Chapter Two.
Elsewhere in the Ottoman empire, Jews are not always treated with the same respect —or, should I say, forbearance— that we in Turkey are. However, some recent developments in Yemen have had a profound effect on the mizrahi population of our own country, including those of us who reside in Antep.
I refer to the fact that during this year of 5642–5643 [1882], our community has undergone an influx of co-religionists from Yemen, who number 157, including several distant relations of the Mitrani! These people had been artisans in Yemen, principally employed in trades such as silver-smithing, blacksmithing, repairing weapons and tools, weaving, pottery-making, masonry, carpentry, shoemaking, and tailoring.
They had fled their homeland in the face of newly enacted, oppressive measures, such as the “Dung-Gatherer’s Decree,” by which Jews are made to clean all of the cisterns and latrines. Yemeni Jews are also required to pay a heavy tax known as the jizya, and the authorities there often interfere with the observance of Jewish holidays.
Given all of these oppressions and restrictions, a year or two ago, this particular band of Yemenis chose to make the difficult voyage, on foot and by sea, to Palestine. There, unfortunately, they also met with discrimination, this time at the hands of their sephardic co-religionists, who went so far as to require the newcomers to abandon the eating of their traditional soft matzohs, in favor of their own hard, cracker-like ones (Turkish mizrahi have also adopted hard matzohs, but we have done so voluntarily, in emulation of our ashkenazi brethren.)
The new Yemeni emigrants from Palestine have also complained to us about some הֲבָלִים [trivial nonsense] concerning the payment of taxes to the authorities of Jerusalem and Jaffa, where they had principally settled, without receiving an equal share of the subsidies accorded to the sephardim. Earlier this year, with the feeling that they had leapt from the pot only to fall into the fire, they fled once again, this time to eastern Turkey —to places like Antep.
Not that we, their blood relations and co-religionists in Düğmeci, were disinclined to welcome these people (whom, of course, we had never previously met, or even heard of). But there soon arose causes of friction. For one thing, the newcomers seemed unwilling to shoulder their fair share of the burdens we all face, lighter though these burdens are than those they faced in either Yemen or Palestine. For instance, when we asked them to contribute to the upkeep of the Grand Synagogue, paying a share of the costs of maintaining the large building (firewood, oil, paint, roofing tiles, and so on), they pled poverty, claiming that they fled eretz yisrael [the land of Israel] “with only the shirts on our backs.”
You might have also thought that the metal-working skills of the Yemenites would make them fit right into businesses like my husband’s, but… One evening, when he returned from the shop, I could tell immediately that something had upset my good man. Without even washing himself, or greeting the children, Moise stormed into the kitchen, where he immediately began venting his grievances to his usual audience —me!
“Malka!” he shouted, as the servants and children looked on, in shocked silence, “I am afraid that, one of these days, I am going to murder some of those Yemenite ‘guests’ of ours!”
As I always did, I tried to calm Moise’s anger. ”But what have they done now, dear?” He had previously complained, once or twice, about his Yemeni employees, but much more mildly.
Moise slammed his open palm down on the kitchen table, rattling the dishes, glassware and utensils that had just been set out by Dorit, my helpful elder daughter. “ ‘What have they done?’ It’s what they do not do! Those good-for-nothings don’t seem to realize that workers here are expected to do a day’s work for a day’s wages. All day long, they do nothing but sing their stupid songs, and dance around the shop like אנשים מטורפים [insane people]!”
“Well, everyone realizes that our visitors are not exactly like us, dear,” I persisted. “Despite their tribulations, they seem to be more … pleasure-loving than we are. But are you unsatisfied with their craftsmanship, Moise?”
This observation reduced the flame of my husband’s anger to grumbling. “No, no, they are very skillful—when they work. But…”
At that point, I suggested that he stop grumbling, and go wash up, so we could all sit down to supper, and added that he and I could finish the conversation later. The good man complied and, although he did not eat with his usual relish, the meal, and the rest of the evening, passed in relative peace.
That whole week, which was in mid-Nisan [April], passed without further domestic eruptions. But eight or nine days later — five days ago, that is— our community underwent a metaphorical earthquake. The “fault line” beneath last week’s eruption was, once again, the relation of Yemeni mizrahi to Turkish mizrahi. Are there any conflicts more intense than those between relatives?
This “fault line,” you could say, was anticipated by the “fore-shock” of my husband’s complaint about his Yemeni workers the previous week. The main quake, as you will learn shortly, was a wedding. Like quite a few literal earthquakes, the epicenter of this one was right here in Antep. To pinpoint it further, the primary victims were Dorit, my fifteen-year-old daughter, and Ariel BinMahfooz, the nineteen-year-old son of a Yemeni magnate who is among the leaders of his community. Or you might say that we, their parents, were the ones who suffered the direct hit.
Before I get to the wedding part of the story, I think I will pause to recount an explanation of literal earthquakes that had been offered to Moise some weeks earlier. (My knowledge of this subject comes not from books, therefore, but from eavesdropping.) The instructor was Tsvi Buzaglo, a resident of our Düğmeci community who worked as a tailor, but was also an enthusiastic scientific amateur.
That the conversation took place in our large, tiled kitchen, where I was supervising the final touches on a special shabbos meal, and that our guest was a still-unmarried man in his thirties, invited because we hoped he might be a match for our Dorit, may explain why I remember this conversation so well. Of course, another reason may be the misfiring of our hopes, when the foolish girl preferred Master BinMahfooz, precipitating the metaphorical “earthquake.”
If Tsvi Buzaglo and my Moise sound garrulous in this conversation, it was because each had already imbibed a glass, or two, of shabbos wine. The men were standing alongside one another at the side of the table furthest from the stove, from where I eavesdropped on their conversation, as I tasted the dishes, and added seasonings.
“Earthquakes are very common in Antep, my friend,” Tsvi explained, “because Turkey has the misfortune to be located on several major geological fault lines, which are the places where tectonic plates meet. One of these fault lines is, unfortunately, quite close to our city. Some day, I expect, a major seismic eruption may even destroy Antep Castle, our indestructible citadel, in which case the other bulldings will all come tumbling down. Earthquakes, alas, are an accidental, but inevitable, feature of nature.”
“There, I beg to differ with you, my young friend,” was the ready reply of Moise, who had held his tongue until then. “As we are taught, God sends us earthquakes, and other natural disasters, in order to chastise our sinful nature.” He concluded with the usual appeal to spousal authority. “Am I not right, Malka?”
Always the peacemaker, I said exactly what I thought —which, in this case, amounted to temporizing: “Well, I think you are both correct,” I began, and I noticed that Moise’s smile was wide, whereas Tsvi’s consisted of pulling back the corners of his mouth an inch, or so. I then clarified my meaning. “Yes, I imagine that God does punish sinful humanity, but that He works through nature.” I was about to add a Biblical reference to the plagues against the Pharaoh, but said, instead, “But now, shouldn't we sit down, while the meal is still hot?”
When the children had joined us, and we were all taking our places at the table, the unwelcome thought crossed my mind that this stern, pedantic fellow, Tsvi Buzaglo, might entertain “advanced” views that would disqualify him as a suitor for our Dorit. Little did I know what was actually about to happen!
The meal, of course, was eaten with hearty enthusiasm by all seven diners (Tsvi, Moise and I, and our four children, including Dorit). This was only as it should have been, since, as I said, the maids and I had prepared special shabbos foods for our prospective suitor. Not for him our usual boiled mutton, plain vegetables, and day-old bread. No, to Tsvi bey, we served pounded bulgar wheat with my “house special” sauce; mahlita [red lentil soup]; a large vegetable salad; and two main dishes: lamb kebobs and kibbe hemda [rice balls filled with meat cubes], both in the Turkish style. There was also, of course, a large sac [upside-down bread], baked that very morning, and, also of course, more wine, not to mention a decanter of raki. For dessert, there was Risib Halib [milk pudding with rice] and Greybe [cookies], washed down with large quantities of Sirrabit’en [orangeade].
Need I add that the food was served on our best copper dishes, and eaten with our finest silver utensils. As for the wine, raki and Sirrabit’en, these were served in the heavy cut-glass vessels reserved for such special occasions. But why do I bother to describe this elaborate meal, since, as things turned out, it all went for naught.
12/07/2024
10:47:23 AM