Dedicated with love to the memory of my grandfather Yaakov and great-grandmother Sultan.
Within our people, among all its communities, there is a small and little-known group with fascinating roots. This community is called Nash Didan, which in Aramaic means “our people.” I was fortunate to be born into this tribe on my mother’s side.
As long as I can remember, whenever I am asked about my origins, I encounter a series of questions and puzzled looks, raised eyebrows, and checks to make sure I am not confused or, heaven forbid, suffering from a serious identity crisis. “Nashdi-what?” they ask me again and again. Then comes the next stage, curiosity: “So tell me, what is this mog’di thing?” Afterwards comes a look that is half-confused and half-delighted, usually accompanied by a pat on the shoulder. “Wow, I’ve never met a Nashdidanian before… What a thing you people are.” And indeed, until you have met a Nashdidanian, you will never really know what a Pole is—and the rest may be inferred…
They are an ancient Jewish community from the area around the city of Urmia, the heart of the Kingdom of Assyria, on the border between Iran, Turkey, and Azerbaijan. The community was founded by Jews exiled to the region during the Babylonian exile, and most of it immigrated to the Land of Israel at the beginning of the twentieth century and during its first half. Today about 14,000 members of the community live in Israel. A high proportion live in Holon, Jerusalem, and Givatayim, with the rest elsewhere in the country. There is also a fairly large and respected community here in Los Angeles, and I have long since stopped being surprised by every lost brother or sister I happen to encounter: my neighbor in the building, a friend I met at a consciousness workshop, a woman I met at a Friday-night dinner at a mutual friend’s home, and the wife of one of the organizers of a spiritual seminar. In New York, at a thoroughly Ashkenazi Passover Seder, I found myself sitting opposite the sister of the manager of the “Nashdidan” band, mentioned below.
The spoken language of the Nashdidanians is a “new” Aramaic called “Lishan Didan” (“our language”). Lishan Didan is an ancient, deeply rooted language that was once spoken throughout the region and is now mainly spoken by older members of the community. It can still be heard among Nashdidanians, but there is real concern that it will disappear when those born in the 1930s and 1940s pass away. It is an extraordinarily funny and colorful language, full of expressions whose original state of mind is hard to imagine. Like its sister, Hebrew, it is sometimes rich in terms and sometimes has to borrow them from other languages (but my grandmother Leah surely knows them all). And there is no one who does not begin testing me with one or two of the only proverbs he can retrieve from the depths of his memory, namely our old friends “Istra balagina” and “Igra rama.”
People always ask me to say something, and I fight the urge to invent some gibberish—after all, who would know? No Nashdidanian thinks anyone else will understand, and that absurd confidence gets us into trouble more than once. (There is a theory that the Murphy of Murphy’s Law was actually a Nashdidanian…). In a restaurant in Jerusalem, right in front of me and without suspecting a thing, a man turned to his wife and, with a broad smile and a sweet expression, hurled vigorous curses at her… And here in L.A., many years ago, I entered a store with my aunt and, knowing that Hebrew was risky, switched to the default language—the language no one knows! Unfortunately, the shopkeeper turned out to be an irritable Nashdidanian woman who did not appreciate my honest opinion of her merchandise at all. It was funny to see how her expression changed from anger at my words to joy at discovering potential new relatives. For you should know this: when two Nashdidanians meet for the first time, the natural question is “At baron/barat mani hilet?”, loosely translated, “Who are your parents?”
The foods are almost as bizarre as the language, and wonderfully delicious. My personal favorites are dolma dua—grape leaves, cabbage leaves, and tomatoes stuffed with rice and served hot in a sauce of cold yogurt, cooked crushed tomatoes (cherchikha), and crushed fresh garlic; the last Yemenite person I let taste the dish is still wandering around under my grandmother’s house in Givatayim muttering the names of an Indian chief. Chakhartma is a spicy meat stew in a sauce of green peppers, tomatoes, and okra, served with white rice. During Passover we enjoy pshaka, a mixture of k’liya (preserved beef), boiled potatoes cut into cubes, and a hard-boiled egg. The more meticulous also add horseradish. I had better stop now.
Members of the community in Israel strive to preserve the cuisine, language, and ancient wedding customs. Nisan Aviv of the Tzfoni family holds a folklore evening for community members every year, with actors and singers. In Givatayim they pray at the Nashdidan “Tur Sinai” synagogue, where my uncle Eliezer is the sexton. On a bench on the main street one can find the current team of the community’s elderly women. There is no room for a pin, and if there were room for a pin, they would seat another elderly woman. The “Nashdidan” band, active in Israel in the 1990s, sings texts in Lishan Didan. And we have an Internet presence too: several years ago I discovered the Nashdidan website, www.nashdidan.co.il, and became friends with its founder, Eliav Aloni. Later, Micha Damiriel took charge and has done—and continues to do—sacred work providing information, documentation, and preservation of the customs and language, as well as connecting readers. The site contains recipes, rare photographs, translations of expressions, and even a search for relatives.
So, in honor of Rosh Hashanah, allow me to offer a blessing in Aramaic: Ela Mantha ya shata kulan faltakh beharula (with God’s help, may we all emerge into the light this year)—a year of abundant deliverance for us all, amen!
