The first time I heard about the Jewish Languages Project’s initiative, Heirloom, my mind raced with possibilities in my lifelong quest to unlock the language of my childhood. Heirloom is a new Jewish language reclamation initiative that aims to revitalize dying Jewish languages so they can exist for future generations; it is partnered with the Oxford School of Rare Jewish Languages. 

I grew up in London to Bahraini Jewish immigrant parents. As is the case with many immigrants, the first language my siblings and I were spoken to was in the native tongue of our parents. Referred to in the family as “our Arabic,” Judeo-Baghdadi was the language spoken for hundreds of years by Babylonian Jews in their homeland, and then by the Jewish refugees and their descendants who were expelled from Iraq in the 20th century, or by those who earlier migrated to countries like Bahrain and India. 

As is often the case with the children of immigrants, we were desperate to fit in with our Anglo school friends and convince them– and ourselves– that we were just like them: that we ate the same food, listened to the same music, and that our mothers didn’t make all of our clothes with elasticated waists from fabric our grandfather had brought from his shop in Bahrain. We were not particularly successful in convincing anyone of this. We were  embarrassed when our friends heard “our Arabic" spoken to us, and so we began responding to our parents in English. Eventually, we forgot much t of the language we had once known. Now, I find myself racing to join every class, program, and initiative that I come across in order to slowly claw my way back to the sounds and meanings that were once at the center of my childhood. 

In the pilot cohort of Heirloom, eight learners were paired with eight mentors. The native speaker of the pair held the “key” to this treasure trove and was eager to share it with the learner, who was ready to dive back into the family language. In many ways it was cathartic; I persuaded my mother to be my mentor. And although she has spoken to me in Judeo-Baghdadi for over 5 decades, Heirloom created a more formal framework for us through which we could learn together. We decided to focus on the extremely colourful and evocative phrases of my maternal grandmother, who had passed away the year before. Here are some phrases that we recalled:

• Walla, biblash! (wow, it’s free!) when she heard how much we had paid for our new shoes, no matter what they cost. She always wanted us to feel good.

• Bas Baka! (enough already!) when she got annoyed with us for making noise while she watched her Egyptian films in the afternoon. 

• Tiff ‘ala witchak!  (I spit on your face!) Such utterings were reserved for anyone who spoke or acted with malice towards Israel or the Jewish people. Though usually very elegant and graceful, my grandmother would not tolerate such behavior. 

• Wehed kayinfikh il’lakhi. (One of them flatters the other). This gem would be used by her to describe two fools who flatter each other. Each fool believes the other’s words and so they convince themselves that they are both wise. 

We remembered all these and more and we recorded them in our spreadsheet to add to the collection of phrases organized by the other learner-mentor pairs. Surprisingly, the “learner” of one pair was actually older than her mentor. We often assume that the loss of language is  a generational thing, but that’s not always the case. 

I later discovered, through the Jewish Languages Projects Heritage Words podcast, that these words and phrases are called “heritage words.” The idea of heritage words is a fascinating one. They are the food words, commands, curses, terms of endearment, greetings, and random lexical items that are used in a family’s day-to-day life. Heritage words get peppered into everyday speech where you speak one language and find yourself raising children in a country where they speak another.

My first Zoom session with Heirloom was scheduled to take place in the middle of our family holiday to Scotland. 

More precisely, we were in a minivan with our Scottish tour guide who was driving us back to Edinburgh after a day trip. So there my mother and I were— with my husband, my kids and my brother— admiring five Highland cows in a field while we introduced ourselves to the group and got to know the other mentor-learner pairs. By coincidence, after overhearing the topic of our Zoom session, our guide asked us if we knew of the singer Yasmin Levy; and so a side outcome of Heirloom was an infatuated Scotsman introducing us to her incredible Ladino songs.  

My participation in this project over the summer created a sort of springboard from which I launched myself into more serious study of the language of my childhood. I applied and earned a coveted place on the Oxford School of Rare Jewish Languages year-long course in Judeo-Baghdadi, along with 29 other Jews with Babylonian heritage (and some academics who are neither Jewish nor Babylonian). To counter the seriousness of that course, I also joined a conversational class with a group of people who had grown up hearing their parents and grandparents use the same words and phrases, eat the same foods, and celebrate the festivals of the Jewish year in the same way as I did. For an hour a week, we laughed our way through the class as we realized what our aunties were muttering under their breath, that at the time we did not understand. 

It took participating in this program for me to actually schedule time to sit down with my mother and have her pass on to me the wise words of my grandmother. It is a gift and a responsibility to preserve the Jewish languages of our ancestors. •

Vicky Sweiry Tsur was born in London to Bahraini Jewish immigrants, with roots in India, Iran and Iraq. This mix of cultures gave her rich and wonderful Jewish traditions, which she endeavors to practice daily and pass on to her children. She now lives in California with her husband and three children.