On Camels from Persia to the Land of Israel

The story of Baba Yosef and his journey from Urmia to the Land of Israel on a three-year trek through Iraq in the 1920s. Published by Devorah Dor in the newspaper Al Hamishmar on Friday, September 13, 1968, page 5.

He twists the thin silver wire, shaping it into an ornament. He solders it over a small, gentle flame — “carefully, because it melts” — and decorates a case for a Book of Esther scroll with delicate silver filigree.

In Jerusalem’s Bukharim Quarter, in his shop, the silversmith Baba Yosef sits among jewelry, goblets, Torah finials, lamps and other objects. He learned his craft from his father, who learned it from his father, and so on, going back many generations. His son sits beside him, twisting wires as well, “according to imagination, according to taste. Not according to any pattern.”

Baba Yosef strings one story after another onto his silver wire — stories of Persia, the land of One Thousand and One Nights…

Among Bandits

“It wasn’t exactly Persia. We were called ‘Rizayis,’ and we had our own synagogue in the neighborhood. We came from Rezaiyeh, a city named after the Shah. There are about fifteen families here from there. In my father’s day, the city was called Urmia, in Iran.”

“My father walked from Beirut to Haifa. He walked for three days. He carried a sack full of tools on his back. Our entire journey to the Land of Israel took three years. I was a child — but it is a great story.”

I urged him to tell me the story, and he was very surprised. He had assumed that I was interested only in his craft. He showed me an English pocket-sized book about his art, including photographs of remarkably beautiful Hanukkah lamps — all his own work.

After I pressed him, he began: “Several Zionists came to our city in 1921. They gave lectures and said: ‘Anyone who wants to go to the Land of Israel should go.’ We had a fairly good life there, but because of our longing for the Holy Land, about 100 families, some 600 people, set out. Some traveled by camel and some on foot, and we made our way to Iraq. We stayed there for three months. There was fighting involving the British, who were bombing the Kurds of Iraq. We were sent back and came to some town where there were Jews — I don’t remember which one; I was a small child.”

“We continued moving. Some families had donkeys or camels. They loaded belongings, children or women onto them, taking turns. I remember it as if it were yesterday. We experienced both joy and sorrow. Joy, because we were going to the Land of Israel; in the evenings we would dance and sing. But we also cried and quarreled over turns on the camels, because of illness and sunstroke. And there was even death. Death happened among us too. I had a little brother, a six-month-old baby. He was sitting with our mother on a camel, in a kind of carriage. Then the camel overturned on a stone. The baby was injured and died. He was buried somewhere along the way.”

“At night we slept outdoors. Several times Arab bandits attacked us and looted our possessions. Before going to sleep, each family would bury its money and jewelry wherever we happened to be resting. In the morning we would dig them up and continue on our way. This went on for three years.”

Baba raises his eyes toward the thin flame at the end of the tube, a tall flame like a pillar of fire. “Yes, that is what it was. The Exodus. More than that — it was an ascent to the Land of Israel.”

About the Girl “Narkis”

“Father, tell them about the Armenian girl — Narkis,” his son Samson says. His son, about thirty years old, has finished high school and continues the family craft.

“You tell it. Your Hebrew is better. What I remember from my father’s stories, you have heard from him and from me.” But Baba Yosef, the man from the land of the Arabian Nights, agrees once more. He takes a wire in the tip of his pliers and begins another story:

“During the First World War we went for many months without bread. There were gunshots in the streets and unemployment. It is true that the fighting was not actually there, but the Russians would enter and leave, then the Turks would enter and leave. We lived on raisins. But that is not the main story. There were terrible events in our city. Much Armenian blood was shed; the Armenians were Christians. The Muslims called for war against all Christians. During such pogroms, the Jews also locked themselves inside their homes and placed large stones beside the doors.”

“It is true that the riots were directed only against Christians, but wealthy Jews were also attacked and sometimes killed, simply for the purpose of robbery. I would see Armenian bodies lying in the streets, as numerous as flies. I will never forget it.”

“My father, who was a silversmith, would travel to the villages to sell his wares. In one village he had a room in the home of a Christian woman who had a daughter named Narkis. They were afraid to live in the village among Muslims. My parents gave them my mother’s and my sister’s clothes. They disguised themselves and came to live with us. One day the Arabs announced to the Jews: ‘Enough. We have finished off all the Armenians. You are free to take their property.’ When the village woman heard that the pogroms were over, she hurried back to the village to retrieve her belongings. Although my parents asked her to wait, she refused. She left only the girl behind. The woman was killed immediately. Narkis stayed with us, like our own daughter. And it was not only us. Many Jews saved Christians.”

“When things finally became quiet, a Christian professor appeared. I don’t remember exactly who he was, but we called him ‘Professor.’ He gathered all the refugees, and my father handed Narkis over to him.”

“Two or three years passed. Suddenly a Turkish officer came to the city. He began asking everyone where the Jewish man named Tzadik lived — that was my father’s name. My father heard about it and kept silent. One day the officer came to our workshop and asked, ‘Are you the Jew Tzadik?’ My father saw a Muslim and became terribly frightened. Before he had time to think, the officer threw his arms around his neck, kissed and embraced him, cried, and kissed my father’s beard. ‘I have come in Narkis’s name. She has not forgotten you. We got married.’ Yes, that is it: a Muslim had married a Christian.”

200 Meters from “Ammunition Hill”

“In the Land of Israel? We feel at home. It has already been forty years. But we suffered a great deal. Our neighborhood was always in danger. After all, we are only 200 meters from Ammunition Hill. That is how I lost my son. He was nine years old. One day, during the War of Independence, he stepped on a shell. Right here, somewhere in the area. I found one of his hands in one place and a leg in another. He is buried in Sanhedria. That is how it is — may there only be true peace.”

The father and son continued weaving silver wire into ornaments for Ashkenazi Torah scrolls — crowns and finials — and for Sephardi scrolls, an elaborate silver covering for the wooden cases. They also made ornaments for women and household objects. “The Prime Minister ordered gifts from us before traveling abroad, and we made these map holders,” the son says. “The decorations and the filigree are created according to the imagination, without a pattern.”

The stories, however, are according to reality…