The Last Jews of Kerala Read online

  The Sabbath meals were hot and ready in great aluminium cooking pots. As the servants prepared to leave, she hunched over the pots and ladled portions into tiffin cans for them to carry home to their families. “Since it’s festival, we share our food with them,” she explained to me. “It’s something we like to do. For many years we couldn’t afford it because of the children, but now they’re older we like to do this again,” she said. The dishes were a red chilly chicken curry, pilau and vegetable dish.

  Having fed the boys, she turned her attention to making pastries to take to the party that evening. The main food would be catered by the daughter of the most senior elder among the Black Jews, Isaac Joshua. But Ofra had offered to at least provide some of the snacks.

  She stood at the dining table, chatting to me as she used one hand to mix a large bowl full of the filling mixture, while the other kneaded the dough that would be used for the pastry cases. She was making a classic Kerala Jewish festival snack called pastels, made with shredded chicken pieces, fried with ginger, pepper, grated carrot, onions, cabbage and boiled eggs.

  She rolled the dough out and then cut out round circles. In the centre of each circle she placed a spoonful of mixture and then sealed it in the shape of a semi-circle, creating a frilled border on one side. These would then be deep fried, a bit like samosas.

  “This is for this evening. We’ll take it to the synagogue tonight,” she explained. “Tonight almost all of the Ernakulam Jews will be coming for prayers. The ones at Chennamangalam and Parul can’t come because it’s too far, but otherwise all the community will be there. You’ll see.” These two villages were also once Jewish strongholds, but now only a couple of families remained.

  The Paradesi Synagogue was the only one that remained in proper service, with the other seven almost permanently out of use. So, on the days of major festivals, everyone would gather in Mattancherry for prayers, with some making a journey of almost two hours to get there. That morning the Ernakulam Jews had gone early to the Paradesi Synagogue for the first prayer service of the Shmini and Simchat Torah festival weekend, where they got to kiss the Torah. This evening, prior to sundown, they would honor the old tradition of lighting the candles on a metal tree to mark the festival of Shmini. This would be followed by prayers at seven thirty, after which the Jews could invite special guests to come inside the synagogue and view the special decorations. Prayers would continue on Saturday morning and evening and then again into Sunday. The new cycle for the Torah began the following week. It was one of the most demanding festivals of the year, but also one of the most happy of occasions.

  “Every Jewish community celebrates Simhat Torah in its own way. In Bombay you’ll see them celebrate it with great joy,” said Ofra, nostalgic for her old city. “There you’ll see the real happiness, the dancing and singing. Here you can’t really see that. But tradition tells us to take the Torah and dance,” she twirled in a circle, her flour-covered forearms lifted into the air in a moment of lightness as she demonstrated how one would embrace the holy book like a partner.

  Ofra noted with amusement that not much dancing could be seen in Cochin these days as the Jews were mostly too elderly and weak to carry the heavy scrolls. In the old days, strapping men from the community would carry the heavy scrolls in their cases and literally cavort around the courtyard, leaping high and dancing as the other Jews followed behind singing and clapping. Grainy black and white photos from the heyday depict a riotous celebration of the holy book, with worshippers high on bottles of strong spirits known as “petrol” to give the occasion lift-off. Bottles of “petrol” were swigged early in the morning before going to synagogue and it was not unknown for some to secrete their own supply into the courtyard itself to fortify themselves during the drawn out prayers and proceedings. Tomorrow the Mattancherry Jews would dance with one symbolic Torah, but I imagined at their age it would be more of a stately waltz.

  With the pastels prepared, she cleared the table and set it for lunch. Babu was back from the aquarium and beamed his welcome. His wife laid down an array of dishes as if by magic: chicken curry with the tiny sweet potatoes I had seen in the market, rice, a special dish of diced chicken pieces fried in a masala batter, salad and homemade pickle.

  Babu explained each dish and pointed out the best bits to try. The two explained how when they first married, it had taken some time for Ofra to adjust to the change of pace from Bombay. It had been something of a gamble to leave behind everything for the village life of Kerala. At first she found it tough adjusting to the slower pace and the difference in food and climate. Bombay was a glamorous, cosmopolitan city set on a glittering emerald sea. Cochin was unhurried, provincial, a place where the idea of a night out was an evening of bridge with the elders. The tight-knit community, the suppurating humidity of these wet low-lands made for a claustrophobic life for a newlywed from Bombay. But they started a family and were happy. Babu was still amused whenever he recalled her shock at leaving her “big Bombay life”. Why stay and not migrate to Israel, I asked.

  “I did go to Israel, just to see,” he replied. “I stayed there for a month or so to see if we could live there. If I liked it then I would take the family. But I decided we couldn’t live there.”

  “Why?”

  “I hated it. I found the Israelis arrogant. There’s no love in their hearts for people like us. Here in India, the Malabari Jews are loved by all parts of the community. There I felt like the outsider. Maybe it’s because of the way they live there—modern society, too fast, where there’s no time for tradition, the synagogue, community. There it’s work, spend, eat, sleep. Bus.

  “They’re closed in mind, closed in heart. Perhaps, because of the troubles they face. The political troubles, I mean. Enemies on each side. Living in siege. Always fearing the outsider, always fearing the dark face. I couldn’t let my family live like this—fearing what might happen.”

  The sacrifice was too much. The Jews of Kerala had never known the persecution, the fear, the intolerance that other Diaspora communities faced through the ages. Instead, theirs had been a gilded existence. The Ernakulam Jews in particular were closely integrated with the Hindus, Muslims and Christians. Babu was mindful of just how much they had to lose.

  “Here in India, in Kerala, we’re accepted and loved by all. We’re safe. Why change this? When I got on the plane to leave Israel, even though this is my Holy Land, I was happy to be coming home. You know that smell when you step off the plane in India? That dirty diesel smell! You smell you’re home. This smell,” and tears welled in his eyes as he smiled, “I can’t tell you how happy I was to breathe my country into my lungs. I’m Jewish. But I’m also Indian. What’s Israel to me? It’s a foreign country.”

  Then why did the Black Jews not share the same depth of despair as the White Jews, despite knowing that this was the end for them too in India?

  “They’re all old now, their youngsters are gone. Who’s left to make them happy? All their lives, they wanted to be exclusive. Now they have their wish. They’re excluded from everything.”

  The Malabari Jews, he said, had always been closer to the Indian mentality. “Throughout history we mixed with the other communities, we’re part of them, they’re part of us. We belong here still. There’s life here still. Plus, we have young children with us. Only problem—who will they marry?”

  “Will they go to Israel to find a husband, your girls?” His expression darkened again.

  “The older daughter only has NASA Space Station on her mind. Not Cochin, the universe. The younger one is happy to stay here forever. What’s for them in Israel? My sister was one of those who made the aliyah, the pilgrimage to Israel. She wanted a new life, a new beginning. She went many years ago, married an Israeli and they had four children there.”

  “How does she like it?”

  “My sister’s now divorced. Her husband left them. This is their way there. This is her Israel,” he said, the hard flat edge discernible in his voice again.


  Suddenly, Babu began to weep uncontrollably, cupping his right hand over his eyes as teardrops rolled down his cheeks and into his food. Ofra tenderly placed her hand on his arm. I sensed Babu was crying for more than his sister’s sadness. Eventually he smiled, as if embarrassed by such foolishness, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and began to resume eating again, his right hand kneading the rice into a small tight ball and placing it into his mouth, continuing the meal in silence.

  For Babu, Israel had not been the Promised Land. He had been one of many who went with expectations of finding a sense of belonging, of finally coming home after a history of rejection by fellow White Jews in India. But his aliyah had not provided any answers nor erased the yearning of those Black Jews who left to find acceptance. Instead he found an Israel torn asunder by religious insecurity, a land where peace was a stranger. For his sister and even for himself on that one brief visit, Israel did not turn out to be the fabled paradise that held them spellbound in childhood, but a hostile landscape of loneliness and rejection. India, for all its failings, remained home.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Land of Black Gold and White Pearls

  “What strange tales would history unfold if the gift of speech was allowed to the stones and pebbles that lie embedded in the bosom of the river that flows by the once famous Cranganore?”

  —K. P.P. MENON, HISTORY OF KERALA

  From the inception of their community on the shores of Malabar two thousand or more years ago, the Cochini Jews never forgot they were the people of Israel and that this was only an interim homeland. Israel was invoked in prayer almost daily, toasted at festivals with the best whisky or arrack, toddy made with cashews.

  The court of Solomon, the fall of the Second Temple and Jerusalem some thousand years later and the resulting forced migration was not merely the stuff of abstract antiquity but part of their very being. In view of this, it is clear that Babu’s tears did not spring from sentimentality—he was a tough and pragmatic man after all—but originated in a profound sense of rejection, akin to a long-lost son finding no instinctive embrace from a father on his return.

  Understanding that story is part of deciphering who they are. Elements of a lost Jerusalem were evoked in the ten windows of the synagogue which represented the commandments, the two pillars that flanked the Ark which were inspired by the destroyed Temple of Solomon, the hangings that adorned the synagogue walls which shared the sacred colors used in the ancient holy of holies. Each detail, down to the last carved flower, was a reminder of city where it began. The synagogue was a manifestation of faith to replace Israel until it was recovered. Therefore, there could be no greater agony than when the Black Jews were barred from worship in the Paradesi synagogue—it echoed the darkness and estrangement of the past.

  * * * *

  It was during the golden days of King Solomon’s rule that the first contact was made between Israel and India. By the time Solomon took the throne in 970 BCE he had inherited from his father, David, a significant regional empire. Jerusalem was no longer a minor city-cum-state but the capital of this empire. To mark its ascendancy in status and power, Solomon embarked upon an ambitious building program that included a royal acropolis near Mount Zion, a palace and other grand architectural statements such as the House of the Forest of Lebanon. There was a treasury and the Judgment Hall, which housed Solomon’s ivory throne as well as a separate palatial residence for his most politically important and illustrious wife, the daughter of the pharaoh.

  But the most significant structure of all was the Temple to Yahweh, which came to be known as the Temple of Solomon. No physical trace of this first temple survived its destruction by the King of Babylon Nebuchadnezzar in 586 BCE, but it lives on almost three millennia after it was first constructed through biblical accounts that lavish the reader with every minute detail of its structure. It remains ever present in the spiritual landscape of the Jewish people, symbolizing an era in their history when God dwelled among them in the house that Solomon built.

  The Temple of Solomon contained the Ark of the Covenant, a chest which held the tablets of Law handed down to Moses. Mounted upon the Ark were two golden cherubim whose wings fanned outwards to form a throne for Yahweh. This throne symbolized the presence of the divine among his people, an indication that Yahweh himself sat in the midst of his worshippers. Responsibility for carrying the Ark had always been in the hands of the tribe of Levi, a caste of priests of whom Moses’ brother, Aaron, was chief. Its stewardship was of the highest importance and its care entrusted to a select few. The Ark was believed to be possessed of a terrible sacred power that would protect the Jewish people against their enemies, helping to smite them in battle.

  The Ark was the only symbol of a divine presence in the Temple that contained no effigies in accordance with God’s instruction to Moses during his revelation in the burning bush, where he declared he must not be defined by any human form. While it remained in the Temple it was seen by the Jewish people as a spiritual epicenter that directly connected mortal life to heaven, to God himself.

  Apart from this distinctive feature of the Ark, the Temple conformed to typical imperial architecture of the region. In the courtyard in front of the Temple stood an altar of sacrifice as well as a huge bronze basin representing Yam, the primal sea. This alluded to the forces of darkness or chaos, a reminder of how the Jewish people had escaped slavery in Egypt.

  The main temple entrance was flanked by the pillars and its walls, both inside and out, were etched with angels and cherubs, almonds and flowers and swaying palm trees. A central staircase led up to the main Ulam or vestibule, which in turn led through to the Hekhal or cult hall at the eastern end of the building. Another flight of stairs separated this chamber from the Devir or Holy of Holies, which contained the Ark itself, screened from view by a curtain of blue, crimson and purple. These same colors are seen to this day in the Paradesi Synagogue’s central chamber.

  One cannot over-emphasize the significance of the Temple of Solomon to the faithful, then as well as now. Coming to the Temple, abode of Yahweh himself, was entering the sanctuary of one’s faith. Solomon was also seen as a special king in the hearts of the Jewish people, for God had granted him the honor of building a Temple in his name. The king of the Jews was a ruler anointed by God: his palace resided next to the house of God, his seat of power was beside Yahweh’s own throne on the Ark. In Karen Armstrong’s A History of Jerusalem she describes the duty of the leader of the Jewish people to impart justice: “If this justice prevailed there would be peace, harmony and fertility in the kingdom,” she said. “Yahweh would provide them with the security which was so earnestly and continually sought for in the ancient world . . . But there was no security and no shalom if there was no justice in Zion.”

  Shalom meant more than just peace, it signified a spiritual wholeness and harmony with the world. Maybe this Jewish understanding of linking justice to shalom lay at the root of the sense of retribution that the latter day Jews of Cochin felt had befallen their own kingdom in India. During the course of the history of the Jews of Kerala, justice had not always prevailed.

  While Solomon was revered for his wisdom and for giving the Jewish people the first temple, in the end justice and shalom evaded his kingdom as it came under mounting strain because of the heavy financial cost of his building program, which proved a drain on national resources and required large-scale conscripted labor. As Solomon built his glittering new Jerusalem, the demand for luxuries with which to furnish it became ever greater. It opened up an era of seafaring voyages from Israel to India. Biblical accounts indicate trade fleets first making contact with India’s coastal region during this time as Solomon’s men sought out exotic treasures to bring back to his kingdom.

  In The Last Jews of Cochin: Jewish Identity in Hindu India, Nathan Katz and Ellen Goldberg noted that the Hebrew Bible contained a number of words which were very similar to Sanskrit and Tamil, suggesting there were indeed establish
ed links between Solomon’s kingdom and India. They added that the First Book of Kings indicated the opulence of the court of King Solomon was partly attributable to this trade, bringing imported luxuries such as ivory, apes and peacocks.

  Other historians also flagged up these Biblical clues. In The Jews of Kerala, P. M. Jussay said that while there were no reliable records on when Jews first arrived in Kerala, it is believed that the earliest Jews were sailors from King Solomon’s ships, which according to the Bible brought “once every three years, silver, elephant’s tooth, peacocks and apes.”

  The Bible’s word for peacock is “tukiyum” and for apes it is “kapim”. The Tamil words for peacock and ape are “tokai” and “kapi”, respectively, says Jussay. The ancient Roman chronicles of Pliny the Elder and The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea also provide evidence of maritime trade between the Red Sea coast and Muziris, another name for Cranganore.

  So began the first contact between the two countries, as trading partners. The region of southern India, where Tamil was spoken, was on the map of Solomon’s kingdom, according to these sources. The verbal history of the Jews of Cochin said some of these first merchant traders and their slaves may have settled on the coastline of Kerala.

  The first Jews to land on this coast were probably part of that trading community. As such, historians believe the Jews who arrived on trading ships were unlikely to have traveled with their families. Local rulers would have provided these foreign customers with lodging and the Jews would have become involved with local women, since they were far from home. The resulting children would form the beginnings of the Jewish community in Kerala.

  A further trickle of settlers came to India several centuries after Solomon’s rule, at the time of the destruction of the first temple in 586 BCE by the Babylonian ruler Nebuchadnezzar. In a merciless assault, Jerusalem was sacked and the Temple of Solomon was gutted of its precious furnishings and burned to the ground. The contents of the temple were taken to Babylon, but the fate of the Ark was not recorded. It simply vanished from history. The inauspicious disappearance of the seat of Yahweh was interpreted as a sign that God had deserted the Jewish people. The Jewish people were exiles, with many having to protect their faith in the land of their new master, Babylon. Others reportedly fled to further flung lands, including India.