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In My Grandparents' Kitchen- Yemen, Part I

  • levininbal
  • Jun 24, 2021
  • 5 min read

Updated: Jun 28, 2021



It is a rainy Friday morning in Brooklyn and I am trying to get through to my mother on Facetime. Fridays are Facetime rush days for my mother, all her children try to reach her before she brings in Shabbat in Israel, 8 hours before her children on the East coast.


"She is probably on the phone with her grandchildren", I remind myself. "They always seem to get priority", I mutter under my breath with a good humored chuckle.


The familiar Facetime jingle rings rhythmically. I stare at my reflection on the screen and adjust my hair and makeup accordingly while I wait for my mother to pick up,


After the third try, she finally answers my call from her parents' kitchen in Netanya.


I greet my mother as usual (tell her hello, ask her how she is doing, apologize for whatever it is I did the night before, the typical peace offerings the 6th child out of 9 does to keep a clean record with her mother).


She says hello back, asks me how my morning has been. She comments that she likes my hair the length that it is (read: please don't cut it short again), asks me if I am bothering any siblings (I usually am) and laughs at my witty responses to all her questions. I love that I can make her laugh so hard, she has to hold her head in her hand as it shakes from the giggles.


My mother props the phone against the kitchen wall that lies behind the sink. This way, she can talk to me as she washes the dishes and tidies up her parent’s house.


Behind her, I see my grandparents’ small kitchen.


It looks as if it was taken from a 1940’s home magazine. As if time moved on, but the kitchen did not get the memo.

A modest oven roughly the size of a mini fridge stands bashfully in the corner. On each small stove top, lays ancient tin pots, varying in size. They must be at least 20 years old, as I remember seeing those same pots in pictures of my grandparents decades ago.

On the counter to the left of where my mother stands is a silver radio, the kind that requires batteries and amplifies the static sound more than the music. A thick layer of dust lays on the top of the radio , indicating that it is more of a sentimental item than a useful one.

To the right sits a white fridge that has seen better days. Although I cannot see inside it, I know that delicious, home cooked Yemenite food line the white barred shelves inside.


After the formalities, I cut straight to the chase:


"I am writing a series of blog posts about Saba and Savta's life in Yemen and the story of how they came to Israel", I explain to my mother. I jump right into the questions with a sense of urgency.


My mother notices this right away.


"Can we do this on Sunday please? What is the rush?", she asks.


My heart clenches, a wave of anxiety rushes over me at the thought of pushing this off.


My grandmother passed away a year ago and my grandfather's health is is not what it used to be. With COVID preventing mine and my siblings' biyearly trips to my Israel (the only time we get to see our grandparents), I feel like time is slipping away and I do not know much longer I have with my grandfather.


I don't tell this to my mother though, opting to strike a deal instead :

"Well, can I just ask you a few factual questions, about geography, housing, the weather there?", I offer.


My mother agrees to the compromise with a begrudging sigh. She knows by now that I am stubborn and won't give in so easily. Honestly though, she only has herself to blame. I 100% inherited my stubborn nature from her and my grandmother.


My grandfather and grandmother (whom I call Saba and Savta respectively) both grew up in Yemen in the 1930's. They immigrated to Israel with 45,000 other Jews from Yemen in a historical operation known as Operation Magic Carpet (or On The Wings Of Eagles).


The next few blog posts are a documentation of a series of interviews I conducted with my grandfather, mother and various aunts and uncles. They tell the story of my grandparents- a story of beautiful perseverance despite ugly adversity, of deep faith despite immense loss.


My grandparents are not the only Jews who immigrated from Yemen to Israel. And after doing extensive research on Yemenite Jews, I can safely report that I am certainly not the first person who set out to record the history of the Yemenite Jews.


Why then should I tell their story? What distinguishes my words from the others written before me?


When I set out to document and write this story, I asked myself that question often.


The answer came to me when I was in the middle of my second interview with my grandfather.

I had asked him a technical question about the school houses in the town he grew up in. He answered the technical question (stay tuned for the answer), but peppered in his answer were personal memories, anecdotes, and I am almost certain I saw tears in his eyes.


This happened at some point during every one of my interviews. I have read many books and articles about Yemen and the Jews that lived there, and much of the information my grandfather shared with me was similar to what I had read. Yet, hearing the encounters straight from my grandfather struck a cord within me, almost as if I was experiencing the memories myself. The people in my grandfather's answer are not just vague names from a different era or people listed in a history book, they are my Saba and Savta, the very people who birthed my mother and who in turn birthed me.


I believe my grandfather's answers were unique because he was telling the story, not to a news reporter or a historian, but to his grand daughter. And in doing that, he was not just answering my questions, he was connecting with me, linking his generation with mine, intertwining us together in the beautiful tapestry that is our family.


I realized then that what sets apart my grandparents' story from any other story from that time and place is that their grand daughter is the narrator.


I am ecstatic that I have the platform and opportunity to tell my grandparents' story to the world.

It is the greatest honor to use my loud voice to amplify the shy, humble voices of my grandparents.


I chose to record the interviews and all the data I collected in a story format, so you can see the spunky dynamic and unique relationship I have with my Savta, Saba, mother, aunts, uncles and siblings all people who have contributed immensely to this series.


Back to my Facetime call with my mother, I take a deep breath, collect my thoughts and dive right into the rapid fire questions I have lined up.


As my mother begins to answer over the sounds of running water and clanking dishes, I feel as if I am transported back in time. . .




 
 
 

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