Why My Iraqi Family Never Talks About What Happened to Them. 

By Sarah Sassoon.

Despite the fact my father was born in Baghdad and all my grandparents are from Iraq, I never knew about the mass exodus of Jews from Iraq between 1950-52, where over 120,000 Iraqi Jews were airlifted to Israel.  I grew up in Sydney, Australia; I never knew that my family  was  part of this major refugee rescue mission, aptly named Operation Ezra and Nehemiah. More than seventy years have passed since then. As an adult I often wonder, “Why? Why did they never tell me about what they experienced?”

Why talk about bad things? was the unspoken refrain in my home. Sickness was hushed, fed chicken shorba soup and Vicks-Vapo-Rubbed away. Don’t go to the doctor, my father said. They will always find something wrong. There is nothing garlic can’t cure. Scandals were whispered about, and then neatly washed down with the dirty dinner dishes in the sink. “Don’t go to funerals unless you are a relative, and even then be careful because there are evil spirits that can cling to you.” Spirits like Lilith, who take the form of women that tempt and corrupt men away from their wives. Why talk about bad things? There is enough bad in the world, let us speak only of what is good.

Looking back, I realize that my parents did not know how to tell me about their past because they wanted to protect me. They didn’t understand that when they refused to talk about their  expulsion, they partially silenced the existence of a rich, multilayered 2600-year-old history: Babylonian Jewish life and culture. 

In university, I studied Law, Classical Hebrew, and Jewish History. I never connected the impressive Babylonian Talmudic centers of Sura and Pumbedita to my ancestry. My real education was driving my grandmother to her hydrotherapy classes near Kings Cross and cooking with her in the kitchen. My grandmother shared parts of her life with me in those quiet moments where we chopped onions, where oil heated in the frying pan and memories floated  with the aroma of sautéed garlic, cumin, and tomatoes. “Iraq was the Garden of Eden,” she would say with a shake of her head, which was really a nod. Her words evaporated in the steam with a question I did not know how to articulate, “So why did you leave?”

Why talk about bad things?

I bore four sons, which in Baghdad would have earned me the title Um uwlād, mother of sons. I did not say Bdaalak to them, or Galbi, like my grandmother lovingly crooned to me. Instead, I baked cheese sambusak. I squeezed date syrup through muslin cloth for Passover. I made apple jam for the New Year With each dish,I remembered where I came from. In hindsight, I was seeking roots to ground me as a mother. My understanding of how to be a mother— how to be a woman— came from my grandmother in the kitchen; her hands and her recipes became the model I carried forward.

I remembered her sighs over her steaming pots of stew; the more I cooked, the more I understood her silence, perhaps her suffering. I began to research from the beginning, far beyond the weeping of Judean exiles by the rivers of Babylon.

I was guided by my grandmother’s golden bangle of turquoise stones on my wrist; the stone is the color of the dome of Ezra the Scribe’s shrine in the small village of Al Uzair in Southern Iraq, where she was born in 1922. She is my vision into Iraq, into  the golden era of Iraqi Jewry. In 1917, by the time the Ottoman Empire fell and the British took over, Baghdad was one-third Jewish. Steam ships often honked with respect as they passed the Tomb of Ezra,  I learned, honored by Muslims and Jews alike.

I never knew my grandmother grew up praying by the bones of holy biblical figures. I only knew her whispering and praying over the candles she would often light in the evenings, her hair covered, and not just on the Sabbath. Her father, Yousef Shamash,  was the chief custodian and used to light oil lamps in the Scribe’s shrine every evening. I find roots in her candles.

She symbolized for me a world of coexistence and belonging in the Arab world, of sharing bread with her Muslim neighbor. When I search for that world, I find it in Jewish Iraq. Iraqi Jews, thanks to their multilingual education, were key  players in creating The Kingdom of Iraq. They held important  positions in the postal service, railway lines, newly established parliament, and banking services. I discovered the souqs and banks were closed on Saturday as Jews observed their holy day.

They were embraced by the new King Faisal I, whom they welcomed warmly. Before his coronation, he was blessed by the Hacham Bashi, Moshe Chaim Shamash in the Synagogue Eliyahu, and gifted a protective amulet. The King in return kissed the Hacham’s beard and praised the community, promising to protect them. He declared,“There is only one country called Iraq, and all its inhabitants are Iraqis. I call upon my people to be only Iraqis, for we all come from the same origin… and there is no difference between a Muslim, Christian or Jew.” 

I discovered that the Hacham Bashi is my great, great grandfather. I dream of  entering the Jewish souq Hannouni my grandfather shopped at in the mornings; I want to try all five hundred varieties of dates. In those days, Iraq was the greatest exporter of dates. Arabic was the celebrated official language, and Iraqi Jews were at the forefront of writing; one in five Iraqi writers were Jewish and the first Iraqi novel was written by a Jew.

I have no doubt that my grandfather, who was a teacher, hung out on Al-Mutanabbi Street, the historic booksellers street in Baghdad, still thriving today.  Iraq’s national songs were written by Iraqi Jews, composed and played by the Al Kuwaiti brothers, broadcasted live on Baghdad Radio. Music was never broadcast on Yom Kippur, the holiest Jewish holiday. When the Al Kuwaiti brothers left, their names were erased from their songs because they were Jews.

I discovered the rise of Pan Arab Nationalism in the 1930’s. How Hitler’s Mein Kampf was translated into Arabic; how Hebrew was outlawed. How Radio Berlin, the Nazi’s propaganda channel, was streamed in Arabic. How the al-Futuwwa youth organization, a paramilitary group modeled on Hitler Youth, was established. The Nazi German ambassador himself, Fritz Grobba, foresaw what the Jews themselves could not anticipate, an outbreak of riots against Iraqi Jews caused not by Nazism but by Pan-Arab Nationalism — the Farhud massacre on June 1, 1941. 

Ask any older Iraqi person about the Farhud and they will have a story. Although they may first sigh and ask, why talk about such bad things? Still insist. Maybe they will reveal that for every Jew killed and injured by an Iraqi, there were Jews saved by righteous ones. 

Ask them how to hold both truths. Jews were an essential part of Iraqi society. Jews were persecuted for being a minority in Iraq even before Israel was established. 

Today three Jews live in Iraq. 

On Jerusalem’s streets I ask Iraqi descendants my age if they know about their Babylonian Jewish history— do you know about  the golden age for  Iraqi Jews in the 1920’s? The Farhud massacre? Most don’t. The unwritten rule in their homes was also Do not talk about bad things. Do not pass them on.

But they all know and love cheese sambusak, a taste of my grandmother’s Garden of Eden.

When Iraqi Muslim Professor Kanan Makiya is taken to an Iraqi Jewish restaurant in Or Yehuda by the illustrious Iraqi Jew, Edwin Shuker, he is amazed to discover the Iraqi Jews bear him no ill. Rather they gather around him, thirsty around a water well to ask about Iraq. How to explain this? Kanan cried and said, These Iraqi Jews are like a parent whose child kicks him out of his home. Yet he still cares, because who loses the love for the child they created?

My grandparents helped create Iraq. Their roots run as deep as the Bible. The Tigris River remembers them. Do not talk about the bad because after all we have lost, let us at least remember what was beautiful. 

But we must remember the whole story, even the pain, so we can write a new story for Jews in the Middle East. Today there is a return to Iraqi Jewish history and culture, and not just amongst their forebears. Iraqis also want to remember their Jews. Many reach out to me on social media. I became friends with Omar Mohammed, an Iraqi historian fighting to preserve the memory of Mosul Jews in a city that has been decimated by ISIS. “Can the Jews return to Mosul?” Omar asks. Can we return to a time of peace?

“Inshallah,” I say. I would love to take my children to visit the tomb of Ezra the Scribe in Al Uzair. “May it be God’s will,” not just for my children but for the people of Iraq to recover their history, the good and the bad, and choose life. For I know when Jews are safe in Iraq and the Middle East there will be a renewal of the Tigris River’s blessings. We can recreate my grandmother’s Garden of Eden together. ◦

The preparation of this article was made possible by a grant from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture. 

Sarah is an Australian born, Iraqi Jewish writer, poet, and educator. She is the author of the award winning picture book, Shoham’s Bangle and This is Not a Cholent, as well as the award winning online poetry micro-chapbook, This is Why We Don’t Look (Harbor Review). She also co-authored The In-Between, a literary dialogue about identity and belonging (Verlagshaus Berlin). She lives in Jerusalem with her husband and four boys.