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Friday April 7, 2006

To Jewish refugees from Arab countries: We will not forget you

by gina waldman

Why is this night different for Jews from the Arab countries?

As the words “Freedom Seder” flash before me from various emails, I am transported back to my childhood in Libya and recall Passover in my home in Tripoli.

Why is this night difficult for the Jews of Libya?

Because the Jews of Libya, like nearly a million Jews from nine Arab countries, live as “Dhimmia” — subjugated people, oppressed, humiliated and harassed, denied citizenship, denied basic human rights, our culture oppressed.

Jews have lived in the Middle East and North Africa for over two millennia, centuries before the Arab conquest of the 7th century. Arabic is our native language. We have made significant contributions to the Arab countries we lived in, but we were given no privileges or basic freedoms.

My small Libyan Jewish community, which numbered 38,000 in 1948, dwindled to 6,000 by 1950. Today my community is extinct. Nobody is left.

As I flash back to my childhood, the memories of our seder are etched indelibly in my mind …

It was warm in our house, the green shades were shut and the dark curtains were drawn, as though we were shutting ourselves off from the hostile world outside.

An atmosphere of excitement mixed with fear surrounded my family. My father was nervous and paced the floor, waiting for the rest of the family to take their seats at the seder table.

Father pretended not to be anxious; I read him like a barometer of my own fears. The more he paced the floor, the higher my fears.

My mother’s Passover china was set on a fresh, white tablecloth taken out only for the seder. A basket served as a seder plate. It was filled with crispy, green lettuce leaves, turnips, horseradish, eggs and charoset shaped in small balls. The sweet smell of charoset — made with mashed dates and nuts, blended with the sourness of white vinegar, which we used instead of water and salt like the Ashkenazi tradition — wafted from the table.

Huge pots bubbled on the stove. Nonna (Grandma) made mafrum — stuffed vegetables, a delicacy she made only for Shabbat and Jewish holidays. She also baked matzah in the round clay oven that Nonno Bramino built for her every Passover on the family terrace.

The matzahs were thin, crispy, round flatbreads resembling Indian chapatti bread. Tantalizing smells of hot peppers, cumin and orange-flower water emanated from the kitchen and contrasted with the semi-gloom of the observance.

Why is this seder different from American Passover seders?

Because our lives were different than those of our American Jewish brothers and sisters.

As we celebrated the first Exodus from Egypt some 3,200 years ago, we were constantly reminded of our oppression from our own modern-day pharaohs. We were reminded of our anguish, our lack of freedom.

As we tasted the bitter herbs, we tasted the bitterness of our own isolation and persecution.

Why did this night give me hope?

Because despite our difficult conditions, living in constant harassment and humiliation, our Jewish customs persisted. Our connection to Judaism grew stronger, as though the persecution brought us closer to our Jewishness. As we murmured the Passover prayers, we prayed that God would deliver us to freedom.

As my mother lit the candles to usher in the Passover eve, the flickering brightness of the flames gave me a glimmer of hope in the darkness of the hostile environment in which we lived. As a little girl I always felt as though the Jewish holidays threw a safety net around my soul. This feeling of security gave me a measure of freedom.

Why is this year’s Passover different from previous ones?

On this Passover we thank God for delivering these forgotten Jewish refugees from the Arab countries. Many of us were harassed, intimidated, arrested, simply because we were Jewish, until we were forced to flee. The departed left behind their millennia-old culture and heritage, their synagogues, sacred Torahs, their homes and assets.

On this Passover, when we eat matzah and the bitter herbs, we will cherish the memories of our forgotten brothers and sisters. And as Jews always yearning for the winds of freedom, we say to them: We will not forget you.

Gina Waldman is co-founder of JIMENA — Jews Indigenous to the Middle East and North Africa. She lives in the Bay Area.

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