the shape of the prow of a boat, and Yanbol Synagogue.
Today, most of Istanbul’s Jews are Sephardi, with only about 600 individuals who identify as Ashkenazi. Yet, Etz HaHaim Synagogue, also known as Ortakoy Synagogue (for the neighbourhood in which it is situated) holds combined services for both Sephardim and Ashkenazim.
Istanbul’s Ortakoy Synagogue, also known as Etz HaHaim, holds combined services for both Sephardim and Ashkenazim. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
Istanbul’s Neve Shalom Synagogue (and mikvah) has been the site of two major terrorist attacks. In September 1986, Arab terrorists staged an attack with guns and grenades on worshippers in the synagogue, killing 23. In November 2003, a car bomb exploded outside the synagogue during a bar mitzvah service. Hundreds of people – mostly Turkish Muslims who lived or worked in the area – were wounded and over a dozen were killed. For security, there is now a guard post in front of the synagogue and the adjacent Jewish museum and those interested in visiting must show proper identification.
As far as eating in Turkey, aubergines (eggplants) are plentiful in the summer, so most meals include either fried, baked or stuffed aubergines. Empanadas, as they are called in Spain, are usually referred to as börekas or börekitas in the Sephardi cuisine in Turkey, using the word börek for the same type of Turkish pastries. A tapada is prepared in a pie fashion, baked in a tray with a variety of fillings – best, of course, with aubergines.
Food expert Claudia Roden whose grandmother came from Istanbul, offers a recipe for prasifouchi, a creamy leek pâté that was traditionally served as a dairy evening meal in Turkey during Pesach. It is made with leeks, potatoes, eggs, kashkaval cheese, nutmeg, salt and pepper and sunflower oil. (See The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York, page 527.)
There are at best two kosher restaurants in Istanbul. While not at all fancy, there is also a centrally located vegan café.
If you visit Turkey, güle güle gidin, may you leave with lots of laughter, ie. with a smile on your face, having had a good time.
Deborah Rubin Fieldsis an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.
Flame Towers, in the capital city Baku, reflect the forward-looking economy and the ancient Zoroastrian roots of the Azerbaijani people. (photo by Pat Johnson)
It is a Muslim-majority country where Jews proudly draw visitors’ attention to the fact that their synagogues and day schools receive government funding and require no security. It is a majority-Shiite country with a primarily Turkic population, where Turkish flags wave alongside Azerbaijani standards. Yet, among its closest allies is Israel, which a survey indicates is the second most admired country among its citizens. It provides 40% of Israel’s oil and receives vital security and defence cooperation from the Jewish state. One of the country’s greatest modern heroes is a Jewish soldier who died defending the country in 1992.
Azerbaijan is an enigma that defies assumptions, especially when it comes to its Jewish citizens, who have experienced almost nothing but neighbourliness from their Azerbaijani compatriots for two millennia.
Along with a small number of other Canadian journalists and community activists, I was a guest last month of the Network of Azerbaijani Canadians during an intensive weeklong immersion in the country, including its Jewish present and past.
I won’t pretend I didn’t have to Google Azerbaijan to place it alongside its Caucasus neighbours Armenia and Georgia, between the Black and Caspian seas, inauspiciously bordered by two rogue nations, Iran and Russia. Like many people, my knowledge of Azerbaijan was limited to its 30-plus-year conflict with Armenia over the disputed Karabakh region, a conflict that has led to allegations of war crimes, ethnic cleansing and atrocities on both sides.
We traveled to Karabakh, a place of ghostly, abandoned, war-destroyed cities and countrysides plagued by an estimated million landmines. Helmeted workers pace slowly through what were once farms in the almost unimaginably Sisyphean task of demining a half-billion square metres of land. (Israeli drones and artificial intelligence are helping the process.) We visited cemeteries and monuments, drove highways lined for kilometres with portraits of war dead.
In a distinct counterpoint to this carnage, we visited the country’s Jewish residents and learned of the history of Jews and non-Jews in this place, a story of almost unprecedented fraternity unusual for any country, not least a majority Muslim society in a place where ethnic and territorial conflicts, and the ebb and flow of empires, has conspired against peace.
A history of diversity
Azerbaijan was a deviation on the standard Silk Road route, and so people were long familiar with those from the west and the east. But its economy exploded in the latter half of the 19th century, when oil was discovered. By 1901, the region, part of the Russian Empire, was producing fully half of the world’s oil.
This ancient and modern history brought waves of Jews, beginning in biblical times. The oldest communities of Jews in Azerbaijan are known as Mountain Jews, or Kavkazi Jews, whose Persian-Jewish language is called Juhuri. Neither Ashkenazi nor Sephardi, the Mountain Jews maintain some Mizrahi traditions and their practices are heavily influenced by kabbalah. They trace their presence back to the Babylonian exile following the destruction of the First Temple, in 586 BCE, but these ancient communities have been joined in more recent times by other migrants.
Jews from neighbouring Georgia, where communities have also lived since the Babylonian exile, migrated to Azerbaijan during the first oil boom, in the late 19th century. After the 1903 and 1905 Kishinev pogroms sent terrified Jews from across the Russian Empire fleeing to the New World and elsewhere, a group of Ashkenazim moved from throughout the empire to Azerbaijan, drawn by its reputation for intercultural harmony.
Today, Mountain Jews make up about two-thirds of the country’s Jewish population. (Ballpark estimates are that there are 30,000 Jews in Azerbaijan.) Most Mountain Jews – 100,000 to 140,000 – now live in Israel and there is a significant population in the United States. Those who remain, however, deflect questions about why they have not made aliyah or migrated to Western countries.
“This is my homeland. Why should I leave?” asked Arif Babayev, the leader of the Jewish community in the city of Ganja, adding: “I don’t know what antisemitism is. I’ve never experienced it.”
The community of Qırmızı Qəsəbə, or Red Town, has been known as “Jerusalem of the Caucasus” and also as “the last shtetl in Europe.” It is said to be the only all-Jewish (or almost-all-Jewish community) outside Israel. The streets of the mountain village, in the northeast region called Quba, were quiet on a November Sunday. Many of the people who call the village home actually spend most of the year working in the capital city Baku, returning in summer to what amount to summer homes. The older community members and a few families stay year-round.
Three synagogues in the town survived the Soviet years – two still operating as congregations and one transformed into an excellent museum with original artifacts and in-depth exploration available on interactive screens where congregants once davened. The two synagogues, active on Shabbat and holidays, are intimate, magnificent structures. The Six Dome Synagogue, dating to 1888, was used as a warehouse and as a shmatte factory during the Soviet period and was restored and reopened for use in 2005.
The Six Dome Synagogue, which dates from 1888. (photo by Pat Johnson)Interior of the Six Dome Synagogue, which was restored to use by the Jewish community in 2005. (photo by Pat Johnson)
Throughout history, the Jews of the area worked in viticulture (their Muslim neighbours were ostensibly forbidden from alcohol-related tasks, though this is not a country with a large strictly observant religious population), tobacco growing, hide tanning, shoemaking, carpet weaving, fishing and the cultivation of the dry root of the madder plant, which is used in dyeing textiles and leather.
In the 1930s, there was a Stalinist crackdown on Judaism, but circumcision, kosher slaughter and underground Torah study survived. Since the end of the Soviet era and the dawn of independence, in 1991, Jewish life has both thrived and shrunk – many emigrated, but those who remained have revivified their cultural and religious roots.
In wealthy and modern Baku, signs of a flourishing Jewish community are found at two government-funded Jewish schools, each with about 100 students. They follow a government-created Jewish studies curriculum that includes Hebrew, Jewish history and tradition, as well as the official curriculum of the Azerbaijani education ministry. Like so many other places throughout the country, the school is festooned with photographs of the current president and his late father and predecessor.
The school’s leadership note that there is no security outside the institution, unlike in France or even Israel. The school is in a complex that includes a non-Jewish school and the students compete together in intermurals. Jewish and non-Jewish students celebrate the Jewish holidays together.
Nearby, the Sephardi Georgian congregation and the Ashkenazi synagogue share a building that was funded by the national government. The two sanctuaries are on different floors, each with their distinctive internal architecture and warm, inviting sanctuaries.
Ambassador optimistic
George Deek was the youngest ambassador in Israel’s history when appointed to head the embassy in Baku, in 2018. An Arab-Christian from a prominent Eastern Orthodox family in Jaffa, Deek was a Fulbright scholar at Georgetown University and held previous posts at Israeli missions in Nigeria and Norway. He is also, he noted, the Israeli diplomat geographically closest to Tehran.
The ambassador sees parallels between Azerbaijan and Israel, which are both young countries made up of people who are used to being bullied by their neighbours. Both peoples understand what it is to be small and to struggle to preserve one’s own culture, he said.
In addition to the large swath of Israel’s oil supply that comes from Azerbaijan, there is growing trade and cooperation between the countries across a range of sectors. In addition to strategic partnerships, they are sharing agriculture and water technologies in conjunction with the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, in southern Israel. An Israeli company is building a Caspian desalinization plant and Israeli drip irrigation technology is being applied to Azerbaijani farms.
Tourism is a growing sector and Israel is a significant market: by next year, there will be eight flights weekly between Baku and Tel Aviv on the Azerbaijani state carrier, as well as regularly scheduled tourist flights on Israir.
Deek shared the results of a survey that seemed to provide proof of the historical and anecdotal things we had been hearing about the Azerbaijani connection not only to their Jewish neighbours but to the Jewish state. In a poll measuring Azerbaijanis’ positive opinions about other countries, Turkey came first and Israel second.
Despite all this upbeat news, and despite the fact that Israel has had an embassy in Baku almost since Azerbaijan gained independence, the diplomatic mission was not reciprocated, even as trade and person-to-person connections expanded. There is a range of geopolitical explanations for the lack of an Azerbaijani embassy in Israel and Deek told our group he hoped that Azerbaijan would soon be able to open one there. And, just a few minutes after we left our meeting with the ambassador, our guide received a phone call – Azerbaijan’s parliament had just approved a resolution to open an embassy in Israel.
The decision, after all this time, is due to a confluence of events. There had been fear of an Iranian backlash to more overt relations between Azerbaijan and Israel, but global disgust over the Iranian regime’s crackdown on anti-government protesters may have diminished Azerbaijani concerns. The close relationship between Azerbaijan and Turkey was probably another factor. With Turkish-Israeli relations back on a somewhat even keel after a chilly period, the time may have seemed right. With the long-simmering Karabakh conflict now concluded, as far as Azerbaijan is concerned, by the 2020 war that returned the region to Azerbaijani control, the country may be less wary of making waves among Muslim allies. That fear would likely be additionally assuaged by the Abraham Accords, which make warm Azerbaijani-Israeli relations less remarkable than they might have been just a few years ago. (Azerbaijan’s anti-Israel voting record at the United Nations is still a disappointment that some observers hope changes as ties grow.)
The tight relationship between Azerbaijan and Israel is, of course, viewed by Iran as a Zionist plot. Iran has both internal demographic and external security concerns about Azerbaijan. There are almost twice as many ethnic Azerbaijanis within the borders of Iran – about 15 million – than there are in the country of Azerbaijan, and the Islamic revolutionary regime doesn’t want any nationalist rumblings. Beyond this, the very existence of a secular, pluralist Azerbaijan stands as an affront to Iran. Azerbaijan is a majority Shi’ite country, like Iran. It is geographically and demographically small and, in the imagination of Iranian fundamentalists, it should be the next domino in the ayatollahs’ plan for regional domination. Instead, despite the familial ties across the Azerbaijani-Iranian border, intergovernmental relations are frigid.
What is it about Azerbaijan?
A new embassy. Burgeoning trade and tourism with Israel. Centuries of good relations between Jews and non-Jews. A level of comfort and security unknown to Jews in almost any other country, certainly any Muslim-majority place. What is it about Azerbaijan?
I asked a few people – religious leaders, a member of parliament, Jews and non-Jews – what the secret sauce is for the Azerbaijanis’ exceptional relations with their Jewish neighbours. No one had a pat answer.
It was people-to-people contact, one person told me. There was never a ghetto; Jews were integrated and part of a larger multicultural society. One theory is that, more recently, there have been lots of Jewish teachers in the school system, so Azerbaijanis get to know and respect Jewish people growing up. Another explanation is that Azerbaijanis view their national identity above their religious or other particular identities, so religious differences are not as divisive as in many places – a factor probably accentuated by decades of Soviet official atheism.
Rabbi Zamir Isayev, who leads the Georgian Jewish congregation in Baku, doesn’t have a simple explanation for why Azerbaijan, among the countries of the world, seems to be so good for the Jews. It’s simply in the nature of the Azerbaijani people, he says.
Azerbaijani history celebrates a number of notable Jews. The Caspian Black Sea Oil Company, which was central to the creation of the region’s dominant resource sector, was founded by Alphonse Rothschild, a French Jew, and other Jews have been involved in a range of resource and other sectors over the years.
In the short-lived government of the first independent republic of Azerbaijan, 1918 to 1920, the minister of health was a Jewish pediatrician, Dr. Yevsey Gindes. That government was also the first democracy in the Muslim world and among the first in the world to grant women the franchise. Like many countries that emerged from the collapse of the Russian Empire, Azerbaijan was quickly subsumed into the new Soviet Union.
Lev Landau, Azerbaijan’s 1962 Nobel Prize winner in physics, is widely fêted. Garry Kasparov, considered by some the greatest chess player of all time, is a (patrilineal) Jew from Azerbaijan. A long list of academics, athletes, musicians and business innovators have risen to the top of their fields in the country and abroad and are celebrated both as Azerbaijanis and as Jews. A hero from recent times seems to elicit an especially emotional connection.
The conflict with Armenia, which began in the late 1980s and culminated most recently in a 2020 war, remains understandably fresh in the national consciousness. Highways and villages display thousands of portraits of war dead and the Alley of Martyrs in the heart of Baku is the final resting place of 15,000 Azerbaijanis, many from the final throes of Soviet domination and the two wars with Armenia. Among the most visited graves at the sprawling memorial park is that of Albert Agarunov.
The grave of Azerbaijani national hero Albert Agarunov, decorated with Azerbaijani and Israeli flags. (photo by Pat Johnson)
Agarunov was a young Jewish Azerbaijani who volunteered with his country’s defence forces and was a tank commander during the Armenian capture of the strategic Karabakh town of Shusha on May 8, 1992. The 23-year-old, already apparently such a legendary figure that the Armenians had put a bounty on his head, stepped out of his tank to retrieve bodies of slain Azerbaijani soldiers from the road when he was killed by sniper fire. Agarunov was posthumously named National Hero of Azerbaijan and was buried at the solemn national monument, in a service attended by both imams and rabbis. Today, Jews place stones on his grave and others place flowers.
In terms of Azerbaijani-Israeli relations, the large number of Azerbaijani-descended Jews who live in Israel create natural familial ties between the two places. Jewish remittances from Azerbaijani oil wealth helped purchase land in Palestine, an early portent of a connection between the two places. According to one museum piece, Jewish horse wranglers from the Caucasus made aliyah and became protectors of early kibbutzim and moshavim and helped put down the 1929 Hebron massacre, although I cannot find reference to this role online.
Whether that last detail is factual or not, what seems undeniable is that the story of Jews in Azerbaijan stands out as a model of coexistence and good neighbourliness in a world that has not always been so kind. This is a story that deserves to be told more widely.
One of the ways to prepare a child for a vacation is to start small. For example, take them to a local aquarium or other nearby attraction to get them used to the idea of touring. (photo from Dawn M. Barclay)
Planning a successful vacation when you have a child with ASD, ADHD, bipolar disorder and similar issues takes time, patience and practise but, in the end, you can build good memories that will last a lifetime. More great news: these tips can work for neurotypical families as well.
Here are the basics:
Understand the challenge. All children crave routine and predictability; it’s their comfort zone. Travel draws them out of their zone and into the realm of the unfamiliar, leaving even neurotypical children anxious and inflexible. Your goal is to help the child preview aspects of the vacation long before the vacation begins, in order to establish expectations of a new routine with elements now made familiar.
Start small. Introduce the concept of travel by reading children picture books featuring their favourite characters in travel situations. (Your local librarian can recommend some.) Role-play various travel scenarios, such as going through airport security or hotel check-in. Programs like Wings for Autism can provide a dress rehearsal before the main event. Watch videos on YouTube or those provided by the travel supplier that show each aspect of the vacation, including the hotel. Consider creating a social story about each aspect of the trip and review it with the child regularly. And try “mini experiences” like an overnight stay at a relative’s house before a hotel stay, or “tours” to local zoos, aquariums or even a flea market – now relabeled as a scavenger hunt.
Get buy-in. Another way to create predictability is to give the child some say in aspects of the trip. Discuss potential autism-friendly or autism-certified hotels, resorts, theme parks and other venues with a professional who has done the research for you, such as a certified autism travel professional. Then present a few parent-approved vacation options to the child and ask them to choose. You can do the same for daily activities as you prepare your itinerary (either written or in picture form). That gives you a new “routine” the child can anticipate, one where they have a personal stake in its success. Also allow the child to choose some of the clothing they’ll bring and let them help you pack. Make them active participants in their own holiday.
Make it child-centric. Traveling with youngsters, be they neurotypical or neurodiverse, can never match the pace you set when traveling before they arrived. It’s no holiday for you if you’re lugging an exhausted child on your back through a theme park. Instead of trying to cram four or five stops into your itinerary each day, plan for one or two. Try to make some of those stops extra-special by feeding into the child’s unique interests. There are specialized museums around the country for lovers of trains, insects, dinosaurs, or whatever their passion. Then set aside the afternoon to decompress at the pool or in front of the television.
Weed out potentially upsetting stimuli. Many children on the autism spectrum have sensory issues. Try to anticipate potential overload and introduce some of the unique sensory experiences in advance. For example, if you live in warmer climes and you’re heading somewhere like Alaska, practise wearing heavier and layered clothing. Or, if your child hasn’t experienced a beach, buy some sand at a crafts store, lay out a tarp and let the child feel the sensation of walking on sand before leaving on your trip.
Pack a “go-to bag.” Pack a customized bag containing the child’s favourite toys, snacks, a change of clothes and a trash bag (for any soiled ones), anti-nausea medication, noise-canceling headphones, surprises in gift bags (think Silly Putty, pens, an Etch-a-Sketch), and a preloaded iPad with kid-friendly shows and games. Keep your bag accessible and dole out the surprises to provide distractions if overwhelm sets in or plans go awry.
Remember, kids are kids. Any child can grow bored, weary and have a meltdown. Parents who think ahead, prepare their child for the new experience and are equipped to alleviate any anxiety, will be able to smooth the way while traveling.
Dawn M. Barclayis an award-winning author who has spent a career working in various aspects of the travel industry. She started as an agent with her parents’ firms, Barclay Travel Ltd. and Barclay International Group Short-Term Apartment Rentals, and then branched out into travel trade reporting with senior or contributing editor positions at Travel Agent Magazine, Travel Life, Travel Market Report and, most recently, Insider Travel Report. Her new book is Traveling Different: Vacation Strategies for Parents of the Anxious, the Inflexible and the Neurodiverse (Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2022). Learn more at travelingdifferent.com.
A bunker in Tirana, Albania, that is now the Bunk’Art art and history museum. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
Albania is a country of great contrasts. It has stunning, clean beaches, so gorgeous that locals refer to them as the Albanian Riviera, and it also has hills and mountains that spring up in all directions. The contrasts seem to extend to Albanians themselves – Enver Hoxha, Albania’s longtime communist dictator, who died in 1985, started off as a partisan fighting the Italians and Germans in the Second World War.
Until not too long ago, Albania existed in isolation. Long before COVID-19 raised its head, Hoxha had kept the country shut off from the world. This is remarkable, given that Hoxha had at various periods aligned his Marxist-Leninist politics with the Soviet Union and China.
As in other communist regimes, many Albanian citizens became suspect during Hoxha’s 40-year reign. They were imprisoned, tortured and murdered. Further, over a 20-year period, Hoxha went on a bunker-building spree. He worried that Albania might be invaded by its neighbouring countries and by the Soviet Union. Between 1971 and 1983, at extreme cost to the general economy, Hoxha had more than 173,000 bunkers constructed. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians died in work accidents. Once the bunkers were built, local citizens as young as 12 years of age were expected to defend them from invaders. The bunkers were only abandoned in 1992, seven years after Hoxha died.
Today, some of the bunkers have other uses. In the capital of Tirana, for example, one series of bunkers has been converted into the Bunk’Art, an art and history museum. In Gjirokastra, there is the Cold War Tunnel Museum.
Part of the Cold War Tunnel Museum in Gjirokastra, Albania. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
Hiking is also a fantastic way to see this beautiful country, although, in more remote parts of the country, older Albanians do not speak English and the younger, English-speaking generation is leaving Albania to seek their fortunes in other parts of Europe. Also be aware that even visiting castles requires a bit of hiking over either loose or highly polished stone, so it may be advisable to use walking sticks.
Generally, when people talk about blue eyes, they mean the eye colour of other humans or of their pets. But, in Albania, the Blue Eye is a lovely nature site. Reaching unknown depths (divers have gone down as far as 50 metres without reaching the bottom), the Blue Eye is more accurately a blue hole fed by an underground spring.
Albanian mythology recalls mountain spirits who live near springs and torrents in the northern Albanian Alps. These spirits or zanas are courageous and often protect Albanian warriors, but they can also go the other way, doing evil.
Even some of Albania’s mountains have stories. Take Mt. Tomor, for instance. Baba Tomor, or Father Tomor, is the personification of the mountain, a range whose highest peak is in central Albania. Baba Tomor appears as an older man with a long white beard that reaches his belt. Four eagles serve as his assistants. His bride is the young Earthly Beauty. When his territory is threatened, Tomor battles his enemy, Mt. Shpirag. The furrows running down Shpirag’s mountainside are said to be the knocks Tomor gave to Shpirag. Ultimately, the two fought to their deaths. The young bride is said to have drowned in her tears, which then became the Osum River.
Indeed, this is a country with many local legends. Take the story related to Shkoder’s Rozafa Castle. Apparently, the walls of this ninth-century BCE castle kept collapsing. Only when Rozafa (the wife of one of the three brothers building the castle) was enclosed in the castle walls did it stabilize and remain standing. Booker Prize-winning Albanian writer Ismail Kadare based his book The Three-Arched Bridge on this legend.
One of the spots to visit in Gjirokastra is called Sokaku i te Marreve, or Mad People Street. On this street, there is the reconstructed home of the above-mentioned – but sane – writer Kadare.
More interesting things about Gjirokastra include the Gjirokastra Castle, which houses the remnants of a U.S. Air Force Lockheed T-33. Some claim Albanian forces downed the jet during the Cold War (1957). Others say the plane was an American spy jet forced to land at Tirana’s Rinas Airport in December 1957 after developing mechanical problems and flying off course. Both scenarios are unlikely, but they make for good stories.
In a country that has almost no Jews, it is intriguing to know that (protectively covered by sand) Sarande has mosaics containing images of a shofar, a menorah and an etrog. Apparently, back in the fourth- or fifth-century CE, the Jewish community had its own synagogue in Sarande. According to the late Ehud Netzer and the late Gideon Foerster – the Israeli archeologists who dug there (along with an Albanian team) – this synagogue even had a ritual bath.
In contrast to radical Islam, there is Albania’s Bektashi Order, a Sufi Islamic creed with a long mystic tradition in Albania. The Sufi faith does not force devotees to observe the basics of traditional Islam. For example, the Bektashi creed allows for the drinking of alcohol and does not demand men and women be segregated, nor that women wear a veil. Curiously, this order appreciates Sabbatai Zvi, who was a false messiah, according to most Jews. Baba Mondi, the spiritual leader of the Bektashi sect, calls Sabbatai Zevi a dervish – a Farsi word for a spiritual Muslim who ascetically devotes his life to serving Allah; the term has also been used to describe, in rare instances, a Jew.
Ironically, Berat, the city of 1,001 windows, has a Jewish history museum established by the late Prof. Simon Vrusho, who wasn’t Jewish. Since his passing, the small Solomon Museum has been run by his widow. This museum exemplifies the good relations Albanian Jews had with both the Muslim and Christian community. Amazingly, local non-Jews saved almost 2,000 Jews during the Holocaust.
In Tirana’s Grand Park, there is a newly installed Holocaust memorial. It consists of three large plaques in Albanian, English and Hebrew, highlighting the stories of Albanians who saved Jews during the war.
The English plaque of the Holocaust memorial in Tirana. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)
Relatively unknown is an Albanian tragedy that exemplifies the worldwide refugee problem. In 1997, the ship Katër i Radës departed from the Albanian port city of Vlora, carrying 120 refugees fleeing the violence that had engulfed the country following that year’s massive collapse of pyramid schemes. On March 28, 1997, the Italian navy warship Sibilla – acting in accordance with an Italian blockade of Albania (designed to prevent refugees from entering the country) – intercepted, rammed and sunk the Katër i Radës in the strait of Otranto, killing 81 of the refugees aboard. Among the victims were many women and children.
Since ancient times, Jews have lived in Albania. However, there are a few theories about how and when Jews arrived there. According to historian Apostol Kotani, Jews may have first arrived in Albania as early as 70 CE, as captives on Roman ships that washed up on the country’s southern shores. Others report that, in Roman times, Jews already lived in the port of Durres. The Jewish population has fluctuated over the centuries, but most of the Jewish population made aliyah in the 1990s and, today, only a few Jews remain.
Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.
