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May 30, 2008
Nostalgic for a lost community
Author celebrates Yom Ha'atzmaut at the Israeli embassy with Eritrea's last native Jew.
JANICE MASUR
Where is Eritrea? And what on earth were they doing celebrating Israel's 60th anniversary there? These were a couple of the reactions I had after returning from two nostalgic and adventurous weeks in Asmara, the capital city of Eritrea.
Located 80 kilometres off the coast of the Red Sea, near the Horn of Africa, Asmara has a rich and diverse history. Axumite burial sites dating back 3,500 years ago and a dam erected by the Queen of Sheba reveal the county's ancient legacy. Asmara itself was used as a trading post by the Venetians of the 14th century and as far back as the days of the Persian Empire.
Today, Asmara only has a 1906 synagogue, the cemetery and a man called Sami Cohen left to maintain the history of about 500 Jews who once made their home in the African country.
Sephardi Jews emigrated from Yemen to Eritrea in the 1880s and 1890s as a result of growing unrest at the end of the Ottoman rule, just as Ashkenazi Jews found new lives in Uganda and Kenya in the same period. Over the years, the city's Jewish community withered away. The 20th century saw conquest by the Italians and subsequently by the British. After a lengthy war between Eritrea and its neighbor, Ethiopia, the country emerged independent but impoverished. Most of the Jews left for Israel or Italy. Cohen, who was born in the city, is the last remaining native Jew in the country.
Cohen has taken it upon himself to spend part of each year in Asmara. He is an amazing resource and repository of history. Only because he was able to locate the Italian-Ethiopian-Eritrean street names, was I able to very closely locate my old house, where I was born, as no archival maps are available. Cohen considers it a mitzvah to continue to help Jewish tourists in Asmara and his hospitality is the kind only found in Africa.
On the morning of our first Shabbat in Asmara, my travelling companions and I met Cohen outside a tiny synagogue situated behind sturdy walls with beautiful wrought iron gates topped with a Star of David. The synagogue was situated on a noisy, tree-lined street, with horse-, donkey- and man-drawn carts of fish, vegetables and fruit going to market, just around the corner from the mosque and the Coptic Christian church.
Once inside the walls, a different essence of peace and quiet took over. The synagogue had a mosaic front with handmade, original wrought iron window grills, displaying Jewish motifs. Cohen opened a stained glass window to diffuse Shabbat light onto a honey yellow bimah and long, golden polished, high-backed benches. As Cohen began the service, I sat respectfully by myself on a cushion, no doubt embroidered by a woman long ago, who now likely lives in Israel or Italy. I let the memories course through my cells as I listened to Cohen share his Shabbat with us. Finally, I recognized a tune and hummed along. I loved the acoustics and I really felt a spiritual connection as I sang and enjoyed the nine different crystal chandeliers and sighted the Torahs proudly dressed in their mantles made by Cohen's mother, who now lies buried in the cemetery, which is beautified with some photos on head stones, bougainvillea and succulent cacti. Cohen himself seemed transported to another time when the synagogue was filled with happy voices.
After the service, we waited for a small group of Israelis to turn up. They were making a documentary on Jewish prisoners in Asmara during the Second World War. Cohen wanted to show the synagogue library to a man whose father, like former prime minister Yitzhak Shamir, was imprisoned in Asmara by the British for an excess of pre-independence Israeli enthusiasm.
Cohen invited us to his house for Kiddush, which evolved into an enormous and delicious Sephardi-style lunch cooked and served by his Eritrean housekeeper. It was then that he asked us if we were interested in celebrating Israel's Independence Day with him and the Israeli embassy's staff. "I will get you an invitation to the Israeli embassy for Yom Ha'atzmut," he said and, sure enough, a handwritten envelope arrived in the cubby hole at the reception desk of our 1952 colonial-style hotel, just like mail in the old days.
On May 7, the road to the ambassador's residence was cordoned and blocked off. Efficient Israeli security guards gave us pens and little Israeli and Eritrean flag pin broaches. An Israeli movie, with blaring Israeli music, bounced off the wall. It gave a feeling of Israel, which I felt was a weird juxtaposition here in Asmara, where I was once a child. There were Israeli flags strung from the giant date palms. They fluttered in the cool evening breeze as we chatted, listened to a fine ambassadorial speech, followed by the lively Eritrean and Israeli national anthems, then we ate Israeli-type finger foods with an Eritrean flair. It seemed fitting that my parents had lived in Asmara when the Jewish state was born and here we were in 2008 celebrating in Asmara on her 60th birthday. My emotions were a mixture of disbelief and happiness, closing the circle of my personal history.
Our second weekend included Shabbat dinner with Cohen. His home is a veritable museum, with photos and Jewish memorabilia of a Sephardi golden age. Three Shabbat oil lamps were lit. Popcorn and Eritrean peanuts helped to bring us into Shabbat before a delicious meal was served. The brachot were made over hand-squeezed grape juice and we followed along, reading out of ancient prayer books. The Birkat Hamazon was said between the first and dessert courses, "just so that everyone attends carefully to the prayers while they wait for dessert," said Cohen.
On Shabbat, we almost had a minyan and I had company on the next-door cushion. I was sad that we could not read the Torah. Now only two Torahs remain; the rest are in Tel Aviv. As I sat there, I wondered what it would have been like to sit in the tiny upper women's balcony looking down on the bimah, with children running up and down the well-built narrow wooden staircase and into the yard, where everybody met after the service under a now-removed awning. That week, Cohen's Shabbat table was abuzz. I think I almost detected a happy smile on his face.
To learn more about the Sephardi community of Asmara, look for a book called Jews in Eritrea by historian Marco Cavallarin. A film called Shalom Asmara, also written by him, was shown in the 2008 Vancouver Jewish Film Festival.
Janice Masur is a Vancouver freelance writer.
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