Sephardi and Mizrahi Women Write about Their Lives
Editors' Introduction

In her review of Sephardic American Voices, an extensive new anthology, Rachel Amado Bortnick mentions a Turkish immigrant relative who referred to Sephardi Jews like herself as los muestros, our own, and Ashkenazi Jews as los Judios, the Jews. This perception that places Ashkenazim at the center of a Jewish universe in which Sephardim are a distantly orbiting planet, infuses our images of Jewish identity. What will become clear as you read the material collected here and explore the richness of Sephardi and Mizrahi culture, tradition and history, is how much the prevailing misconceptions limit our understanding of Jewishness. Jewish culture and our connections to other peoples are more complex and intricately layered than many of us have ever imagined.

Shoshana Simons writes of her Turkish grandmother's skill as a weaver and of the colorful yarns her Nona used to repair Oriental carpets. "Sephardic culture is not unlike those carpets," Simons tells us. "New threads are woven into the old fabric, continuing the design while embellishing it."

Throughout this special issue of Bridges, the threads of story, memory, tradition, political identity and culture are woven into a texture reflecting a remarkable range of Jewish women's experience.

In the past decade, writings by and about Sephardim and Mizrahim have taken a significant place at the table of Jewish literary and cultural knowledge. Though, as Rachel Bortnick points out, there is not a shortage of Sephardic women writers, their work is not widely accessible and this is the first collection we know of that is specifically devoted to Sephardi and Mizrahi women's writing. The contributors to this issue are women whose Jewish families are from the Balkans, Egypt, Greece, India, Iraq, Israel, Kurdistan, Libya, Morocco, Yemen, and Turkey. Along with the poetry, personal essays, and fiction, we include Loolwa Khazzoom and Shosh Madmoni's reports from the first feminist Mizrahi conference, uncovering some of the political issues between Ashkenazi and Mizrahi feminists, and issues among Mizrahi women as well.

Some definitions: Mizrahi--eastern in Hebrew--is used to describe people descended from Jewish communities that never left the Middle East and North Africa in the course of Jewish history. Their home language was usually Arabic or Judeo-Arabic and many aspects of their culture closer to their Arab neighbors than to Ashkenazi Jews. The adjective Sephardi is the term that derives from Sephard, the Hebrew word for Spain, representing those descendants of the Jewish community that flourished in Spain or Portugal for hundreds of years until the Catholic Inquisition and expulsion of the Jews in 1492. This community was dispersed and settled primarily in the Ottoman Empire, especially in Morocco, Turkey and Greece. Ladino, the medieval Judeo-Spanish language they carried with them, was still spoken in the families of many of the women writing here.

There are other, ancient, Jewish communities that are neither Ashkenazi, Sephardi, nor Mizrahi. Though some Ethiopian, Italian, Greek, and Indian Jewish communities trace their lineage to those lands for more than a thousand years, their histories are tied in complicated ways to the other Mediterranean and Middle Eastern Jews.

Deb and Sarah's work as co-editors began almost two years ago in a series of weekly on-line chats. Caucusing in what we dubbed the "Boreka Room," we established themes we wanted the issue to reflect--cultural complexity, racism, food, lesbians, among others--and talked about our relationship to the material. It was in this way that we began to shape this special issue and learn each other's stories. It was four months after this process began that we met in person for the first time.

Sarah: I became engaged in Sephardic culture when I lived in Seattle in the early eighties, through friends who'd grown up in the Sephardic community. Both sides of my friend Serena's family-- the branch from Turkey and the branch from Rhodes--adopted me as a surrogate family member, inviting me to share holiday dinners and traditions. Her Turkish grandmother taught me how to prepare borekas and biscocchio, loaned me records of Ladino Romanzas that I played over and over until I memorized the words. My earliest Israeli friends were also Sephardic, which provided my point of entry into Jewish Israeli culture.

I've taken a careful look at my affinity with Sephardi and Mizrahi Jewish culture, the sense of familiarity and authenticity I experience, the feeling that the Ashkenazi shoe never quite fit. My appearance has led people to assume repeatedly over the years that I am Sephardic. That my mother Gloria was adopted from a Jewish orphanage in New York City as a toddler in 1930--as was one of my Seattle friends' Sephardic father--and knows nothing of her family of origin has left open a window of possibility. I tend to see myself as a woman of non-specific Mediterranean identity, sand sifting through my bones.

But I want to be conscious of not appropriating a culture that resonates with me to answer the mysteries of my own identity. I feel more comfortable as a respectful cousin committed to the visibility of Sephardi and Mizrahi Jewish culture and challenging Ashkenazi assumptions about what Jewishness looks and sounds and tastes like.

Debra: I can still hear my grandma Regina Habib Crespin (after whom I'm named), yelling to my grandpa Sam, "Ma, shallah!" which literally is an invocation in the name of Allah, here used to exclaim a note of joy in day-to-day life. I remember her singing to me: Durme, Durme, sleep, sleep, that lovely ancient Romanza sung in Ladino that was transported from Spain over to Turkey where my grandmother grew up. My earliest musical recollections are listening to my grandparents, scratchy records of spirited Greek and Turkish instrumentals and dance music. My Sephardic relatives were always big hits at Ashkenazi weddings, with their raised arms and Greek dance steps, their joie de vivre.

I grew up with the best of both Jewish worlds: half Sephardi/half Ashkenazi, yet most of what I felt as a Jew was influenced by Sephardic culture, food, tradition, memory. Growing up, my family exclusively attended Sephardic services during the High Holy Days. (It took me the longest time to figure out that the service was in half Hebrew and half Ladino!) Trying to meld that knowledge of Sephardic culture within an Ashkenazi-based Jewish community was often confusing, painful and alienating. After all, eating borekas sure didn't seem Jewish to my secular Ashkenazi friends. There were big gaps; I truly felt like a minority within a minority. That sense of difference, of being different, ultimately strengthened my Jewish identity. I sought over the years to understand what being Sephardic meant, what being lesbian meant, how difference plays such a huge factor in human interaction and relations. I even steered my early academic work into the field of Sephardic studies; my musical leanings have focused on Balkan music, influenced by Arabic melodies of my childhood, and Romanzas.

Working on this special issue with Sarah, Clare and the many Sephardi and Mizrahi writers and artists has been especially gratifying and sweet. I hope it brings a smile, some heart connection, and deep feeling for all of us trying to connect with our historic roots. And I dedicate this to my grandmother in particular, whose gravestone states, "Querida Nuestra Madre"--our beloved mother. Finally, a toast from my grandpa Sam: "Saludas y pasetas y tiempo para gustarlos" -- health, money, and time to enjoy it!