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Questions Most Can't Answer Rabbi Yaakov Bleich challenges us to remember the Forgotten Jews of the former Soviet Union.
Let's face it, most of us can't. And the question we should be asking ourselves is: Why not?
One could, I suppose, answer "because the Ukraine is just so far away. Out of sight, out of mind. What do you really
expect?"
But that's more of an excuse than an answer.
IT HAS BEEN NEARLY A DECADE since I made my first trip to what was then the Soviet Union. Actually, a "pilgrimage" would be a more accurate
description. We were 20 Chasidic youth in search of our roots in a faraway land that, during our formative years, had served as the setting whence our cultural heritage had been sprung; on whose ground our most revered sages had walked. We had come to draw inspiration; to pray at the grave sites of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chasidic movement, and his disciple, Rabbi Ber of Mezrich, and other greats, in order that they should act as our "proxies" Above. We prayed to the Creator for continued success in our endeavors and for a good life; for happy marriages and dutiful children.
As Karlin-Stoliner Chasidim, we were particularly excited to be
visiting the burial place of the famed Beis Aharon, one of the Founding
Fathers of our sect, who lays in the Western Ukrainian hamlet of
M'linov. We were said to be the first Jews who would visit the site as a
group since the outbreak of World War II.
But it was not to be.
Upon returning from prayer services on Shabbes morning, we were greeted
by an official who promptly informed us that our permission to visit
the site had suddenly been revoked. (The USSR in 1988, it must be
remembered, had many towns and villages that were closed to outsiders.
At any time -- and for any reason -- the authorities could simply cut
off a region from the rest of the world. And nothing, absolutely
nothing, could be done to rectify the situation.)
We chose an alternative location: the local and nearby cemetery in Kiev.
IT WAS A WEEK AFTER SUCCOS, a bitter cold Sunday morning. I remember the
details well, as it was the highlight of our trip, and an
epiphany for me.
The cemetery was like most in the USSR -- decrepit, yet other-worldly
looking. Most of Kiev was sound asleep as our group made its way through
the region's silent streets and countryside. But to our surprise, the
eternal home for residents of this city, so rich with history and ideas,
was fully packed with Jews. These were individuals who, for one reason
or another, apparently could not visit before Rosh HaShana, in
accordance with Jewish custom. Despite the spiritual starvation
so rampant at the time, this custom, it seems, was for some reason never
forsaken.
As we wandered about, we suddenly noticed ourselves being watched
intently by the assembled. And for a flicker of a moment, we wondered if
the Motherland, which had just put a damper on our other plans, had
actually gone to the bother of sending so many of her dutiful "deputies"
to watch us here as well. This was the Soviet Union, after all.
It didn't take us long to find out. Our group was suddenly surrounded
from all sides.
An elderly, hunched-backed Jew wearing a tattered cap and supporting
himself with a cane was the first to come forward. It was obvious that
our presence had moved him. But in which direction?
He began to run his hands up and down the sleeves of my coat, trying to
hold back tears that must have been welled-up just under the surface for
a half-century. He asked in a gruff, thickly-accented Yiddish: "Are you
real? Am I still on Earth? Is this some sort of dream?"
He wasn't kidding.
"I am very much real," I responded. "And there are many more like me
from where I come."
An elderly woman then asked if she could hold my friend's prayer book.
"The last time I saw one," she said, as hot tears ran down her wrinkled
face, "was so, so many years ago."
Our encounter in Kiev left us moved. We had come here to go
"grave-hopping," in the Chasidic vernacular. But we left with a lesson in geo-politics that even the most proficient professor could not have
conveyed better.
IN KIEV, AT THIS TIME, there were some 150,000 Jews. And millions more
were still trapped behind the Iron Curtain. Yet we knew so little about
them, and they, of course, knew even less about us.
It's now almost ten years later. The world is, by all accounts, a far
different place. The Soviet Union is no more. There are organized Jewish
communities -- with synagogues, daily minyanim, and institutions of
Jewish learning -- scattered all throughout the Commonwealth of Independent States. Yet I dare ask: Has
the Jewish world really changed?
In the 1970s and 1980s, the struggle for Soviet Jewry united Jews the
world over. In the early 1990s, after the fall of Communism and the fulfillment
of the "cause," the USSR suddenly became a novelty to the West. It was
sort of like opening a time capsule and taking inventory of what had
survived and what had not, a mere amusement.
Of course, there are some establishment
Jewish groups doing their part. But it sometimes seems that the only time the average
Western Jew is reminded of our existence is in sensationalistic stories
and coverage of visits by political leaders. Does the average Jew, in
fact, care that the 7,000-member Jewish community of Lemberg has gone to
great lengths to organize a Judaic renaissance -- complete with social
service agencies, educational facilities and the like? Do the Jews of
(relatively) nearby Riga deserve more attention than merely serving as a
backdrop in a newswire story about a resident who will be receiving a
check from the Swiss Holocaust fund?
There are still millions of Jews living behind the Plastic Curtain. It's
a transparent partition. But who will be the ones to push their
outstretched hands through?
Rabbi Yaakov D. Bleich is Chief Rabbi of Ukraine. He will be writing regularly for JWR from Kiev.
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