The identical Soviet buildings that welcome visitors to Kishinev, the capital of Moldova, threaten to swallow you into the monotonous world created by communism. Long lines of apartment blocks, stretching for kilometers all the way from the airport, symbolize more than anything the world that awaits visitors.
One quickly learns that what characterizes these areas is the huge gap between the external appearance and what's on the inside. On the one hand, the first impression of Kishinev doesn't reflect the unique beauty that awaits you in the city center, where many beautiful buildings from the 19th century remain. On the other hand, the meticulous impression of its citizens does not reflect the poverty that many of them live in.
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I traveled in February for a short visit to Kishinev and Odessa, as part of a tour organized by the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, also known as the Joint or the JDC, marking 30 years since the fall of the Iron Curtain and its return to activity in areas of the former USSR. The experience in these places is complex, and for a Western Israeli it's hard to digest. Classic architecture hiding grave poverty, depressing Soviet apartment blocks filled with happy people, and modern times that bring many new challenges.
It's a visit that is hard to digest for someone used to living in freedom, in a market economy with a capitalistic world view. Everything hurts in Kishinev, and the trauma is everywhere. Memorials and plaques for victims are scattered throughout the city, and Kishinev has many victims. The pogroms known as the Storms of the Negev in the 19th century, victims of the Second World War and the Holocaust, heroes of the Soviet era on the one hand and victims of the Soviet regime on the other. Each square with its own trauma.
The 1990s, seen in the West as an era of thriving economic and cultural growth, an era of new technologies, are looked back at painfully here. Whoever is asked about those days, speaks of a constant feeling of hunger and want. The communist system crashed overnight, and the economic and organizational infrastructure of the republic completely collapsed. Factories that were built as part of grandiose industrial plans of the central regime in Moscow lost their purpose and were shut. People were left with literally nothing, and the recovery was long and hard.
Add to that a grave demographic crisis that has affected the Jewish residents of Moldova. Since the 1990s, anyone who could leave the country did so. Along with the tens of thousands of Jews who came to Israel, hundreds of thousands of Molodvians became work migrants in western Europe. In 1990, some 4.4 million people lived here, including 65,000 Jews. Today there are only 2.6 million people, and 11,000 Jews, many of them elderly who are left without support.
The coronavirus pandemic hit Moldova on March 7th. So far 12,000 people have contracted the virus, and the number of fatalities has hit 398. Since much of the country's revenue comes from work migrants who left for western Europe, the economic crisis has been severe: hundreds of thousands returned to the country and created an extra burden on the already overwhelmed systems.
Ella Bolbotsano, 56, the JDC's representative in Moldova, is responsible for two large centers of the organization in Kishinev and Balti and dozens of smaller centers in villages and the periphery. Like many under the communist regime, she also was not always connected to her Judaism.
To learn optical engineering she had to travel to the polytechnic university in St. Petersburg, where she was first confronted with her Jewish identity during entry exams for the institution: one of the members of the testing committee said she was wasting her time, "since Jews are rarely accepted."
Ella didn't give up, and returned a year later, was accepted, and even finished her studies with honors. The teacher who turned her down in the first round signed her report card. "That discrimination made it clear to me that I was Jewish," she says, "but I never spoke of it with anyone, not even my parents. I didn't really understand what it meant. We were always Soviets, above all else."
As an optical engineer, Ella worked in a local factory that made parts for the T-72 tank. When communism fell, she found herself helping the needy in Kishinev, as one of the remnants of the Jewish community. Even though most of her life did not focus on her Jewish identity, the collapse of the USSR revived her national and communal belonging.
"There was nothing here. There was no money, there was no food in the stores, people were not paid salaries. The old system collapsed, and the new one still hadn't risen. There were some who survived somehow, and some who didn't."
That was when she joined the JDC, at age 30. "I'm glad I got a job and was able to help others as part of it."
The organization's work in former Soviet countries developed gradually. At first, it focused on giving emergency aid, which included food and essential items, and with time a wider system was built, including social programs run by Hesed centers, volunteering groups, programs for at-risk youth and many efforts to develop communities, strengthen the Jewish identity and cultivation of leadership amongst youngsters.
Today the organization is active in 11 former Soviet republics, and its annual budget in these countries is $154 million. It gives aid to 88,000 elderly and handicapped, and has a foundation of permanent volunteers, and has recently helped in founding a new youth movement called Active Jewish Teens, with 3,200 participants.
The JDC's activity is part of a collaborative effort with the Jewish Federations of North America, The International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, the Claims Conference, the Wohl Legacy, Genesis Philanthropy, World Jewish Relief, and other donors.
"The intensive activity of the organization in these countries is the implementation of the value of mutual responsibility in the Jewish people," says Michal Frank, the regional director of the JDC in the former Soviet republics, "we combine critical aid for thousands of poor and elderly Holocaust survivors, with the development of communal life. Our partners and us see it as our moral duty."
In Moldova alone, the organization treats 2,350 elderly, and in its cultural and volunteer programs there are 8,300 Jews – most of the local Jewish population. In a country where the average salary is $380 dollars, and the minimum needed for survival is $108, and the average monthly pension is $93 – this is essential aid.
A 20-minute ride and we're deep into the gray Soviet apartment blocks. The poverty and neglect are immediately visible, in complete contrast to the residents, who in any other economic system could have been part of the social and cultural elite.
"These are apartments for university employees," says Breta Chaorik, who is 93 years old. When she was young, she worked as a nurse in a hospital in town, and her husband, who died in 1992, was a lecturer in the Academy of Sciences of Moldova. Today she lives alone in the 40 square meter flat on the fifth floor, with no elevator.
"We got the apartment in a lottery and felt lucky," she says, "but today it's hard for me to leave the house. My only son moved to Germany and sends me money sometimes. The JDC gives me home aid for a few hours a day and a trip to the day center for the elderly in the community center in town. When I'm there, I come back to life."
Taleh Kaluja, 79, a food engineer who held a senior post in one of the local factories, also lives deep in the intimidating blocks. She survived the Holocaust as a baby, and her father is considered a local hero after joining the Red Army during the Second World War to avenge the death of her brother, who died on a train that evacuated the family eastward when the war broke out. She also gets financial aid from JDC, and takes part in the "source of compassion" program, where young volunteers adopt lonely elderly people. Her "grandson" is Boris Gamer, 40, a nurse, who visits her a few times a week and is always available for her. "She has become my babushka," he smiles.
Taleh herself volunteers at the local Hesed, and last year even received an award for her volunteer work from the president of Moldova. According to local data, the life expectancy of Hesed beneficiaries is ten years more than the national average.
The most fascinating phenomenon is the meeting between the elderly and youth, who visit the community centers. In stark contrast to the gloom of the apartment blocks, these are groups of happy and optimistic youth, who speak English well and are very patriotic. Many of them became aware of their Judaism only a few years ago and grew within Joint programs, such as summer camps and leadership programs. These meetings connect them to the Jewish world, and they describe them as very significant in their development. At the "Haverim" club in Kishinev, for example, there are 400 youths in volunteer projects.
"I see my future here and plan to enter politics," says Iliya Prodan, 18, who studies international relations at the University of Moldova in Kishinev, and volunteers in a program helping children with special needs. Last year Iliya was chosen as one of the Jewish youth representatives in former Soviet republics for the "Active Jewish Teens" movement and this experience filled him with inspiration to continue with politics.
Sasha Perkautzen, 19, a chemistry student who volunteers with children also sees her future here. "I want to stay in Moldova because all my family and friends are here, and I want to do what I can to make this place better."
The future comes up in almost every conversation. "I'm not very optimistic, but our job is to help those who live here and help Jews get back to their roots, which have been erased," says Misha Finkel, 48, a strategy and development director at the Kedem community center. His great grandfather was murdered in the Kishinev pogrom of 1905, after he managed to save his son's life. Misha's father served in the Red Army.
Misha describes covert antisemitism underneath the surface, that made it difficult for him to be accepted into a financial academy in Moscow in 1989. The local education ministry refused to give him the required approval for studies, claiming that as a Jew he might "escape" the country. He's been working at the JDC since the organization resumed activity in the city, and he gave the community center its name – Kedem: in Russian, an abbreviation for "The United Home of Moldovan Jews in Kishinev". His eldest son, Freddie, 25, made aliyah and studies engineering at the Technion. Misha believes his second son, Daniel, 8, will follow in his footsteps someday.
The ride from Kishinev to Odessa in Ukraine passes through the countryside of Moldova, so different from the gray apartment blocks of the capital. After three hours we arrive in Odessa. A spectacular city, with an old center bustling and full of restaurants and shops. Similar to its friend from the north, here as well the gap between the outward look and what goes on inside is difficult to comprehend. Behind the well–maintained facades and businesses hide dirty and neglected yards, peeling walls, sloppily spread electric lines and poverty.
Ukraine, like many former Soviet republics, has not managed to get on track to prosperity. The population is constantly dwindling: from 51 million people in 1993 to 44 million today, including the provinces that Russia took over in 2014 – a move that led to loss of control the Ukrainians had in industrial areas in the East and which dramatically influenced the country's economy. In the last few years, prices have soared; gas prices for example – a basic necessity for heat during the cold winter – is seven times higher.
Odessa in the past was a vibrant center of Jewish life. At its peak 30% of its population was Jewish, and many of the fathers of Zionism lived there at one time of their lives – Meir Dizengoff, Ze'ev Jabotinsky, Sholem Aleichem, Leon Pinsker, Hayim Nahman Bialik, and Shaul Tchernichovsky. Today 35,000 Jews live there, and it is still considered a large Jewish center. The JDC supports 7,000 elderly here and 360 at-risk youth, and 18,000 families take part in communal activities of the organization.
"I grew up in a Soviet family," says Ira Zaborovskia, who works at the JDC headquarters in Jerusalem and accompanies us on the tour, "my grandparents and parents knew they were Jews, but were not aware at all of the traditions and customs, and didn't tell me anything about it. Since the Jewish background made it difficult for my mother during her academic studies, my parents tried to repress the Jewish issue to make it easier for me. They gave me a Russian first name, and my surname is my father's, who has a Polish background."
She was exposed to her Jewish roots only at the age of 15, when she was asked to make foods from her grandmother's home for a school project. "I brought a recipe of lekach cake and gefilte fish to class. My friends said they never heard of these foods, and when I asked my mother, she said these were traditional Jewish foods. I was in shock, till then I knew nothing about my Judaism. But there was no one to give me more information, and my mother as well didn't know what to tell me. The people back then were first and foremost Soviets, and only afterward had an ethnic background. My whole Jewish identity had been erased."
Ira's connection to the Jewish community came together in 2000. A trained sociologist, she replied to a job ad that the JDC had placed and began working there without giving much weight to her personal Jewish background. For her, it was mainly a good job in her field. The circle closed when she attended, as part of her job, a meeting of elderly women, and there she was asked about her family.
"I told them about my mother's surname, Shlomovitz, and one of the women immediately said she knew my grandmother Bella in high school. They were good friends until the war separated them. That was an important experience for me. My grandmother died when I was 10, and that meeting filled in the gaps for me. I felt I was getting my roots back."
Ira made aliyah in 2016. She lives in Jerusalem with her daughter and works at the JDC headquarters as project coordinator for former Soviet republics.
Many statues and monuments are scattered throughout Odessa, reminding of the Jewish and Zionist activity here at the beginning of the century. Here as well the scars of the Soviet era can be seen. On the wall of a synagogue in the center of town, "Hebron", are the names of 16 rabbis who were executed in 1938 as part of Stalin's Great Purge.
The building itself, like many religious buildings, was confiscated and turned into a teaching school. The large hall was divided into two floors, the lower used as a sports hall. When communism collapsed, the building was returned to the Jewish community.
Nothing is more symbolic of the upheavals the city has endured than the building of the synagogue of the former Kosher slaughterers. The synagogue was built in 1909 by the slaughters' union, and during the communist era was handed over to the KGB ("the non–Kosher slaughterers") who turned it into the central headquarters of the organization in the city.
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When the USSR collapsed the building was returned to the community, and today it is a vibrant social and cultural center, offering courses, workshops, a large Jewish library, activities for elderly and youth, volunteer work and Hesed groups.
The teachers and instructors are proof of the power of a renewed community. One of the gymnastics teachers, for example, is Valentine Lukashov, 24, formerly a world champion and national symbol; and the one who teaches the youth Krav Maga is Piotr Norzinetski, 50, the Ukraine representative at the European Center for Security Studies and responsible for counterterrorism training. Norzinetski, who served in the Polish army, has been doing martial arts for 35 years and says: "The idea is to give youth the tools to defend themselves." He echoes the words of another Odessan, Jabotinsky, who called on Jews to "learn how to shoot".
The highlight of the JDC's work in Odessa is the Beit Grand Jewish Cultural Center – a huge building inaugurated over a decade ago in a central location. It houses a combination of Hesed activities, courses, youth and leisure activities, theater and a basketball court.
More than a thousand volunteers work there, most of them supported by Hesed institutions and feel the need to give back to the community that helps them. They assist in packing food, working a hotline to help community members, fixing clothes and furniture, renovating homes and professionally advising on legal, medical and financial matters, every one according to their occupation.
Nelly Namirova, 56, and her son Igor, 36, both work in hair styling and come three times a week to give haircuts to the poor. "It fills us with energy to see how we influence the moods of the needy," they say. The youth in the center work a wide array of projects, including for special needs children.
One of the most pressing issues in Odessa is medical treatment. The public health system is in bad shape, and even though the treatment in hospitals is free – patients need to buy the equipment needed for treatment, from gloves, through sheets and hygienic products, to medicine and professional medical equipment. "The main fear of people here is getting sick," say the residents.
Few can afford medical treatment, and that's where the Hesed institutions of the JDC come in. "We have a committee of doctors and other specialists who examine the lists that people get from their doctors, and in cases of life saving treatment we buy whatever is needed for them," says Anatoly Kessleman, the director of the Beit Grand Hesed. "Sometimes it's real emergencies. Our people approve requests even in the middle of the night and make sure that in a few hours the person gets to the hospital with everything they need."
Despite the community flourishing and renewed Jewish life, the question about the future hovers above it all. Most of the community's young are graduates of youth and leadership programs, many have visited Israel, and all are considering their future in Ukraine. It seems they're returning to the starting point and are worried about dilemmas that bothered Jews at the beginning of the 20th century – is Judaism a religion, a nationality or ethnic identity, what is in the future for the local Jewish community and what place does Israel have in their lives?
Arkadi Kessleman, 20, a student in hydro–technics, is thinking about making aliyah. He visited Israel as part of a Birthright program and is considering coming again as part of a Masa program. If he leaves Odessa, he says, it will be for Israel.
As opposed to him, Lena Yizmalova, 30, who heads the reform community in Odessa, is not considering aliyah right now. She's a graduate of the Metsuda leadership program, works as an instructor in similar leadership programs and holds a B.A. in Russian philology. "The youth is our future," she says, "I visited Israel and I know it well, but the option of making aliyah is not on the table right now."
Kostia Simonenko, 18, also doesn't see his future in Israel. He is studying electrical engineering at the Polytechnic University of Odessa, discovered his Judaism at the age of 13, then he was inspired to study electrical engineering when he took part in a robotics competition in Israel, and even visited an Elbit plant. "If I leave Ukraine it won't be for Israel, but for another European country," he says. "Simply because Europe has more employment opportunities."
