GRIM AND GLORIOUS

• he unassuming Micha Feldman
is perhaps best known as the
man who rescued 14,500
Ethiopian Jews in a dramatic,
36-hour airlift in May 1991. More resem-
bling a farmer or kibbutznik, in fact he
has dedicated most of his adult life to
bringing Jews home to Israel, beginning
with the exodus of Soviet Jewry in the
early 1970's.
Feldman, 49, was first sent to Ethiopia
in November 1989, officially as Israel's
consul, but actually to aid the "Beta
Yisrael" and prepare for their aliyah.
As word spread that Jews were being
allowed to go to Israel, "a torrent of Jews
from all over Ethiopia began to flood
into the capital at the rate of 500 per day,
growing rapidly to 20,000," Feldman
recalls. "Many were in poor health. There
were as many as 40 deaths per month.
Two thirds of the victims were under 12
years old."
When Feldman arrived, only one doc-
tor was available for a total of six hours
weekly. "There were times when I fasted
for days at a time in order to spur my
efforts to stop the deaths." Soon he had
six full-time doctors of the American
Jewish Joint Distribution Committee on
location and a dispensing pharmacy. Al-
most immediately the mortality rate drop-
ped considerably.
Today Director of the Jewish Agency
Immigration Department's Ethiopian
Desk, Feldman has also been preparing
his memoir of this unforgettable event for
publkation. The following excerpt is
reprinted by permission of the author.

T

April 16, 1983
Four weeks ago, another 63 Olim came to
Israel in a maritime operation, and today
77 arrived. This was the last maritime
operation, and the Mossad is now consi-
dering an alternate — but no less dan-
gerous — route.
Among the arrivals was an extended
family of 17 persons, elderly parents,
their children and grandchildren. Today
was the end of their trek of more than
four years.
My attention was captured by a girl/
woman, Agerie Akale. She had given
birth in Sudan a week earlier and looked
very ill, but her eyes captivated me. These
were wise, cunning eyes that seemed to
say: "Don't worry. I'll survive. You bet
I'll survive!"
The day after Passover, Agerie had
given birth to her first-born son. After
three years in a Sudanese transit camp,
the family was told to prepare for aliyah
on the following Monday. The baby
would be five days old.
On Monday night at the meeting point,

they were approached by three canvas-
covered pick-up trucks, their headlights
off, each driven by an Israeli. The people
quickly piled onto the trucks and were
covered by the canvas tarpaulin.
The Israelis drove like madmen, re-
membering the problems they had en-
countered previously.
But the real drama was unfolding
beneath the canvas. Twenty-five people
were crammed into the back of Agerie's
small truck, with the baby on her
mother's back. As the day wore on, the
heat became unbearable and the stench
from sick passengers made it difficult to
breathe. Agerie felt she was about to
faint. With some difficulty, she pushed
the blazing canvas away from her, trying
to tear it with her closely-cropped finger-
nails. In despair, her hand fell back in
place, failing even to scratch the coarse,
hot cloth.
Agerie felt that she had to nurse her
baby, but she couldn't take him off her
mother's back. Every few minutes, she
touched her baby's mouth to see if he was
still breathing.
In the afternoon, when she checked
again, Agerie felt moisture on her hand.
The baby was drooling, but not breathing
any longer. Agerie wanted to cry in
anguish, but no sound came from her dry
lips.
Strange thoughts ran through Agerie's
head. She was especially concerned by
the question of where to bury her son: in
Sudan or Jerusalem? Agerie even blamed
herself. If she hadn't given birth to him, if
he had remained in her womb another
week, she would have borne him in
Jerusalem. What injustice had the child
done, that God decided to take him even
before he was circumcised?
At one sharp turn, as the passengers
were thrust to one side, a baby's cry was
suddenly heard from behind Agerie's
mother's back. Agerie heard her mother
say: "The baby is alive." When the truck
stopped to fix a flat tire, she rushed to
nurse him in the field, a wave of happi-
ness engulfing her.
After dark the next day, they came to
an open field and were asked to step out
of the trucks. Israeli soldiers dressed
them in life jackets and put them into the
lifeboats waiting on shore.
The boats and their passengers were
hoisted aboard a large ship by a crane.
Despite the vomit and stench, the Israelis
embraced them. Agerie's baby was taken
from her as \she stepped onto the deck.
Hours later, when they returned to
their room, Agerie again worried that her
baby, who had managed to overcome so
many obstacles, was no longer alive. Her
breasts ached, engorged with milk, driv-

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Micha Feldman (right) with an Ethiopian family just before their aliyah.

ing home the fact that her son had
disappeared.
That afternoon, an Ethiopian inter-
preter brought Agerie to a room painted
entirely in white, the ship's sick bay. Her
baby looked swollen, a rubber stopper in
his mouth, lying in a glass box. Agerie
cried out bitterly: "I knew he would die!
Why didn't God let him see Jerusalem?"
After hearing the translation, the Is-
raeli doctor realized that Agerie thought
her son was dead. He explained that the
baby had been put into an incubator and

that the rubber Stopper was nothing more
than a pacifier. The doctor ordered that
Agerie be brought to the infirmary every
30 minutes from then on.
Two days later, inside the airplane
taking them north from Eilat, Agerie's
mother opened the window shade, letting
sunlight stream into the cabin. She said
to her children: "You see? Everything is
just as we told you back in Ethiopia. The
Land of Israel shines brilliantly. This is
our land, the land of Abraham, Isaac and
Jacob." Agerie could swear she saw her
week-old baby smile.

TURNING THE LAST PAGE OF
RUSSIA'S JEWISH HISTORY?

Wendy Elliman

one will stake an
0
academic reputation on it,
but experts believe that at
least 1.5 to 2.5 million Jews
still live in what was once the Soviet
Union. With even the optimists predict-
ing that no more than half will emigrate
in the coming decade, we are looking at a
community of more than a million strong
remaining in Russia and the republics.
Or are we? How realistic is it to talk of
a Jewish community in Russia — either
today, or in a generation to come? Will a
Jew visiting Russia 30 years down the line
find a seat at a Passover seder or a Yom
Kippur minyan?
"The Jews of Russia today have no
shared shtetl experience to unite them. If
they survive as a community, it will be an
entirely new, uncommitted and religious-
ly unobservant model," says Dr. Baruch
Gur, head of the Jewish Agency's Unit
for the Commonwealth of Independent
States (CIS) & Eastern Europe. "But
with the rate of intermarriage being what
it is, and the generally inhospitable atmo-
sphere, I am doubtful that such a corn-
munity can develop."
"Jews have a future in Russia as indi-
viduals, but organized Jewish life does
not," agrees Rosa Finkelstein, a Russian-
born Israeli responsible for contact with
Jews in the former USSR for the Zionist
Forum. "You can't rebuild on founda-
tions razed 70 years ago."
Asher Ostrin, director of the CIS Pro-
gram for the American Jewish Joint
Distribution Committee, is more upbeat
about a Jewish future in Russia. "While
the agenda of the Jewish world is to bring
these people to Israel, the reality is that
there will be Jews in Russia for a long
time to come," he says.
"There are 30 full Jewish day schools
and 1.40 to 150 supplementary Jewish
schools in Russia today," he explains.
"So while we can't expect to see the

N

A Russian Jewish immigrant at/her first
Passover seder in Israel.

traditional Jewish communities which
provide a whole complement of services,
we can expect Russian Jews to develop a
unique, indigenous notion of Jewish com-
munity over the next generation or two."
Arnon Mantver, director-general of
the Jewish Agency Department of Immi-
gration and Absorption, splits the dif-
ference. "Existentially, yes, Jews will con-
tinue living in Russia," he says. "But
conceptually and ideologically, Zionism
is the answer. Russian Jews see no future
for their children in a politically and
economically unstable Russia."
Despite the Jewish schools, despite the
numbers of Jews coming out of the
closet, despite the efforts of Israeli and
other Jewish organizations inside the
former USSR, and despite their different
predictions, the future for the Jewish
community in Russia looks questionable.
Some put it even more strongly. Says
Rosa Finkelstein: "I believe we're turning
the last page of Jewish history in Russia."

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