Uncategorized
Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers
(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.
It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.
Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend.
“From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian.
“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”
When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.
In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.
The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”
Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.
“We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.”
In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it.
“In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.”
Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.
To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac.
Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train.
The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.
This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.
With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains.
“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.”
He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance.
During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war.
Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English.
When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo.
In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe.
“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary.
At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape.
Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo.
“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”
When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known.
Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo.
Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport.
In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.
“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.”
Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets.
“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.
Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival.
“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.
Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia.
From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.
Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.
“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”
When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role.
During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well.
“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”
Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.
As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel.
In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot.
Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.
“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”
“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”
“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”
Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.
—
The post Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
Uncategorized
Memoirs of a young female courier in Warsaw during the Holocaust
„הײַנט װעט זיכער עפּעס פֿאָרקומען.“ אַזױ רעדן צװישן זיך ייִדן, װאָס האָבן זיך צונױפֿגעזאַמלט אױף אַ ראָג גאַס אינעם װאַרשעװער געטאָ. אײנער פּרוּװט זײַן אָפּטימיסטיש: „ייִדן, שרעקט זיך נישט, איר װעט זען, מיט גאָטס הילף, װעלן מיר די נײַע גזירה אױך איבערקומען“. דאָס איז געװען דער 22טער יולי 1942, דער ערשטער טאָג פֿון דער „גרױסער דעפּאָרטאַציע“, װען די דײַטשן האָבן אַרױסגעפֿירט אַרום 250 טױזנט ייִדן אין די אומברענג־לאַגערן.
מיט דער סצענע עפֿנט װלאַדקע מיד איר בוך זכרונות „פֿון בײדע זײַטן געטאָ־מױער“ װעגן איר לעבן אין װאַרשע בעתן חורבן. לכתּחילה זײַנען זיי אַרױס אין המשכים אין „פֿאָרװערטס“ גלײַך נאָך איר אָנקומען קײן אַמעריקע אין 1946. אין 1948 איז דאָס בוך דערשינען בײַ דעם בילדונג־קאָמיטעט פֿון אַרבעטער־רינג. אין 1977 איז דאָס בוך אַרויס אױף ענגליש מיט אַ הקדמה פֿון אלי װיזעל. איצט איז פּובליקירט געוואָרן אַ פֿאַרברײטערטע אױפֿלאַגע באַגלײט מיט הקדמות פֿונעם היסטאָריקער שמואל קאַסאָװ און פֿונעם איבערזעצער, װלאַדקעס זון סטיװען (שלמה) מיד.
וולאַדקע מיד ברענגט דעם לײענער גלײַך אַרײַן אין דער אַטמאָספֿער פֿון האָפֿענונג, שרעק און ייִאוש וואָס האָט געהערשט אינעם װאַרשעװער געטאָ. זי לאָזט דעם לײענער הערן דעם מישמאַש פֿון שטימען פֿון ייִדן, דײַטשן און זײערע אוקראַיִנער מיטהעלפֿער, פֿון װעלכע עס שאַפֿט זיך די טראַגישע געשיכטע פֿון די לעצטע צען חדשים פֿונעם געטאָ.
צום גליק האָט זי אױסגעמיטן די טעגלעכע „אַקציִעס“, װען די „מונדירן“ — דער נאָמען פֿאַר דער ייִדישע פּאָליצײ אױפֿן געטאָ־לשון — האָבן געכאַפּט ייִדן פֿאַר די דעפּאָרטאַציעס. באַלד איז זי געבליבן אַלײן: „די מאַמע, ברודער און שװעסטער זײַנען אַװעקגעפֿירט [געוואָרן] אין דער פּײַנלעכער אומבאַװוּסטקײט“. װלאַדקע האָט אָבער געהאַט אַ גוטן מזל צו באַקומען אַן אַרבעט אין אײנעם פֿון די װאַרשטאַטן װאָס האָבן באַדינט די דײַטשן.
נאָך דער צװײטער „סעלעקציע“ אין סעפּטעמבער 1942 האָבן די געבליבענע ייִדן זיך גענומען צוגרײטן אַ װידערשטאַנד: „אױב שױן אומקומען, זאָל זײַן מיט װירדע, זאָל כאָטש דער שׂונא באַצאָלן אַ טײַערן פּרײַז פֿאַר אונדזער לעבן!“
יונגערהײט האָט װלאַדקע זיך באַטײליקט אינעם „ייִדישן אַרבעטער בונד“, און די דאָזיקע פֿאַרבינדונג האָט איר געהאָלפֿן בלײַבן לעבן בשעתן חורבן. חוץ דעם, האָט זי געהאַט אַ „גוטן אַרישן אױסזען“, גערעדט פּױליש אָן שום ייִדישן אַקצענט. די בונדיסטישע אונטערערדישע פֿירערשאַפֿט אינעם געטאָ האָט איר פֿאָרגעלײגט צו װערן אַ קוריער צװישן דעם געטאָ און דער אַרישער זײַט. אַזױ איז דאָס ייִדישע מײדל פֿײגעלע פּעלטעל געװאָרן אַ פּױלישע פֿרױ װלאַדיסלאַװאַ קאָװאַלסקאַ, בקיצור — װלאַדקע.
בהדרגה װערט זי אײַנגעגלידערט אינעם „נאָרמאַלן“ לעבן צװישן קריסטלעכע פּאָליאַקן. צוערשט איז זי געװען אָפּטימיסטיש: „איך האָב געװאָלט גלױבן, אַז בײַ די פּאָליאַקן איז דאָ אַ שטאַרקן אינטערעס צו העלפֿן זײערע באַקאַנטע ייִדן.“ אָבער באַלד האָט זי דערזען, אַז מען װיל גאָר ניט װיסן װעגן דעם, װאָס עס קומט פֿאָר אױף יענער זײַט געטאָ־מױער.
די אױפֿגאַבע פֿון װלאַדקע און אירע חבֿרים אױף דער אַרישער זײַט איז געװען צו קריגן געװער פֿאַרן געטאָ. קײן דערפֿאַרונג און קײן גוטע באַציִונגען מיט דער פּױלישער אונטערערדישער אַרמײ האָבן זײ אָבער ניט געהאַט: „גאַנצע טעג לױפֿט מען אַרום איבער דער שטאָט. מען זוכט און נישטערט. ממש צו יעדן באַקאַנטן פּאָליאַק, װאָס רופֿט נאָר אַרױס צו זיך אַ ביסל צוטרױ, הײבט מען גלײַך אָן צושטײן און בעטן: העלפֿט אונדז שאַפֿן געװער, מיר װעלן גוט באַצאָלן!“
אָבער לרובֿ באַקומען זײ קנאַפּע הילף. אָפֿט מאָל נעמט מען בײַ זײ געלט און גיט זײ גאָר נישט, אָדער, נאָך ערגער, מסרט מען זײ צו די דײַטשן. און אַפֿילו װען זיי קענען יאָ קריגן אַ רעװאָלװער, מוזן זײ געפֿינען אַן אופֿן, װי אַזױ אים אַרײַנצושמוגלען אינעם געטאָ.
דאָס בוך איז אַ געשפּאַנטע לעקטור. װלאַדקע מיד איז אַ באַגאַבטע דערצײלערין, װאָס דערקלערט פּרט נאָך פּרט אַלע אַספּעקטן פֿון איר געפֿערלעכער אַרבעט. יעדער טאָג קען זײַן דער לעצטער, װען מען װײסט ניט, צי מען װעט דערלעבן ביז אָװנט. זי האָט אַ סך מער מפּלות אײדער דערפֿאָלגן, און אין אַ סך פֿאַלן איז זי געראַטעװעט געװאָרן דורך אַ גליקלעכן צופֿאַל.
קאַסאָװס הקדמה באַשרײַבט דעם ברײטערן היסטאָרישן קאָנטעקסט פֿון יענער תּקופֿה, און מיד גיט צו פּערזענלעכע פּרטים װעגן זײַן מאַמעס לעבן פֿאַרן חורבן אױפֿן סמך פֿון אירע אינטערװיוען אין דער אַמעריקאַנער פּרעסע.
בײַם איבערזעצן האָט מיד אַרײַנגעשטעלט אין קלאַמערן קורצע דערקלערונגען, װאָס העלפֿן בעסער פֿאַרשטײן דעם קאָנטעקסט. ער האָט באַשלאָסן אָפּצוהיטן ייִדישע װערטער פֿון דער ספּעציפֿישער געטאָ־שפּראַך, אַזעלכע װי „אַקציע“, „מונדירן“, „בלאָקאַדע“. דאָס שאַפֿט דעם עפֿעקט פֿון עכטקײט, אָבער אין אײניקע פֿאַלן רופֿט די דאָזיקע סטראַטעגיע אַרויס פֿראַגעס: צוליב װאָס האָט ער „איבערגעזעצט“ דאָס װאָרט „קריסטין“ אינעם ייִדישן מקור ווי Shikse? בכּלל איז די איבערזעצונג זײער פֿרײַ און צו מאָל װײַט פֿונעם ייִדישן טעקסט.
אין אַמעריקע האָט װלאַדקע מיד געװידמעט איר לעבן דער חורבן־דערציִונג, און די נײַע אױפֿלאַגע פֿון איר בוך איז ממשיך דעם דאָזיקן שליחות. דאָס איז אַ װיכטיקער צוגאָב צו דער װאַקסנדיקער ביבליאָטעק פֿון דאָקומענטן און פֿאָרשונגען װעגן װאַרשעװער געטאָ. צום באַדויערן איז די געשיכטע פֿונעם ייִדישן װידערשטאַנד קעגן דער דײַטשישער אָקופּאַציע נאָך ניט געהעריק אײַנגעשלאָסן אינעם אַמעריקאַנער „האָלאָקאָסט עדוקײשן“, אַפֿילו אין ייִדישע טאָגשולן.
װען איך דערצײל למשל די געשיכטע פֿון װאַרשעװער געטאָ אין מײַן קורס פֿון דער ייִדישער קולטור־געשיכטע אין מזרח־אײראָפּע בײַם מישיגענער אוניװערסיטעט פֿרעגן אַ סך פֿון די סטודענטן: „פֿאַר װאָס האָט מען אונדז דאָס ניט דערצײלט אין אונדזערע קלאַסן װעגן דעם חורבן? דאָס איז אַזױ װיכטיק צו װיסן!“
עד־היום זעט מען אָפֿט מאָל די חורבן־געשיכטע דורך דעם שפּאַקטיװ פֿונעם מאַסנמאָרד. װלאַדקע מידס בוך אָבער, שרײַבט קאַסאָװ, „האָט דערװיזן, אַז איר קאַמף צו בלײַבן לעבן, אױף צו להכעיס אַלע שׂונאים, לייקנט אָפּ די סטערעאָטיפּישע טענה, אַז די ייִדן זײַנען פּאַסיװ געגאַנגען צו זײער אומקום.“
The post Memoirs of a young female courier in Warsaw during the Holocaust appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
5 more killed by Iranian missiles as shrapnel falls at Ben Gurion, curbing more flights
(JTA) — Five more people were killed overnight by Iranian missiles aimed at Israel: a man from Thailand in the country’s center, and four Palestinian women who had been preparing to break the Ramadan fast in their West Bank village. One was six months pregnant.
The deaths come as Iran has increasingly turned to cluster munitions, which break apart and shed smaller bombs along their path — making them much harder for Israel’s air defense systems to intercept.
Shrapnel from interceptions also fell at Ben Gurion Airport in recent days, damaging private planes and causing the airport authority to extend the cancelation of regular flights and limits on the number of people who can travel on “rescue flights” meant to allow travelers to leave and Israelis abroad to return. Several foreign carriers, including Delta and United, announced the cancellation of flights to and from Israel until at least June.
Nearly three weeks of fighting, launched jointly by the United States and Israel against Iran, have thrown the Middle East into turmoil and shocked the global economy. Under pressure over rising gas prices, U.S. President Donald Trump distanced himself early Thursday from an Israeli attack on an Iranian oil field, but in a post on Truth Social, he reserved the right to attack the site himself if Iran continued to target energy infrastructure elsewhere in the Middle East.
The developments come as questions mount about how long Israel can continue to intercept Iran’s ballistic missiles. Semafor reported this week that U.S. officials believe the Israelis are running low on interceptors, but Israeli authorities tamped down those concerns on Wednesday. A combination of increased use of cluster munitions and a shortage of interceptors would put Israelis at increased risk.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post 5 more killed by Iranian missiles as shrapnel falls at Ben Gurion, curbing more flights appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
West Bloomfield Iraqi Christians rushed to aid Temple Israel on a terrifying day. An open invitation for Shabbat followed.
Last week’s attempted attack on Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, Michigan, prompted the Shenandoah Country Club across the street — which serves the town’s Iraqi Christian Chaldean community — to provide a refuge across cultural lines.
Staff turned a ballroom usually reserved for weddings into a reunification area. By the afternoon, 140 children from the Temple Israel day care center, who had no idea they were escaping a terror attack, were safe inside.
The next night, the same room filled again with refugees from Temple Israel. This time, the event space hosted 1,000 congregants gathered for Shabbat.
Shenandoah Country Club President Patrick Kattoo said when a staff member told him about a possible shooting across the street, “I instructed him to direct all those people into our building, into our ballroom, and immediately give them what they need.”
Kattoo proceeded to allow law enforcement to set up command centers at Shenandoah, as children and teachers sheltered in the ballroom for hours. Around 5 p.m., relieved families were reunited at the country club.
In true Iraqi fashion, Kattoo said the children were kept well fed. “It was Thursday, so our chef was here. We just brought them out chicken tenders and fries, M&Ms, waters, and drinks. There were infants here that were in diapers, and fortunately, we have diapers that we keep on hand.”
Once he arrived, Kattoo said Temple Israel community members were in “panic mode.” “There were just a lot of frightened children. And I’ll tell you one thing: Shenandoah will not stand to see frightened children.”
Around 40 more children and their teachers did not make it to the country club, and instead found safety in the home of a Chaldean neighbor.
Township Supervisor Jonathan Warshay recounted that Rabbi Paul Yedwab wondered, “you know, would he be holding funerals for these children? And then they learned where they were.”
Jewish community members expressed their deep gratitude for the Chaldean community.
Temple Israel rabbi Jason Bennett told the Forward, “They immediately sprang into action, everything from just giving us their space to baking cookies for the kids and creating an atmosphere where, at least for the children, it was safe and secure, and families could come and reconnect with their kids. It was a beautiful part of this tragic day to see children just shielded from everything.”
Some Temple Israel adults said that because of the bucolic environment at the country club, many of the children thought they had gone on a field trip.
Rabbi Bennett recounted hearing about one child recapping the day at bathtime: “The child said, ‘Well, I was so excited. I got to read a story, and then I did some art, and then I got to meet a police officer.’ That was her recounting, which is remarkable.”
‘It was really natural’
Chaldeans are Iraqi Christians who traditionally speak Aramaic, and Michigan has the largest population of Chaldeans outside of the Middle East.
The Chaldean community makes up 24% of West Bloomfield’s 65,000-person population. The Jewish and Chaldean communities have long shared a special relationship there, with joint youth programs, shared meals between community leaders, and parking lots often shared between Temple Israel and Shenandoah Country Club during large community events.
“Throughout my career, these last 32 years, they have been inextricably linked to the Jewish community,” said Bennett. He noted that in other difficult moments, the two communities have supported one another.
“We were together after 911 and supported each other. When Oct. 7 came, they came into our sanctuary, and their entire board was with us for our vigil service,” he recounted. “They brought a significant donation at that time to the Jewish community to help our emergency campaign for Israel. And so it was really natural when something like this happens, for them to be our partners.”
According to Chaldean community member Jibran Jim Manna, who was born in Baghdad, the love the Chaldean community has for Jews goes all the way back to Iraq. “Prior to us immigrating to the U.S., our neighbors were Jewish, and we loved them; they were good to us.”
He said the shared experience of being minorities forced to flee Iraq has shaped that bond. “They all had to get out of Iraq,” he said, “and we had to leave there too.” He added, “Some of us, like myself, think of ourselves as one of the lost tribes of Israel, because we are so close in culture.”
A Chaldean’s first Shabbat service
The day after the attempted attack, roughly 1,000 members of the Temple Israel community gathered in the Shenandoah Country Club ballroom for Shabbat services.
Kattoo said Temple Israel rabbis had told him on Thursday in the attack’s immediate aftermath that they had nowhere to hold services. The sanctuary had been badly damaged in the attack, in which the assailant’s vehicle had caught fire. “I said, ‘Well, our doors are open, you could do it here tomorrow,’” Kattoo recalled.
Bennett said that while Temple Israel had received multiple offers to host services, holding them at Shenandoah “felt like the natural fit, given the long-standing partnership and the role that they had played in that day.”
He added: “They set up for us, they welcomed people in, they partnered with police and law enforcement agencies, and we just had this magnificent gathering of 1,000 people to celebrate what had gone right.”
The rabbis were able to bring the “miraculously” recovered Torahs to the country club. But the temple’s prayer books had been destroyed, so the service was held without them.
The theme of the evening was honoring acts of heroism. According to Warshay, congregants “gave a standing ovation to the leaders of Shenandoah and to the security personnel.”
For Warshay, a highlight was seeing families together in the immediate aftermath of a traumatic event. “There were many families at the service, a lot of young children. We sort of heard them talking and playing around,” he said, adding, “It was quite emotional.”
Kattoo said as congregants entered the ballroom for services, he “greeted every single one of them,” then stayed as the community joined in prayer.
“I don’t speak Hebrew,” he said, laughing. “But you know, I thought it was a beautiful service. I learned something. It’s beautiful to see that they have their community gather every single week on a Friday. To me, it’s unbelievable. It’s my first Shabbat service I’ve ever seen in my life.” He added, “I kind of wish we did that once a week.”
According to Kattoo, the outpouring of thanks from the Jewish community has been overwhelming. “Their gratitude was beyond what I could expect.”
While Temple Israel is in the process of moving services to the Berman Theater at the local JCC, Kattoo said his offer to host Shabbat services still stands: “If the banquet hall is available, I’ve told them it’s more than theirs.”
The post West Bloomfield Iraqi Christians rushed to aid Temple Israel on a terrifying day. An open invitation for Shabbat followed. appeared first on The Forward.