Congregation Ohav Sholom

The Israel Experience - A Yemenite Tevya

The Israel Experience - A Yemenite Tevya

by Michael Rosenbloom (spidermr@aol.com)

In the summer of 1979, a year after making aliyah, I left teaching and began working in Jerusalem. I lived in Beit Shemesh for one more year, but my days there were numbered, especially considering the daily commute.

One afternoon, in the middle of a nap, I woke up to a rumbling sound. My bed and stand-up closet began to shake. This continued for around five to ten seconds. Was this a dream? Still drowsy, I looked out the window and saw throngs of people from my apartment complex leaving their buildings and congregating in the central courtyard, which served also as a parking lot. I threw on some clothing and ran downstairs to join them, feeling something was amiss It was then, I realized that I had survived an earthquake. There was no damage to buildings or roads since the epicenter was well east of Israel. But we felt it in Beit Shemesh nonetheless.

During my first year in Beit Shemesh, I was offered a part-time teaching job, in the evening, through a program sponsored and funded by the Department of Tourism, teaching taxi and truck drivers spoken English. This was a daunting task, if ever there was one. In this class, one of my students was Zechariah Shunim, a short stocky Yemenite Jew, with a heart as big as Israel is long. Zechariah earned his keep driving a semi-trailer truck. He lived on Moshav Yishi, a moshav across the road from Beit Shemesh, which was established in the early 1950's and populated by Yeminite Jews. He also raised turkeys on the moshav. Following the last class, Zechariah invited me to his home. At the time, Zechariah and his wife Tamar had seven children, all girls.

I had been teaching for only three months in my day job in the high school, when a teachers' strike erupted. I learned that this was an annual rite. Teaching was a poorly paid profession. And each year, the teachers union would decide to strike, until a bone was thrown their way, which never improved the teachers' general lot, but at least gave the representatives of the union a way of saving face. December of 1978 was no different. For about a full month, there was no school due to the strike.

It was during the strike, on a bright sunny day, the likes of which Israel celebrates frequently (even in winter), that I assisted Zechariah with a problem he was having with his roof. For some reason pigeons enjoyed congregating on his roof and leaving souvenirs behind. From that day on Zechariah and I became close friends.

My friendship with Zechariah provided insights into Yemenite culture. We would go to the synagogue (one of two on the moshav) on a Friday, welcoming the Sabbath. I have never seen a more playful or frisky group of people in my life. Zechariah's brother Levi, who must have been in his late forties at the time, was known for being ticklish. As Levi would venture through the center aisle to the row where his seat was, four or five seventy-year old Yemenites with beards and paos would extend a finger to tickle him. Levi would jump or squeal, because he hated to be tickled. All those present, young and old, would laugh hysterically. Then the prayers would begin and the lilting Yemenite intonation was hypnotic. The accent was like none I'd ever heard before: "Boreh Pre HaJafen," instead of HaGafen.

Through Zechariah, I was further exposed to new Yemenite foods. I was already a devotee of Yemenite soup (marak Temani), which is essentially chicken soup with oriental spices. I developed a liking for the wide variety of delectable doughy delights offered in the Yemenite kitchen. Some were delicacies to be enjoyed on Shabbat only, foods like Kubani or Jichnun, which were cooked on a Shabbat plate or on a stove. Others, such as melaweh or lehoh, a pancake like treat, cooked on what looked like an upside-down Chinese wak, were prepared on weekdays. Jichnun, the tastiest of them all, is made from a thin dough, rolled into large cylindrical shapes. As you peel away each thin layer of dough and eat your way to the center, its taste increases exponentially.

Anyway, after seven girls, Tamar was pregnant again. Everyone was hoping for a boy. Imagine the joy when a boy was finally born. Yossi was born while my parents were visiting me. We were privileged to attend the briss, which was held in Zechariah's home. The Yeminte Tevya had finally fathered a son.

Since I was by now working in Jerusalem, I was spending more and more time in the capitol. While driving by Saccer Park, a stone's throw from the Knesset, I noticed a softball game being played. I parked my car and ran over, because I had been having severe softball withdrawal symptoms, since making Aliyah. The lads were nice enough to let me play and eventually I was accepted into their game on a regular basis. It was this group of fellows with whom I began to play softball weekly. Then the fledging Israel Softball League started.

December, 2000

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