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A Jewish museum exhibit features the Palestinian flag. Some visitors wonder if it belongs.
(J. The Jewish News of Northern California via JTA) — Tucked in the far corner of a large, brightly-lit exhibition hall on the ground floor of the Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco, there is a delicate-looking piece of art with a strong political message.
At first glance, it appears to be three circular vases with flowers in them. The ceramic vases sit on shelves attached to the wall, and colorful collages hang above them. On closer inspection, visitors will notice that the flowers are made out of paper and that affixed to each vase is an image of the Palestinian flag printed on foam board.
A nearby label written by the curators of the exhibit, titled “Tikkun: For the Cosmos, the Community, and Ourselves,” explains that the piece was inspired by a conversation the artist, Tosha Stimage of Berkeley, had with a Palestinian man. He told Stimage about the plants that are native to Palestine — “a place which he can no longer access due to the ongoing conflict in the region,” the curators write.
The label also includes a note about the flag: “Some may find its presence at The CJM troubling or confusing, while others may find it appropriate and forthright. Stimage recognizes the potential for these divergent responses and hopes to use them as a means of generating dialogue.”
On a Sunday afternoon in October, Maury Ostroff read the label and walked away without inspecting the artwork.
Visitors to the “Tikkun” exhibit are encouraged to share their responses to the artwork via comment cards. (Andrew Esensten)
Asked how the presence of the flag made him feel, Ostroff, who is Jewish and lives in Muir Beach, in Marin County, replied, “Unhappy.”
Why?
“It’s not offensive to me in the same way that a swastika is. My skin is a little bit thicker than that. But I wish it weren’t here.”
He added, “What’s so Jewish about this? What’s so ‘tikkun olam’ about all of this?”
For the “Tikkun” exhibit, which opened Feb. 17 and runs through Jan. 8, the CJM invited both Jewish and non-Jewish Bay Area artists to contribute new works on the theme of repair, however they chose to interpret it. “No one is listening to us,” the piece by Stimage, who is not Jewish, is the first work of art featuring the Palestinian flag to be shown at CJM in recent memory; the museum could not say when or if the flag has been displayed on its walls before.
The piece prompted several internal conversations among CJM staff when it was first submitted and, since it has been on display, has generated a variety of responses from museumgoers who have left comments in a box at the entrance to the exhibit. Intentionally or not, Stimage has raised numerous questions with the artwork, including: Does a work of art that is sympathetic to the Palestinian struggle for statehood belong in a Jewish museum? And what is the role of a contemporary Jewish museum, anyway?
“To truly be a contemporary art museum, meaning embedded in the contemporary issues of our day, our job is to provide a platform for dialogue and to share a diversity of perspectives on our walls,” said Chad Coerver, CJM’s executive director since September 2021. “If any institution [like ours] took the path of withholding artwork that troubled our staff, our board or our community, it would be very difficult to mount exhibitions.”
CJM is a member of the Council of American Jewish Museums, a network of 76 museums across the country. CAJM does not have guidelines about the kind of art its member museums can and cannot display, according to Executive Director Melissa Yaverbaum.
J. reached out to several CAJM member museums in New York, Los Angeles and other places by email to ask if they had ever shown artwork with Palestinian iconography or works by Palestinian artists. The museums declined to answer or did not respond.
In recent years, two Jewish museums have been embroiled in controversy over issues relating to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The Spertus Institute for Jewish Learning and Leadership in Chicago staged an exhibit in 2008 on Israeli and Palestinian concepts of homeland that included maps and portraits of Palestinians. Following outcry from members of the local Jewish community who felt the exhibit presented Israel in a negative light, the museum decided to close the exhibit after only a few weeks. And in 2019, the director of the Jewish Museum Berlin resigned after the museum tweeted a link to a pro-BDS article in a German newspaper. (The museum previously came under fire for welcoming anti-Zionist scholar Judith Butler and representatives of Iran.)
In a joint interview with J., two CJM staffers who worked on “Tikkun” — co-curator Qianjin Montoya, who is not Jewish, and a Jewish senior curator who served in an advisory role, Heidi Rabben — shared the story of how Stimage’s piece came to be in the exhibit. (Montoya’s co-curator for the exhibit, Arianne Gelardin, no longer works at the museum.)
Since 2009, CJM has invited local artists from different backgrounds to create new work as part of the museum’s annual Dorothy Saxe Invitational. The idea for “Tikkun” was hatched before the pandemic put the planning process on hold. Once the CJM and Saxe — a local philanthropist and art collector — agreed on the theme, the co-curators invited artists “already engaged in healing through their relationship to community or in their practice of daily life,” Gelardin told J. last February.
The 30 artists who accepted the museum’s invitation were given only four months to conceive of and submit new works. That was likely the shortest timeline in the history of the invitational, which has been held 11 previous times, according to the museum. Each artist received a packet of materials compiled by CJM staff, with input from the Shalom Hartman Institute, a non-degree granting Jewish education center, to guide their thinking on “tikkun.”
Stimage was invited to participate because she is “very active” in the Bay Area and because “her work reflects ideas of community and connection,” Montoya said.
The curators said Stimage’s inclusion of the Palestinian flag in her submitted piece came as a surprise and prompted challenging conversations. However, they noted that they found the content of some of the other artists’ work surprising, too, and that it’s not unusual for contemporary artists to push the envelope in their work.
“I wouldn’t say we expected to receive a piece about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but we weren’t steering anyone away from that, either,” Rabben told J., adding that the submission guidelines did not place any topic off limits. “That’s a commitment from the museum to authentically represent the creative spirit of the artists that we’re working with,” she said.
Still, the curators said they engaged in a dialogue with Stimage in order to better understand each aspect of her piece and her overall intentions. Through those conversations, the curators learned that Stimage wanted to explore a moment of “rupture,” and that through her piece she hoped to communicate “that before healing or repair might happen, you have to first acknowledge that rupture,” Rabben said.
The Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco is showing “Tikkun,” an exhibit of works by Jewish and non-Jewish artists on the theme of repair. (Andrew Esensten)
Coerver, who was involved in some of the conversations, stressed that “careful consideration” was given to including the piece in the exhibit. “We felt an artwork addressing the plight of the Palestinians was appropriate in an exhibition on healing and repair,” he said. (No work submitted as part of the Dorothy Saxe Invitational has ever been outright rejected, the museum said.)
Stimage did not respond to interview requests from J. According to a CV on her website, she was born in Jackson, Mississippi, and earned an MFA from California College of the Arts in 2016. She is a past fellow at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco and was an artist-in-residence at Facebook in 2018. She also owns a floral gift shop in Oakland called Saint Flora.
Her work often touches on Black identity; she created a piece honoring Sandra Bland, an African-American woman whose 2015 arrest and death in a Texas jail cell sparked protests, and contributed to a 2019 San Francisco Art Institute exhibit on the Black Panther Party.
“I have a responsibility to create things that will, to the best of my present knowledge, do more good than harm, heal, inspire and uplift other humans,” she told the San Francisco Bay View National Black Newspaper in 2015.
Stimage’s precise views on Israel are unknown. CJM referred J. to her artist statement for “No one is listening to us,” which reads: “Olive, sage, and sumac are flowering plants native to the Mediterranean (including regions of Gaza and the West Bank) that have a direct relationship to contested ancestral land and affect the livelihood of so many Palestinian farmers and families caught in the conflict. They are positioned in the space of The Contemporary Jewish Museum as a metaphor for the ongoing conflict over land rights and the desperate need for restoration and healing of an age-old wound.”
The curators told J. that during their conversations with Stimage about her piece, they asked her why including images of the Palestinian flag was important to her but did not request that she remove them.
“We determined that none of [the piece’s] components in and of themselves signified something problematic or concerning,” Rabben said. “Of course, we had the awareness that the symbol [of the flag] will be read in a variety of ways by a variety of people.”
(Rabben pointed out that the exhibit includes other works with national symbols rendered in provocative ways, such as a black-and-white photograph of an American flag that was torn apart and partially reassembled by Mexican-American artist Jose Arias.)
The Palestinian flag — which contains the Pan-Arab colors of black, white, green and red — was adopted by the Palestine Liberation Organization in 1964. Since then, it has been the primary symbol of Palestinian nationalism.
For decades, the PLO was considered an enemy organization by Israel, and anything associated with it “had no place in Israeli public life,” said Eran Kaplan, an Israeli-born professor of Israel studies at San Francisco State University. Israel never went so far as to ban the flag. However, during the First Intifada, which lasted from 1987 to 1993, Israeli soldiers sometimes followed orders to confiscate the flag from protesters in the West Bank and Gaza.
With the signing of the Oslo Accord in 1993, Israel and the PLO recognized each other as negotiating partners. Yet the Palestinian flag remains a contentious symbol in Israel today. Kaplan noted that it recently served as a flashpoint during the funeral procession of Shireen Abu Akleh, the Palestinian American broadcaster who was killed in the West Bank in May. (The IDF conducted a review and admitted that the Israeli soldier who shot her had most likely misidentified her as an armed militant.) After warning Abu Akleh’s family not to display the flag, Israeli police attacked mourners in East Jerusalem, ripping flags out of their hands and off of the vehicle carrying her casket.
Today, the flag holds different meanings for Israelis and American Jews from different generations and political persuasions.
“There are large segments in Israeli society who view any form of Palestinian national identity as a threat to the existence of Israel,” Kaplan said. “There are others who view the PLO as legitimate partners in any form of negotiations [over the creation of a Palestinian state], but there’s an absolute split over those questions.”
Given the sensitive nature of Stimage’s work and others in the exhibit, the curators decided to solicit feedback from visitors via comment cards available at the entrance to the hall. Rabben said the museum has received a number of comments specifically about “No one is listening to us,” most of which were positive. “The majority of those comments were ‘Thank you for offering space for this topic at the museum,’” she said.
Last month, a security guard sitting in the “Tikkun” exhibition hall told a reporter that he had not witnessed any expressions of outrage or protest through the first nine months of the exhibit. “When we opened we were afraid of negative reactions, but they’re not stressed about it,” he said of visitors. “We have shown worse things here.” The guard, who has worked at the museum since it opened in 2008, mentioned a 2010 exhibit, “Our Struggle: Responding to Mein Kampf,” which included a copy of Hitler’s autobiography. “Some people were cussing us out” for displaying the book, he recalled.
Meanwhile, on the same floor as “Tikkun,” there is another, smaller exhibit containing potentially offensive art. A sign outside of the room warns visitors that inside is a Hitler marionette created by the parents of puppeteer Frank Oz. “Our intention in displaying this object is to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive through the objects and firsthand stories of those who experienced its persecution, and to encourage conversation and education about the ongoing horrors of antisemitism and authoritarianism today,” the sign says.
Coerver, CJM’s executive director, said he was proud that the museum’s three current exhibits — “Tikkun,” “Oz is for Oznowicz: A Puppet Family’s History” and “Gillian Laub: Family Matters,” which includes photographs that Laub took of her Trump-supporting relatives — are raising “challenging questions” and providing opportunities for both visitors and museum staff to “expand our horizons.”
“We’ve been wading into some issues that I think are a little thicker than maybe we’ve been confronting in the past,” he said, “and I hope that continues.”
A version of this piece originally ran in J. The Jewish News of Northern California, and is reprinted with permission.
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Mamdani was set to meet Colombian president known for inflammatory Israel rhetoric
New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani had planned to meet this week with Colombian President Gustavo Petro — who has compared Israel’s leaders to Nazis and recently defended his use of the phrase “Heil Hitler” on social media — during the South American leader’s visit to New York, a source familiar with the mayor’s schedule plans confirmed.
The meeting — set to be Mamdani’s first with a foreign leader — was reportedly canceled after the Trump administration intervened, directing Colombian officials to call it off, arguing that it would violate the terms of Petro’s entry into the United States for a United Nations Security Council session on Wednesday.
The State Department revoked Petro’s visa last fall after he appeared at a pro-Palestinian rally in Manhattan, calling on U.S. soldiers to disobey presidential orders over its support for Israel’s war in Gaza and urging an armed response to counter Israel’s action against the Palestinians. Petro was granted a limited waiver this week to attend the U.N. meeting on the Middle East.
A former member of Colombia’s M-19 guerrilla movement and elected in 2022 as the country’s first socialist president in decades, Petro has repeatedly drawn condemnation from Jewish and Israeli leaders since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attacks for comparing Israel’s military actions to those of Nazi Germany. In 2024, he severed diplomatic ties with Israel, accusing the Jewish state of committing genocide in Gaza, an allegation Israel has strongly rejected.
This week, Petro came under fire after posting the phrase “Heil Hitler” on X in response to an op-ed supporting the right-wing presidential candidate, Abelardo de la Espriella, ahead of Colombia’s June 21 presidential runoff. Petro defended the post, saying he was criticizing what he described as the author’s “fascist” rhetoric rather than endorsing the Nazi slogan itself. In his UN remarks, Petro again compared Israel to the Nazis.
A City Hall spokesperson declined to comment on the matter.
The mayor’s canceled sit-down with Petro is the latest flashpoint in his fraught alliances with inflammatory critics of Israel.
Mamdani has faced scrutiny from Jewish leaders and Zionist organizations over his sharp criticism of Israel and embrace of Palestinian activism that is shaping his tenure as leader of the city with the largest population of Jews outside Israel. During his mayoral campaign, Mamdani refused to recognize Israel as a Jewish state and said he wouldn’t travel to the country and called for divestments in Israel’s economy. Recently, the mayor skipped the annual Israel Day parade.
In congressional races in New York City, Mamdani has actively been campaigning for candidates who have made inflammatory statements on Israel, including challenging U.S. military aid to the country and accusing the Jewish state of genocide. In particular, Mamdani has thrown his support behind former Columbia University Gaza War encampment activist Daraliza Avila Chevalier, who is challenging Rep. Adriano Espaillat with the incumbent’s support for Israel front and center. Avila Chevalier, a member of the Democratic Socialists of America’s NYC chapter, attended the Oct. 8, 2023, pro-Palestinian rally in Times Square, which was broadly condemned for celebrating the Hamas attacks on Israel. She has continued to defend her participation, saying that she showed up in anticipation of Israel’s “outsized reaction.”
Mamdani reignited tensions with many Jewish communities by posting a Nakba Day video produced by his City Hall media team commemorating the displacement of Palestinians during Israel’s founding in 1948. That was followed by what was perceived as a delayed and ultimately supportive response to pro-Palestinian protesters who descended on a heavily Jewish Brooklyn neighborhood where a synagogue was hosting a real estate sale that included West Bank properties.
The head of Mamdani’s office of international affairs, tasked with interacting with the United Nations and handling diplomatic relations, is Ana Maria Archila, the past co-chair of the Working Families Party who led campaigns critical of Israel. On his first visit to the U.N. headquarters in March, Mamdani met with Secretary-General António Guterres, whom Israeli officials have criticized for his statements about the war in Gaza, accusing him of failing to sufficiently condemn Hamas. Israel recently cut ties with Guterres and barred him from entering the country following the blacklisting of Israeli authorities in a UN report regarding sexual violence in conflict zones.
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‘Dirty Dancing’ be damned. A new musical shows another side of the Borscht Belt
When the Woodstock Music and Art Fair defined a generation, Pamela Gray was on the outside looking in — literally.
She was 13 and summering at Dr. Locker’s Bungalow Colony in Mountaindale, New York. She remembers sitting by the pool with her little brother while the moms and bubbies played mahjong and glimpsing some long hair or fringe through the chainlink: hippies headed to Yasgur’s Farm.
“Looking back now, it’s like I literally was on the wrong side of history,” Gray said.
That moment was stamped in her memory for years, along with her attachment to the bungalow colony, where she got her first taste of nature away from the Flatlands in Brooklyn. Since around the time Dirty Dancing came out in 1987, she had struggled to explain to people the working-class version of the Borscht Belt she grew up with, a far cry from the resorts favored by dentists and lawyers.
In the early 1990s, Gray was in film school at UCLA and interning in the writers room on Star Trek: The Next Generation when she endeavored to capture the disappeared world of her youth in a screenplay. She recalled thinking, “I want to be the first person to set a movie in a bungalow colony.’”
I met Gray, a high school friend of my father’s, at a cafe steps away from where her Off-Broadway musical A Walk on the Moon, based on her 1999 film, is in rehearsals. She wore a cat-themed Catskills t-shirt and a Nova Festival dog tag.
She told me she’d seen a documentary about the colonies — narrated by an Attenbourighian Brit, with the same nature doc detachment — and glimpsed one in South Fallsberg in Enemies: A Love Story, but knew she wanted a more substantial tribute.
The script, with a working title of The Blouse Man, became A Walk on the Moon, directed by Tony Goldwyn and starring Diane Lane as frustrated young housewife Pearl Kantrowitz, Liev Schreiber as her TV repairman husband, Viggo Mortenson as Pearl’s goyische hippie lover and a 15-year-old Anna Paquin as Pearl’s teenage daughter. It features a pivotal Woodstock sequence, and a glimpse of naked hippies trespassing at the bungalow’s lake.
Gray said there was resistance to the material when the script was being shopped around. She was told films centering women lost money. Some asked if it had to be Jews in the Catskills in the 1960s. For the musical, she’s amped up some of the Jewishness both in casting and content.
Directed by Sheryl Kaller and starring Talia Suskaauer and Max Chernin, the show has been in the works for over a decade, and had a previous run with a different score at the George Street Playhouse in New Brunswick. It’s set to open in a climate Gray thinks is in need of Jewish stories. Not a Holocaust story, not a story of antisemitism (though some of that has been added) but one about a family, and, importantly, one without much money.
Gray was first approached to sell the rights to her film for a musical adaptation in the 2010s. A librettist and songwriter prepared a presentation to convince her, but she decided she wanted to take the project on herself. She had, in a sense, written musicals before.
Technically, Gray, whose other films include Music of the Heart starring Meryl Streep in a singular non-horror outing by director Wes Craven and the legal drama Conviction (also with Goldwyn and starring Hilary Swank), began her life in the theater in middle school.
She wrote The Girl from A.C.N.E. — a parody of The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. — for her hygiene class in sixth grade and later, while editor of the yearbook at James Madison High School, penned A Log Day’s Journey into Night an evident sendup of Eugene O’Neill.
Her first brush with an audience hearing her words came when she worked on Sing!, a student-run musical competition for outer borough high schools, which was a stealth incubator of talents like Paul Simon, Neil Sedaka and, at James Madison, where Gray and my dad are alumni, Carole King and Gerry Goffin.
Gray and my dad, Mark a retired optometrist who also writes screenplays, wrote parody lyrics, and probably fought a fair bit as script co-chairs. Gray remembers one year’s production, themed around clothing throughout history, had her kitted out in a French Revolutionary outfit and smacking my dad in the face while he was dressed like Napoleon.
Sing!, had a Borscht Belt Bungalow quality to it. When director Michael Greif was discussing the musical with Gray several years ago, they bonded over Sing!, which he directed at Abraham Lincoln High School on Ocean Parkway.
Music was central to Gray’s film, with needledrops from the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company’s cover of Gershwin’s “Summertime.” The ending has Pearl and her husband, Marty (Schreiber), transition from Dean Martin’s version of “When You’re Smiling” to trying their best to groove to Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze.” (Gray said it was supposed to be “Light My Fire,” but Ray Manzarek wanted too much money.)
The musical’s new score by AnnMarie Milazzo, a vocal designer and arranger for shows like Spring Awakening and Next to Normal, captures the trapped-in-amber quality of the bungalows, with inspiration from the 1950s in the scenes with adults and, in a sequence with Pearl’s teenage daughter Alison and her summertime beau, a protest song.
“We’re living in a time right now where musicians and music artists are speaking out and talking about politics and talking about women’s rights and talking about antisemitism,” said Kaller, the director, whose parents took her to Catskills hotels as part of their temple bowling league. The show, she says, is “reminding audiences that in 1969, we were doing the same thing.”
A love letter to her parents’ generation and her own coming of age, Gray says the project may be even more personal in this iteration. Scenic and video designer Tal Yarden has incorporated Gray’s home movies into his projections. Also new to the musical is a moment when Alison learns the history of the Catskills, where Jews weren’t always welcome.
Gray said the addition came with “Trump 2,” a reference to his second term, that could also serve as an allusion to the film’s 1999 premiere, where the future president was in attendance.
“I still remembered the exact moment,” Gray said. She was on the aisle, and across from her was my father, their friend Karen and, next to Karen, Donald Trump and a blonde woman who was his date.
“The first thing he did was he ripped all the reserved signs off,” Gray recalled. “When your dad went to go to the bathroom, Trump put his leg up, and he had to climb over him. Is that your dad’s story?”
Not exactly. My dad now maintains that he was going to the lobby to tell Gray’s parents their seats were taken. It’s only when I said this that Gray remembers who the seats were reserved for. She then called Trump a certain Yiddish epithet, meaning pig.
(The White House did not immediately respond to a request for comment regarding Trump’s presence or actions at the premiere, his enjoyment of the film or any plans to see the musical.)
Though a presidential encore is unlikely, members from Gray’s extended shtetl of Brooklyn are coming, along with a group of children who met at a bungalow colony for Holocaust survivors. (In other Jewish geography, the show’s casting director, Merri Sugarman, has known Kaller since they were around 2 — her parents were also in the bowling league.)
When Gray first wrote a treatment for the musical version of her film, she couldn’t help thinking of the first musical she ever saw: Fiddler on the Roof. It too had a forgotten Jewish milieu, with a self-contained community, an aura of nostalgia and an outside world pressing for change.
“It had to have influenced me, and I’m proud of that influence,” Gray said.
At this point I told her when my father and I saw the Yiddish Fiddler on the Roof, Charles Kushner, Trump’s mechutan, sat in front of us. What are the odds?
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When a Jewish language is lost, we lose more than just words
Always Carry Salt
By Samantha Ellis
Pegasus Books, 288 pages, $29
This charming and important memoir starts with two mothers in a cold London playground talking about where to send their young children to school. One mother says she would like her son to go to a French nursery so he could grow up with two languages, just like her. But then this playground moment takes a surprising turn.
“Why not send him to a nursery in your language?” one mother asks.
“I can’t,” author Samantha Ellis responds. “My language is dead.”
Ellis grew up speaking Judeo-Iraqi Arabic. Her mother tongue isn’t exactly dead, but it is dying, like many Jewish languages that are not Hebrew or Yiddish, and like many of the beautiful Jewish languages spoken by Jews of the Arab world. The Jewish community in Iraq is one of the world’s oldest, dating back to the sixth century B.C.E., when Nebuchadnezzar conquered Judea and sent most of the population there into exile in Babylonia. In 1939, Baghdad was at least one-third Jewish. As of Passover 2021, there were reportedly just four elderly Jews left in Iraq.
“Ghosts walk the pages of almost every Iraqi Jewish book I have read,” Ellis writes.
Always Carry Salt is about language, food, family, and above all, a way of being. Ellis, whose other books include How to Be a Heroine and Take Courage, as well as plays like How to Date a Feminist, struggles with the fact that she is not wholly bilingual. She herself is part of why her language is dying. But then, after the birth of her son, she wants to pass Judeo-Iraqi-Arabic, and all the history and recipes it carries, onto him, and eventually, to us.
Food as a Way Into a Culture
I loved reading the many Judeo-Iraqi-Arabic idioms about the heart, like ekel kallsi, or “he ate my heart.”
Ellis often reserves the starring role for words related to food. When she wants to tell us that everything feels upside down or inside out, she says we are living eeyun al balangan, “in the days of the aubergines.”
While trying to describe a dish Iraqi Jews eat, she turns to etymology and history, and sometimes to literature. Before offering her recipe for makhboose, or date cookies, she expounds upon The Epic of Gilgamesh in which bread is said to make the wild man, Enkidu, human. She then goes on to discuss a rolling pin that can imprint your dough with a Cuneiform passage from Gilgamesh.
As you might guess, this book is not linear; it has its own rhythm and its own way of presenting a story as Ellis investigates complicated subjects like why some languages are dying, the deep roots of contemporary antisemitism, and the lasting effects of the Farhud — the massacre of Jews in Baghdad in 1941.
“Farhud” means “the breakdown of order.” It was once called a “pogrom,” but Ellis quotes her grandmother’s cousin, historian Sylvia Haim, who once asked, “Why use the Russian word, pogrom, when we have a perfectly good word of our own?”
By the time Ellis asks her grandmother, who lived through the Farhud at age 11, to describe the massacre in 1941— during which “for thirty days, Baghdad’s Jews stayed at home, terrified, listening to Rashid Ali and the mufti broadcast antisemitism. Swastikas and violence filled the streets,” permanently transforming Iraqi Jews’ sense of safety after thousands of years there— readers understand it’s not just about the loss of physical lives but also about the beginning of the diffusion of a community and an entire culture.
Ellis is the child of a father whose family fled shortly after the Farhud, when around 180 Jews were murdered, and many Jewish women were raped, along with thousands injured, and a mother whose family tried desperately to stay in Iraq, thinking it would get better. And so just in the lives of her parents, she is able to offer an important window into how Iraqi Jews were treated after the Farhud, and then, after the establishment of the State of Israel.
She explains that in the early decades of the 20th century, Zionism was seen as an Ashkenazi priority. But eventually, as various harrowing episodes make clear, it became increasingly dangerous to be Jewish in Iraq. According to a law passed in March 1950, Jews could leave, but they had to renounce their Iraqi citizenship, becoming stateless on their exit.
Then came the financial devastation. In March 1951, “when the denaturalization law was about to expire and 125,000 Jews had registered to leave, the Iraqi government met in secret and passed another law: they would seize property, money and assets from all 125,000 Jews, as well as any Jews who had already left Iraq,” Ellis writes. “The law came into force overnight, leaving many Iraqi Jews destitute and starving, relying on charity as they waited for the planes to come.” Only a few thousand Jews stayed behind in Iraq, including Ellis’s mother’s family.
While it has always been a criminal offense in Iraq to have any connection with Israel, as of 2021, having any association with Israel is punishable by death. This means it is deeply dangerous for Ellis and other Iraqi Jews to visit Iraq; she cannot even go on a heritage tour.
But despite all this history, or perhaps, because of it, Ellis is trying to hold onto words and ways of framing the world. She is also racing against time. She knows that what makes a language “endangered” is when mothers don’t teach it to children. She knows that the Jews who grew up in Baghdad are dying out. And while trying to pass along Judeo-Iraqi-Arabic to her own British-Iraqi son, she manages to pass along the story of a community to the world.
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