By the end of May 1941, my family was enjoying our evenings up on the roof since the heat of the summer months was upon us. My sisters and I usually played with dominoes. Since I was only three and Yedida was only four, we didn’t understand the real rules of playing with the tiles, though Berta did, who was six. Instead, we laid them out in long lines and pretended we were building railroads like our father did. But for the last few nights, our sense of play was muted by worried looks between our parents. Father had also told us yesterday that we couldn’t go out and play; we had to stay in our rooms. We had wanted to go with Mother to buy treats for Shavuot but couldn’t. In fact, Mother had not left the house and neither had Father gone to work. We thought it was because of our holiday coming. We would all go to the synagogue, but we had not done that either. We had only eaten a light meal, and Father had offered prayers. So, on the evening of June 1st, I wondered why we had celebrated a holiday alone and why no one wanted to play with me. We were put to bed early but none of us could sleep. We watched the stars as usual, trying to make patterns from the shapes of their lights. It was then that Berta sat up in her bed and said, “Father, why is the sky orange down by the center of the city?”

Father and Mother immediately jumped out of their beds and stood near the edge of the roof, facing the downtown area of Baghdad. We all got up to stand with them and look. Normally, Father would have told us to get back to our beds, but he didn’t tonight. His eyes were transfixed on the glow emanating from the city’s central district where the Jewish and Muslim communities abutted each other. As we watched the glow crept toward us, spreading from block to block. On the night wind, we caught a faint wailing cry welling up from where we saw the orange light. Mixed with that wail were crashes and booms. Mother began to weep, and Father’s jaw was clenched tight as he held onto Mother. As we watched the orange glow expand, we could see smoke against the growing light and an occasional lick of flame. The smell of burning wood was on the wind. Father gathered Berta, Yedida, and me, along with my baby brother Yeftah, who was already there whimpering, into our parent’s big bed with him and Mother. We clung to each other as we watched the fires and destruction creep closer hour by hour into the long night.

“That must be Sooq Ha-rage and Sooq Le-sfa-feer,” Father said, “the markets.”

After awhile, we could hear screams and distinct curses. “They’ve come to Bab-el-shar-gee and Taht-el-takya,” Father whispered. These were wealthy Jewish neighborhoods. Father held us tighter and began to pray softly. I was afraid, but I wasn’t sure of what exactly. All I could see was that this orange glow was alive and growing and it brought pain. I squeezed closer to my father and my sisters. Around two o’clock, crashing and pounding stopped and all we could hear was the soft wail the seemed to come from everywhere now. After a little while, my parents’ muscles seemed to relax and I fell asleep. I woke the next morning to screams and renewed crashing in the streets nearby. The destruction in the city was clearly visible now. We could see people struggling with men wielding knives. We saw Jews on faraway rooftops jumping from their roofs to their Arab neighbors’ roofs. Their neighbors quickly ushered them inside where they could hide.

The British army, which had now taken control of Iraq by then, remained just outside of Baghdad and was totally disengaged allowing the atrocities against the Jews to continue unabated.

The wave of destruction continued until about mid-afternoon. It was then that the Kurdish division of the military, ordered by the Regent, moved into the city, sweeping the neighborhoods, rounding up those responsible for this pogrom. By about two o’clock, Kurdish troops were beginning to take up posts in front of prominent Jewish homes. One soldier was stationed in front of our own door.

Aftermath

By Sunday afternoon, there were 180 Jews dead, 240 children orphaned, and 2,120 wounded. Countless numbers of women and girls had been raped and kidnapped. Babies had been disemboweled before their parents’ eyes. Rioters broke into marked Jewish-owned stores, especially those on Shorja Street, looting and destroying. Two thousand homes had been plundered and 2,375 shops had been looted. The property damage was estimated at £3 to £3.5 million. The Jews weren’t permitted to bury their dead themselves. The dead were collected by the government, and eventually, all were buried in one mass grave. The Iraqi government severed all diplomatic ties with Germany. Al-Sab’awi was arrested and hanged on July 20,1941. But no apology was ever made to the Jews who had been terrorized. Neither was any restitution given for property loss or recompense for loss of life.

Hussayni fled to Berlin, where he met with Hitler himself, and continued to incite Arabs to persecute Jews, only returning to the Middle East after World War II. Later, during the Israeli War of Independence in 1948, it was he who would call on the Palestinians to leave their homes and join the Arab forces “to re-conquer it back and finish the Jews.”

This marked the genesis of the Palestinian refugee saga.

However, I really have to take issue with his characterization of the Ashkenazi nusach/niggunim on Yom Kippur. Perhaps it’s different in Israel (have not spent Yamim Noraim there in many years), but here in New England, the niggunim are a mix of solemn and joyous, even triumphal. But really never sad.

Think of the popular (at least in North America) niggun for Ein Kitzva or Mar’eh Kohen. These are quite fun nigunnim. Or think of the traditional niggunim for Hayom Te’atzmenu, Ki Anu Am’cha or even Ashamnu-Bagadnu (the vidduy/confession!!). These simply are not sad tunes. I would argue that even the traditional tune for Unetaneh Tokef is not more subdued than sad. I could go on and on. The only real exception to this pattern is the Kol Nidrei, which could indeed be said to be a mournful tune. So, I just think the premise for this blog is way off.

I don’t know about the conclusion drawn from the prayerbook differences. I just can’t even fathom the amount of the Jews that left Arab countries. Entire communites just left, in the range of 90% and above left. With the threat of Hitler and Stalin, that many Jews didn’t leave Europe, not even close. Of course, the British Mandate of Palestine then wasn’t quite as easy to get to as the newly-formed Israel when the Jews left Arab countries.
How do you explain this? Was is just a recent deterioration? Israel could’ve had an airlift from the US, but few would have come. Even today, with organization trying to promote it, few Zionist, Orthodox American Jews are going.
Religious fervor does not seem to explain the vast exodus of Jews from Arab countries.
From accounts I’ve read, it might explain the Yemenite Jews, yet in Yemen, as I understand it, Jews were treated worse than in other Arab countries were certainly less (secularly) educated and integrated.
Jewish immigrants from Iraq and Morocco often bemoaned their loss of status, going from white-collar to blue-collar jobs.
Also, I note, not all of the Jews from Arab countries came to Israel, some went elsewhere. Many Jews from North African countries went to France, as those countries had formerly been French colonies.

This sentence was not complete:
The Zohar was produced in Christian Spain, so on that score – that anti-goy liturgy was produced mostly under the Christian milieu [- you are still correct.]

-e

I’ve been lurking here for a while, and love your site and shout-out to my liturgy on Kippur. But on the score of anti-Goy liturgy being solely the province of Ashkenazim, you are quite off-base. You are, however, correct in your assertion that most anti-Goy liturgy arose in response to Christianity.

1) You may remember that Sepharadim of every stripe say the words “Adonai ‘imakhem!” and respond “Yebharekhekha Adonai!” before saying the berakhot of the Torah once called up for an ‘alia. This quote from Ruth was instituted in Geonic times because it was commonplace for Christians to greet folk like so: “Yebharekhekha B’shem Ha’ab HaBen weRuakh Haqqodesh.” (Source for this is one of Sherira or Se’adya Gaon’s manuscripts, which I no longer have on me.)

2) The “Berikh Shemeh”, a paragraph from the Zohar related to Perashath Wayaq’hel, said, if I recall correctly, by both Sepharadim and Ashkenazim after opening the Hekhal (or Aron, if you prefer) says explicitly: “La ‘al enash rahhissnah, weLah ‘al Bar Elahin samikhna.” The Zohar was produced in Christian Spain, so on that score – that anti-goy liturgy was produced mostly under the Christian milieu

3) The original text of ‘Alenu, the prayer attributed to the Amorah, Rab, which is said in the 3amida of the High Holidays musaf and at the conclusion of the daily prayer everyday, has the phrase ‘SheHem Mishtahhawim LaHebhel waRiq, uMithpalelim l’El Loh Yoshi’ah’. This was actually stripped by the Ashkenazim to avoid Christian ire. It is unclear to me whether Rab was referring specifically to Christianity here, but that would not be a bad guess.

Full disclosure: I was born and raised in the Aleppian-Jewish community in Brooklyn, with grandparents, uncles, and numerous relations still living in my parents hometown of Istanbul – so I know a thing or two about going back to the old country in the positive light which you mentioned, as well as a little about the development of different liturgies. (Brooklyn and Istanbul truly are like night and day.)

Commenter David Bernstein I suspect is correct. It is a shame history turned out the way it did. But attempts to paint Ashkenazic and Sephardic Jewish history with the same brush should be condemned, and I am glad that Gershom has done so.