I had been on the train from Beijing for a few hours, and I had a few more to go before the train would arrive in ZhongZhou. This was my first time in China, and I had only been in the country for a few days. I was immediately impressed by how open to conversation Chinese people were.
At first, it was the curiosity that drew them into conversation. It wasn’t that I was a Westerner that grabbed their attention, but rather that I was so hairy. As I sat in the train on my fourth day in China, I was once again having the familiar conversation, this time with Liu, a teacher in training from Beijing. We conducted the conversation in “Chinglish,” at which I was becoming more and more proficient. Our conversation went more or less as follows:
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“So just how hairy are you?” he asked me.
“I’m pretty hairy.”
“Is everyone back in your land very hairy?”
“No, some of us are more hairy than others.”
“Where are you from?”
“Israel.”
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This was always the point where they would get very excited. Even more excited than five minutes earlier when they had forced me to take off my shirt to show them just how hairy I was.
\t”YouTai Ren! Feichang CongMing!” he yelled to the onlookers.
“Why do you think Jewish people are very smart?” I asked.
“Marx, Einstein\xe2\x80\xa6all Jews. Very good businessmen, very clever! YouTaiRen FeiChang CongMing!”
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After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence, my new friend asked, “So, hairy Jewish man, why are you going to ZhongZhou?”
“I am on my way to Kaifeng.”
“Kaifeng? Why are you going there?”
“To see where the Chinese Jews lived.”
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Liu had never heard of the Chinese Jews before. He loved China, and revered Jews, but the idea of Chinese Jews was enough to get him out of his seat in excitement.
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“Chinese Jews? There are no Chinese Jews!”
“But there are, or used to be,” I responded. “I’m going to see if there is anyone left.”
“But how did they get to China?”
“No one is really sure,” I said.
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While nobody can say for certain, Kaifeng’s Jewish community is often thought to have been established by Persian Jewish merchants sometime during the period when the city was the capital of the Song Dynasty, which began in 960 CE. The Jews of Kaifeng apparently lived in a fashion similar to that of their non-Jewish neighbors, intermarrying so that they eventually came to look Chinese in their physical appearance. But the community also maintained its religious traditions for centuries. Kaifeng’s Jews had Torahs and rabbis, built synagogues, kept the Sabbath and holidays, and kept kosher.
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Communication with Jewish travelers kept the community strong, until around 1500, when the Ming Emperor closed the borders of China to foreign travelers, cutting the community’s Jewish lifeline. Gradually the community’s ability to maintain Jewish practice declined, and its last synagogue was demolished in the 1860s.
I arrived in ZhongZhou in the evening hours. Liu helped shove me and my mammoth pack into the moving bus outside the station, the last bus of the day to Kaifeng. A young couple immediately grabbed my shoulder straps and pulled me into the bus as it sped out of ZhongZhou. I got up from the filthy floor, my bag already safely secured by the driver. The passengers had quickly rearranged their seating at the back of the bus, leaving the middle seat open for me. They motioned that I sit down, and I sat.
I awoke the following morning after a few hours of sleep. It was my first night in a Chinese hotel, and there were no Westerners anywhere. I stepped into the bustling bicycle lane and realized I had no idea where I was going. After a minute or two, as usual, I felt something strange on my arm. I looked down and found a young boy brushing the hair on my arm with the back of his hand. The boy looked up at me in amazement. He asked, “What is this stuff?”
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Eventually the boy led me to a Buddhist monastery in the center of town. This was the only religious place he knew of. The monastery was beautiful, the first one I’d ever visited. A beautiful Chinese woman offered me some thick red sticks of incense to light as an offering to Buddha. Her Chinese was very clear, and after the short ceremony we went for a walk through the town. The woman had heard of the Chinese Jews and was happy to take me to the hutong, or alley, where they lived. I was elated to finally be on the right track, and I followed my new guide through streets, markets, and open courtyards. Eventually we came upon a large mosque. My new friend realized she was late for work and left me where we stood, totally lost.
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A few old women ran up to me. They were Chinese Muslims. I asked them if they could say anything in Arabic. “Akoo bra,” they responded in unison. “What does that mean?” I asked. “It means that Allah is great, in Arabic,” they replied. Uncomfortably, I asked them if they were trying to say “Allah Akbar.” The women were elated that I had corrected their pronunciation, and scurried off to alert the other Muslims that they had been saying the phrase wrong for who knows how many generations. An old imam was brought forth to thank me for my assistance, and he directed me north to continue my search for the Jews.
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An abandoned church, a few steaming baozi (steamed buns filled with pork), and two hours later, someone pointed at a doorway in an alley. I was very close. I excitedly walked through the courtyard and looked at the colorful doors all around me, wondering where to knock. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something familiar. It was the Hebrew letter Shin. I refocused my vision and saw that it was inscribed on a mezuzah.
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I knocked on the door, and after a few moments heard some noises from inside. The door slowly opened, and a tiny old Chinese woman appeared before me.
“Hello,” I said shyly. “I am Jewish.”
The tired woman’s eyes widened as a huge smile spread across her face. “Really? Me too!” she burst out.
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The woman invited me into her small home. There were Magen Davids on the walls, a few menorahs, and a street sign in Hebrew that read: “Teaching the Torah Lane.” The old woman ran to her stove to heat up some food for me–this was clearly a Jewish home. Our conversation went roughly as follows:
“Where are the other Jews?” I asked.
“Gone. Either passed on or moved on,” she said.
“Surely you aren’t the only Jew in Kaifeng?” I asked.
“I am the last Jew of Kaifeng,” she responded.
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There was a moment of silence as she turned back to her wok, clearly upset. “And where is this synagogue?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Also gone. You can go see the room where it once stood. It is in the hospital.”
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I sat with her for a long while talking about Israel, Judaism, and China. We spoke about children and grandparents, poverty and wealth, freedom and rights. I was surprised that my host knew nothing about the laws of Judaism. “I am Jewish because my parents were Jewish and their parents were Jewish. I have these beautiful things, which also make me Jewish,” she said as she motioned to her menorahs. “Most importantly, I feel Jewish. Especially right now.”
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I knew what she meant. For the first time in months, I also felt Jewish.
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On my map, she pointed out the hospital where the old synagogue was now being used as a boiler room. I walked toward the doorway of her one-room house, thanking her for the wonderful hospitality. She gave me a hug, breaking all rules of Chinese social etiquette.
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There was no need for that\xe2\x80\xa6we were just two Jews saying goodbye.
Until recently I sincerely believed that I had met the last Jew of Kaifeng. Since returning to the United States, however, I have been told that there are many Chinese of Jewish descent in Kaifeng who still identify with their heritage, despite the absence of organized Jewish religious observance. Some have been visited by Jews from abroad. I’m not sure why the woman I met in Kaifeng thought she was the city’s last Jew. I’m pretty certain I didn’t misunderstand her.
