A Surprise Encounter

In all directions, tall walls line the narrow lanes of Yazd, a small town on the central Iranian plateau. It’s still morning and a chill wind blows grey clouds across the sky. Silence is only broken by the cordial ‘salaam’ uttered by passers-by. All the Iranians I’ve met on my journey have been impeccably polite. In innumerable small ways — like helping me buy a bus ticket or walking me to the bazaar — their kindness and curiosity to me, a stranger, exceed the elements of courtesy.

The day before, I had asked the staff at the Tourist Information to point me in the direction of the town’s ancient synagogues. They were unable to help, though they communicated their ignorance with smiling faces. Discouraged, I quietly gave up on my quest.

But that was a day ago and this morning I walk with determination down the half-entombed street: I have just organised a day-tour to see Pir-e-Naraki, the most holy site for another minority, The Zoroastrians, and I have to dash back to the hotel to gather my things. I pass a lady who seems equally rushed; we nod the obligatory ‘salaam’. Then she stops and her question fills the air between us: ‘Would you like to come and see my synagogue?’

The expression on my face is one of incredulity. How does she know? Is my mission printed across my forehead like a banner? The lady is about my own age. A red shawl only loosely hides her dark hair, which frames a pretty face. Her brown eyes smile at me. She is sensibly dressed in long trousers and a coat. Her enthusiasm to show me her place of worship is plain, sincere and moving. ‘Yes, Yes,’ I reply: ‘I would love to visit your synagogue.’ We agree to meet later that evening.

A confession: I am not Jewish. But my grandfather was a full member of Abraham’s tribe. As I grew up, I inherited a certain interest in all things Jewish. When I travel, I am curious to find remnants of my grandfather’s people — to track down what remains of the Diaspora in all corners of the globe. The Babylonian Talmud was compiled 1500 years ago by rabbis in the Mesopotamian provinces of the Sassanian Persian Empire. Has Persian Jewry survived? How do its people live?

The historic centre of Yazd, Iran

It’s seven o’clock and I am back at the hotel, grateful for being warm again. My day was not graced by the sun. Pir-e-Naraki is situated atop a cliff and the wind swept through my body, leaving me chilled to the core. However, the breathtaking views was worth the ascend and the driver’s hot tea and biscuits instilled fresh energy in me. Now I find myself lounging on a daybed in a heated, covered courtyard.

My new friend arrives. It is the second time she calls and though happy to see me she also seems slightly anxious. She has asked me not to tell anyone about our rendezvous. She says there is no need to draw unwarranted attention. Her circumspection may be justified. But even in the Islamic Republic of Iran, it seems to me that visiting a synagogue is, on all accounts, a fairly innocent pleasure.

Navigating a maze of lanes, we reach a door in the wall. Above the portal a humble sign in Hebrew indicates that we are about to enter a synagogue. Inside, an open court yard bustles with people praying, chatting, drinking tea. No one is too devout to be curious. Though my hair is covered by the mandatory head scarf, I am obviously a tourist. Immediately, welcoming hands and gentle, smiling faces offer tea and fruit.

A special service is underway this evening. Perhaps one hundred people are gathered inside the synagogue. Fluorescent lighting illuminates the ancient arches. There is not an inch of empty floor space. It’s absolutely heaving. Almost in spite of myself, I am reminded of Church weddings in Italy (may the Heavens forgive me for the comparison to a Catholic ceremony), which share the same odd mixture of gaiety and gravity.

At the altar, men stand in earnest devotion, swaying as they read their prayers. Towards the back children sit on chairs. They are distracted and tease each other, exuding bored duty. Others make tea or check their smart phone. As familiar words of prayer reach my ear, I feel tears welling at the corner of my eyes. I can’t quite explain why, as I’m not at all religious and the atmosphere is everything but solemn.

My friend and I sit down for a chat. She answers my questions readily. No, being Jewish in Iran isn’t difficult. Does she ever dream of visiting Israel, if it was possible? ‘Not really’, she says: ‘I prefer peaceful places.’ But one issue does preoccupy her mind: How to find a suitable — and Jewish — partner?

This is hard, she says. The Jewish community is small and pickings are meagre. She won’t compromise, the way her friends have done, marrying someone suitable rather than a true love match. She would rather stay single. I assure her she is not alone in her quest for love. Every singleton I have spoken to since coming to Iran (all Muslim) has lamented the perils of dating. But it’s the same, I tell her, in my part of the world. ‘I am looking too’, I confide. We laugh at how similar our situations are.

Finally, I tell her that my visit to the synagogue means a great deal to me, because my grandfather was Jewish. A breezy smile flashes across the fine features of her face. She offers me another cookie. ‘Oh your background doesn’t matter so long as you’re a good person.’ I don’t know if I am. But in a world torn by strife, I find her unadorned certainty comforting.

Written by

Always a keen traveller, I enjoy sharing my experiences and insights. Writing seems to sharpen my senses and helps me stay present and alert.

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