Planting Jewish roots in Siberia

Rabbi S. Zalmen Zaklos at site of $2.5 million synagogue being built in Novosibirsk, Siberia.

By Ellen Harris
Cleveland Jewish News

In early May, I was one of seven Jewish journalists from the U.S., Canada and England invited to Russia by Chabad. The purpose was to see how the Federation of Jewish Communities of the CIS, a Chabad-dominated organization, is helping Jews in the former Soviet Union awaken to their religious roots. Following are some of my experiences in Siberia, Moscow, and St. Petersburg.

Rabbi Shneur Zalmen Zaklos, 29, chuckles that his job in Novosibirsk, Siberia, is the result of a direct message from G-d. About five years ago, the Lubavitch rabbi, then residing in Israel, decided that he'd like a posting in the former Soviet Union. He wanted to help Jews get in touch with their faith after decades of religious suppression.

Over Shabbat luncheon in his apartment in Novosibirsk, Zalmen relates that he got a call from Beryl Lazar, chief rabbi of Russia, telling him there was an opening in the Siberian capital. Located about 2,000 miles east of Moscow, Novosibirsk endures temperatures as low as 50 degrees below zero.

"Siberia? Why would anyone want to go to Siberia?" the Israeli-born Zalmen asked Lazar, envisioning a frozen wasteland dotted with ice huts.

A two-week visit to Novosibirsk reinforced his decision. Although Zalmen and his wife, Miriam, met a handful of Jews who lived in the city, "there's no real synagogue, no congregation, no Jewish community," the couple told each other. "It's not for us."

The day before the pair was scheduled to return to Israel, Zalmen went to the city's tiny shul to return a siddur (prayer book). The rabbi was horrified when he opened the door. Vandals had destroyed it, trashing the furniture, spraying Nazi graffiti on the walls, tearing up the Torah scrolls and littering the floor with ripped holy books and tallitot (prayer shawls.)

Furious, Zalmen called Lazar in Moscow for advice. "I'm calling the media," the chief rabbi replied. "We have to call attention to it. It shouldn't happen again." Television and radio crews swiftly arrived at the scene, and asked Zalmen if he was the rabbi of Novosibirsk.

At home in Novosibirsk are, Rabbi Zalmen, his wife, Miriam and their children.

"I said, 'yes.' What choice did I have?" relates Zalmen, stretching out his arms and turning his palms upward.

That evening, the rabbi's face and his new title were splashed on TV screens across the former Soviet Union. "I guess we're staying," he told his wife. To this day, Zalmen says it was an act of Divine providence.

Less than five years after moving to Novosibirsk, the rabbi has built up a whole Jewish community here. Starting from the handful of Jews who asked him to come to the city, he has attracted some 2,000 families who had been told they were Jewish, but never understood what it meant. Based on the numbers that have already come forward, Zalmen estimates there are probably 25,000 Jews in the area.

The hub of his activities is the makeshift synagogue and community center, actually a warren of rooms located on the second floor of a small, unkempt office building in the center of the city.

When I attend Sabbath morning services, a security guard waves me past the sparsely furnished synagogue, where some 25 men and boys are davening (praying). I enter the sunny, plant-lined dining hall, separated by a thin curtain from the synagogue, which serves as the women's section.

Maria Matveevitch, an English teacher who belongs to the congregation, rushes over and greets me warmly. After services, she introduces me to her husband. Over bowls of cholent and grilled tomato sandwiches, the first of many delicious meals I eat at the synagogue, the couple tells me their story.

Russian soldiers at Novosibirsk's May 9th Victory Day parade commemorating Russia's victory over the Nazis.

Maria, 62, is a cheerful, buxom woman who has lived her whole life in Novosibirsk. Like so many of the estimated 70,000 Jews who live in the vast Siberia region, Maria's family had moved here from Ukraine in the early 1900s to escape pogroms against Jews. She grew up under communist rule "knowing I was Jewish, but nothing else. It's not something you discussed with anyone."

After her husband died a few years ago, "something stirred in my heart," Maria says, and she began attending synagogue. There she met her second husband, Naum, a successful builder. Now the two regularly attend services and synagogue programs.

Unlike his wife, Naum, in his late 70s, says, "I never made a secret of being Jewish." He even attended clandestine services in his neighborhood.

Maria, however, is still haunted by memories of antisemitism. "They insulted you and called you names. It's not good to be a Jew in Russia." Still, she admits, times have changed.

Maria is proud her granddaughter is attending the community's Jewish day school. "I persuaded her parents to send her there."

The rabbi's success in attracting people like Maria and Naum and building up Novosibirsk's Jewish community is not unique. All through the former Soviet Union, some 200 Chabad rabbis have fanned out to cities across Russia, Armenia, Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan and 11 other republics. These rabbis have uprooted their own families to rekindle interest in Judaism among others. Over 2 million Jews still live in the FSU, claim Chabad officials, and they are determined to reach these Jews before assimilation and indifference decimate their numbers. Often, the centers the rabbis establish are the only Jewish institutions in town.

After services, I walk with the rabbi to his home, where his wife, Miriam, 26, is waiting with another delicious Shabbat lunch. Afterward, another English teacher comes to walk me back to the hotel, and we wander through the central city. Although it is a sunny day, with temperatures in the 50s, Oksana warns me the temperature could change any moment.

Seniors applaud musical program at Chabad's St. Petersburg soup kitchen.

The streets and underground passages are crammed with young people, many of them fashionably dressed. The shops are crowded with inexpensive clothing, cosmetics and food. We pass a New York Pizza restaurant, a Levi Strauss store, and Novosibirsk's major cultural attractions - museums, concert halls and the largest opera/ballet theater in Russia.

On the side streets, later, however, I see dilapidated buildings, rusting machinery, and barren land - a reminder that 80% of Novosibirsk's 1.8 million residents live below the poverty line.

The next day, I visit the Jewish day school, the pride and joy of the rabbi and Miriam, who oversees its Jewish curriculum. The school is representative of the way in which many Chabad rabbis work when Jewish residents invite them to town. Knowing the first priority is to reach out to other Jews, the new rabbi starts Jewish schools, reasoning that parents who might not want Jewish education themselves would wish it for their children. Gradually, he hopes to draw the parents' interest to Jewish thought and traditions.

The Zakloses opened a fully accredited school for students in grades K-11 about a year after they moved to Siberia.

"People thought we were crazy," Zalmen says. "They told us we'd get one, maybe two students." Instead, the school opened with 126 students. Tuition is free, thanks to funding from the Ohr Avner Fund and its Israeli philanthropist Lev Leviev.

In addition to high-quality education (Zalmen can afford to pay teachers twice the amount most teachers get in Novosibirsk), students get free meals, transportation and medical care. With rare exceptions, only students with Jewish mothers who are halachically Jewish may enter the school. Nearly half the students come from single-parent, impoverished homes, and many suffer from chronic illness, so the support services are critical.

Tatiana Rumer, center, hosts Jewish academicians at home near Novosibirsk.

Classes are small and held in airy, bright classrooms. The nursery schools, grammar and high school, with more than 150 enrolled, are considered among the best in the city. Classes are taught in Russian, English and Hebrew. The first class of 11 has already graduated and all are enrolled in university studies, says headmaster Efim Meyerovich Zingel. Two are in Israel, two entered religious institutions, and the others study in Russia, majoring in subjects like economics and business management.

The curriculum combines Jewish studies with secular subjects, says Miriam, who tries to infuse all subjects with Jewish teaching. For example, science students learn about both evolution and creationism, "but we show them what we believe, that creationism is the truth, not evolution."

On Sept. 1, 2000, a brand-new secondary school opened on land donated by the city, along with new facilities for the grammar school. The joyous occasion, with youngsters dressed in tuxedos and long dresses, was marred by a bomb threat. After the chief of the bomb squad checked out the building (it was a false alarm), he told the rabbi, "This is a beautiful school. I never told this to anyone else, but my wife and I are both Jewish, and we want to enroll our kids here."

In addition to his rabbinic duties, Zalmen oversees a staff of 70 people and an annual budget of $300,000. He supervises the operation of the synagogue, the schools, a summer camp, medical services, food distribution to the needy, community-wide celebrations of Jewish holidays that draw up to 1,000, a soup kitchen, and an emergency fund. He must also raise significant funds from the local community to support these activities.

His next big project is shepherding the new $2.5 million synagogue through the building process. Working with the Russian bureaucracy can be a nightmarish proposition, he says. "You need 50 signatures to get started, and everybody has to get paid. When you get all done with the building, you have to go through the process all over again" to get them to sign off.

Dany Belak, head of Chabad orphanage in Moscow, with some of "his 40 kids."

The foundation and some of the walls are already in place for the synagogue, which will be located on prime real estate in the center of Novosibirsk. After some persuasion by the rabbi and others, the city donated the land. "I told them the churches, all the other religions here have their own their building. We should have one too," says the rabbi. Both the city's mayor and his opponent in the last election are Jewish.

Rabbi Avraham Berkowitz, executive director of the Federation of Jewish Communities (FJC), the umbrella organization for Chabad activities, says the city also understood the need to keep affluent Jews from moving out of the area.

National politics also likely played a role in influencing the city's decision. President Vladimir Putin of Russia has met publicly with FJC officials, and, in general, has paved the way toward more favorable treatment of Jews.

Despite their pride in what they have accomplished, the Zakloses admit they are still overcoming the challenges of living in Siberia. Neither knew a word of Russian when they arrived, and they are still learning the language.

"The first year was the hardest," says Miriam, explaining the couple moved to Novosibirsk in the midst of a harsh Siberian winter. "I couldn't talk to anyone during the day, and I sat home alone a lot." Even so, the decision to move to Novosibirsk was ultimately hers, she says.

The couple has little trouble keeping kosher because Zalmen is a shochet (ritual slaughter) who can kill his own chickens, and fish and produce are abundant in Siberia. Still, Miriam longs for a kosher bakery where she can pick up ready-made cakes and bread.

The most difficult part of living in Novosibirsk, Miriam says, is not having another observant family nearby, or playmates for her children with a lifestyle similar to their own. When Miriam needs to use a mikvah (ritual bath), she must make the four-hour flight to Moscow and back. When Novosibirsk's new synagogue is completed, however, it will contain a mikvah and will be located, literally, in the couple's backyard.

Rabbi Avraham Berkowitz, executive director of Federation of Jewish Communities, at Moscow's Red Square.

Currently, the couple lives on the tenth floor of a shabby apartment building, a tough hike on Shabbat! Their three daughters, ages 5, 4, and 1, share a cramped bedroom, and their kitchen appliances have seen better days. In three months, the family will move to a spacious new apartment, with a family room, a guest suite and three balconies overlooking the new synagogue.

Even though their life will become more comfortable, Miriam and Zalman still "long for Israel. Our family, our roots, are there," says Miriam, who lived in Los Angeles as a child and speaks English and Hebrew with equal ease. The couple's children were all born in Israel, she says, where the health care is far superior to that in Russia.

"We have given up a lot to be in Novosibirsk," the couple declare, exchanging fond glances as they describe how much each other has contributed to the Jewish community here. There is no question they will remain in Siberia.

"In America, Chabad is (just) one more organization," says Zalmen. "Here, I am the rabbi of the whole community. All Jews are like brothers. We come and help them connect with their religion wherever we are needed, even if they live in Siberia."

Memorable visit to 'oasis of freedom'

On a chilly, snowy May afternoon (springtime is unpredictable in Siberia), Rabbi Shneur Zalmen Zaklos takes me past scenic forests and placid Obskoe More Lake to Akademgorodok, or "Academic Town." The pleasant, sprawling campus is the home of Novosibirsk State University, over 20 research centers, and several museums.

Russian Jewish veterans, wearing WWII combat medals, take part in Victory Day yahrzeit ceremony honoring millions who perished.

Communists built the town in the 1950s to foster scientific research, and many respected academicians still live and work there. At least 200, and perhaps many more, are Jewish, and we have come to visit some of them.

Tatiana Rumer, a pleasant-faced mathematician, welcomes me to her apartment and introduces me to a few of her friends, all members of her Torah study group. In fluent English, they explain why their families came to Siberia. Some Jews were active in the Russian Revolution, became communists, and moved here to be party workers. Other Jews resettled here for jobs, first working as engineers or laborers while the Trans-Siberian Railway was being built, then working in aircraft and heavy machinery industries.

About 50 years ago, leading Jewish physicists, chemists and other scientists joined the research facilities here. Later, brilliant Jewish students who were turned away at universities elsewhere flocked to Novosibirsk's academic centers.

Over a dessert table laden with pastries and fruit, Tatiana's friends - a professor of Soviet history, two physicists, an economist, and a chemist - say that for the most part, Akademgorodok remained relatively free of antisemitism during communist rule. It earned its reputation as an "oasis of freedom" for Jewish academicians.

Still, the Jews who worked and lived here seldom discussed their religion, even after the fall of communism. Many did not even realize they had Jewish colleagues and neighbors until they saw each other at a lecture series on Jewish topics. Some of them gravitated toward each other, and began studying Judaism in depth.

As evidence of how widely Judaism is accepted now, they tell me that Novosibirsk State University has begun offering a course in Judaism, and 20 of the 30 students enrolled are non-Jews.

"When I studied Judaism, I got the idea 'God exists,' which scientists don't usually believe," says Tatiana, whose Torah group is in its second year. Her friend, Helena Sheveleva, has delved deeply into the study of Jewish traditions. A respected teacher of the subject, she was featured on the cover of a Russian women's magazine last month because of her accomplishments.

"I felt I was a Jew all my life," says Anatoly Roitman, a professor of physics who is also a scholar of Yiddish. "But we were cut from the origins. It's very exciting that we can speak about such things again. Now, it's better to be a Jew."

Snapshot of Chabad

Federation of Jewish Communities (FJC), the umbrella organization of Chabad in the former Soviet Union, operates with an annual budget of $50 million, in addition to $80 million for capital projects. More than 15,000 students are enrolled in its schools and universities, located in 65 cities. Much of the funding for education comes from Israeli philanthropist Lev Leviev. U.S. philanthropist George Rohr underwrites the salaries and living expenses of over 200 rabbis who work in 13 countries.

Students in Chabad-sponsored St. Petersburg school learn first-hand about Russian history from Jewish veterans of WWII, pictured earlier.

FJC partners with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, the Jewish Agency and the Israeli government to offer programs, and recently opened a $12 million Jewish Community Center in Moscow, with Russian President Putin cutting the ribbon. The FJC operates its own publishing house, and sponsors soup kitchens, orphanages, senior welfare programs, and the Megen League, aimed at combating Messianic Judaism. The organization has sent 4,000 youth on birthright israel programs, and donates 200,000 tons of food to the Global Jewish Relief Network.

ABCs of Judaism

"In a country where religion has been dead for 20 years, there is much curiosity and great interest about Jewish holidays," notes Rabbi Beryl Lazar, chief rabbi of Russia who represents the Chabad-dominated Federation of Jewish Communities. He joins us for dinner in a richly paneled conference room in the Moscow Jewish Community Center.The challenge, however, is to find persons who will come forward and identify themselves as Jews, especially those ages 30-50.

"Maybe we reach 20%" he says. "We're still trying to figure out the trigger to make them feel connected."

Jews who have made aliyah have already made the link to their religion, says Lazar, 39. "Those who are left have become so assimilated that they haven't taken the first step toward Judaism. They've never stepped foot in a synagogue, bought a Jewish book, or lit Shabbat candles. We are dealing with the ABCs of Judaism ... and we have to act fast."

The rabbi acknowledges that Lubavitchers are often perceived as "pushy," but hopes "we stir something inside of them, even if they don't want to be associated with 'those crazy people.'"

Minefield of politics

In addition to Chabad, other Orthodox groups and the World Union for Progressive Judaism (WUPJ) have played a major part in establishing Jewish life in the FSU. WUPJ, a Reform organization, has far less money than Chabad, but maintains about 100 congregations in Russia, operates a successful youth movement similar to NFTY in the U.S., and sponsors leadership training for lay leaders and an academic program for professional Jewish communal workers. Native-born rabbis are serving in Moscow, Kiev and Minsk. Masorti (Conservative) has some activities centered in Moscow.

Jewish religious movements in Russia are divided into two mutually exclusive organizations. The Congress of Jewish Religious Organizations and Communities of Russia includes Orthodox-affiliated and Reform (WUPJ-affiliated) congregations; it is led by Rabbi Adolf Shaevich, Russia's longtime chief rabbi.

The Chabad-dominated Federation of Jewish Communities (FJC) is headed by Rabbi Beryl Lazar. He was elected in 2000 as an additional chief rabbi of Russia by a congress of mostly Lubavitcher rabbis, and recognized and accorded official status by the Putin government.

When Lazar was named chief rabbi, he and Shaevich accused each other of being imposters, according to news reports at the time. There was wide speculation that the Kremlin supported Lazar's appointment, diminishing Shaevich's position.

One of the reasons? Shaevich claimed that the government wanted to take power away from Vladimir Gusinsky, a media tycoon and outspoken leader of the Kremlin who was a secular leader in Shaevich's camp. Hours after Lazar's appointment, the public learned that Gusinsky had been arrested for stealing state property.

Yakov Tsukerman shows off AMI, oldest Jewish newspaper in Russia, funded by Cleveland's Jewish Community Federation.

Matters heated up more in 2000 when Rabbi Avraham Berkowitz, the executive director of FJC, went to a meeting at the Choral Synagogue in Moscow and was seized by thugs who tried to drown him in the synagogue's mikvah.

He escaped, and an investigation turned up no clear leads. Berkowitz says the attack was prompted by his religious or political foes.

In recent years, much of the conflict has subsided. However, attempts to join the factions together under one umbrella organization have failed.

Meeting with the editor

During a panel discussion held in St. Petersburg's magnificent Choral Synagogue, I meet Yakov Tsukerman, 59, editor and founder of the oldest Jewish newspaper in Russia. Much to my surprise, I learn that his major source of funding is the Jewish Community Federation of Cleveland, which has devoted significant funding and effort to St. Petersburg through its partnership with the Russian city.

Tsukerman's 14-year-old paper, titled AMI ("My People'), has a circulation of 15,000. It publishes 24 issues a year, includes national and local news, a page devoted to Hillel activities, and a calendar of Jewish events.

A native of St. Petersburg and former professor of physics, Tsukerman helped others practice their religion underground during the communist years. He was arrested several times, once in the courtyard of the synagogue in which we are seated. Then he was taken to prison and beaten.

The first three issues of Tsukerman's paper were censored by the government, but "now there is no master but me."

(With reports from JTA and the Jewish Community Federation of Cleveland)

Photos: Ellen Harris