Photographed in Yemen in August 1992 and September 1993
"Growing up, I heard many stories and descriptions - mostly
loving - about Yemen, where my ancestors had lived for over two millenia. And so,
anticipating my first trip to Yemen, I was almost desperately curious to discover
for myself the country that nurtured my parents and the Israeli Yemenite community
in which I was raised. In particular, I wanted to discover what it was about the
country that gave Yemenite Jewry its uniqueness among Jews. Almost immediately after
landing, I began searching for familiar customs and dress among the tiny Jewish
community, which is centered in northern Yemen. To my surprise, and relief, nothing
seems to have changed from my parents time, except for four-wheel vehicles on a
few roads. People in the villages still live as they did fifty years ago, when my
parents left the country - with no running water or electricity.
The people of Yemen are very hospitable, but meeting with the Jews is especially
heartwarming. The visitor is greeted with smiling eyes, kisses on cheeks, shoulders
and hands, and above all by invitations to visit their homes for meals. Muslims
and Jews wear the same traditional dress, but Jewish men are still easily identified
by their sidelocks, or simonim (signs, as Yemenite Jews call them). It is hard to
understand how such a small community - devoid of leadership and residing within
an orthodox Muslim world - is able to cling to its religiosity and withstand the
enormous pressure of assimilation. The key to maintaining a Jewish identity is education
- children begin studying aleph-bet and Torah at an early age.
The high point of my trip was my 'return' to my father's village. My surname - Ozeri
- comes from this village's name, Bani Ozer (sons of Ozer). The landscape is awesome,
vast and open. Valleys are visible from the stone houses perched on the mountain
cliffs. A very old man who remembered my father showed me the blacksmith shop my
father had owned - still intact. A crowd quickly gathered around me, staring unabashedly
in disbelief. Were they wondering how I could appear so different from them? One
young man, who could actually read a little English, refused to believe I was only
one generation removed from Yemen. And so I had to show him my American passport,
bearing the name "Ozeri." If he could have examined my heart, he would have seen
that I was closer to Yemen than any passport could ever prove."
