The Last Jew of Kabul

By Heidi Kingstone

Kabul, June 4th, 2007

I cannot recall the number of times I had walked down Flower Street in search of the famous and final synagogue in Kabul. I had looked for some kind of indication that there had once been a Jewish community here. No Afghan I asked had a clue what I was talking about even when I had to ask about a Jewish mosque when all other ideas failed.

After months of irregular trawling, I found an Afghan translator who knew where it was and took me to it. I would never have found it despite what became glaringly obvious was a synagogue. One floor above if you looked up there was a concrete lattice work of Jewish stars.

Zablon Simantov wasn’t in, so I left a note and returned a few days later with Brian from Oklahoma, someone i had met recently in Kabul and was sweet enough to ferry me about. After we knocked Simantov threw the keys to the padlocked door down to his neighbor, who let us into the dilapidated and depressing wreck that serves as both his home and temple. I’m not sure who was in worse shape the building or Afghanistan’s last remaining Jew.

So Brian and I found our way upstairs, past the sad ruins and ruminations, and was met by the undershirt-wearing grizzled Simantov, who sat us in his reception room where there was a lonely box of matzohs on the windowsill, and offered us nuts and raisons, tea and pistachios that were possibly as old as he was, and he went back to the kitchen to cook, I assume. Every so often there was a bowl of water thrown from the window into the courtyard accompanying a great deal of noise.

It was about this time while Brian and I tried to amuse ourselves that he told me I was the first Jew he had met, or I’m pretty sure that’s what he said, and now he had met two of us although I was certainly hoping he saw no parallel between us.

I’m not sure what Simantov did for the 45-minutes he kept us waiting before he put on his shalwar kameez (there is actually an afghan name which i will try to find out) and offered us Afghan green tea, very little conversation as he does not speak English and we hadn’t brought a translator. The place is sad, and like the rest of the country, not much more than a pile of rubbish, dirt hanging everywhere, with little symbols of Judaism dispersed throughout; he put his keppah on when he served tea and ate nuts and stale chocolate.

I’m not sure which was more uncomfortable for me sandwiched as I was between a less than sophisticated security person from Oklahoma who had little idea of Afghan cultural sensitivities, or this last representation of the Jewish faith, who confirmed every awful stereotype. But we had fun looking at the dozens and dozens of mangy looking calling cards that journalists and academics from around the world had left after making their pilgrammage.

After what seemed like hours of strangulated conversation, we finally got to see the synagogue, locked up, and no longer in use. Where the torahs are usually kept there was an old pile of scattered books, and not much else.

In the middle from where the prayers are said there was a locked up box for donations to the synagogue. He asked if I would put some money in, which I did. Then he asked how much I donated. As a secular Jew with no religious leanings, who knows more hymns than Jewish prayers, I felt he was lucky to get the $40.00 out of me that I had put in the box. He was shamed. “But you’re Jewish,” he exclaimed, and then asked me for money for himself. Embarrassed, I handed him another $20.00, and he hit Brian up for $20.00 more.

You should give me $200 or $300. A Russian journalist came with a huge bottle of vodka that cost that much, he chided me, not only was I a bad Jew but worse, I was cheap. Oh, god, another stereotype. My friend from Oklahoma then started with his useful insights about how Jews are tight with money.

It was time to leave as my patience was wearing thin. Mr Simantov had a final request. I needed to find him some Johnnie Walker Black Label. Great, no problem in a Muslim country in which alcohol is illegal. It can easily be found, and he instructed me to go to one of the embassies to get it, not so easy if you’re not an embassy employee or don’t have diplomatic contacts you feel you can ask.

At least it wasn’t Johnnie Walker Blue Label.

He had to make do with whatever brand of Scotch a friend contributed to this worthy cause. I called him and told him I would leave the bottle wrapped up with his neighbor, which I did. Presumably, when he awakens from his stupor, maybe then he’ll call to complain about the brand.

Heidi Kingstone is a London based journalist who writes for several publications including the Jerusalem Report.