Berkley Center

My favorite song to sing at Hebrew school goes something like this: “Wherever you go, there’s always someone Jewish. You’re never alone when you say you’re a Jew.” This song played in my head as I celebrated Yom Kippur in Sofia, Bulgaria.

It was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish faith, and I had just gone into my third church of the day. I had run away to Bulgaria, eating and exploring as my people were fasting and praying. It felt profoundly wrong; all of a sudden I wanted nothing more than to be home—not Jerusalem, but home back in Connecticut—and to be in the synagogue, praying.

Thankfully, true to the song, there is a synagogue amidst the churches of Sofia. The synagogue happened to be the next stop on our tour. I walked up to the door and knocked with the Hebrew school song fresh in my mind. However, if there were Jews with whom to pray, we didn’t find them. Instead, an angry Bulgarian man shouted at us “Come back at 5:00!” and shut the door. The situation didn't get any better when a tourist with a large camera tried to make it through the door. We had to explain to him that the synagogue was closed because this was the holiest day of the year for the Jewish faith. We tried and failed to get him to see that his camera didn’t belong in the synagogue—especially not today.

I don’t know why the interaction felt so wrong. Why was it such a shock to my system? Every single year growing up in Connecticut I went through the process of explaining myself to my teacher and friends when I missed a day of school for Yom Kippur. Why was this tourist any different? The truth was, I had become complacent. In Jerusalem, most people are both knowledgeable about and respectful of my religious tradition. Living in a city surrounded by Judaism lulled me into a sense of comfort. I almost forgot about the lack of knowledge that exists among other countries when it comes to the Jewish tradition.

In interacting with people in Jerusalem, the Arab-Israeli conflict is often a topic of discussion. These conversations lead in many cases to examining the need for Israel’s existence. Oftentimes, these conversations are framed around issues of life and death or safety and security. Yet surrounded by churches and imagining what it would be like to be Jewish in Bulgaria, I wondered if safety and security weren’t the only problems with losing Israel. It would mean losing a space where Jews can walk down the street with others who understand and respect their traditions. Of course, that respect must be mutual. One person's religious tradition shouldn't be treated as a tourist attraction. I will keep this in mind the next time I want to take out my camera while visiting a church. We must build a culture not just of coexistence, but also of understanding and mutual education. We can aim for more than just freedom of religion. We can aim for a world where people don't have to constantly be explaining themselves. 

We returned to the synagogue at 5:00pm and were briefly pleased when they let us in and invited us into their space of prayer. Yet, instead of praying in the ornate, centuries-old synagogue, we were lead into a side room. I asked a small Bulgarian woman why we weren’t using the main synagogue. "There aren’t enough people, even on Yom Kippur," she told us. "We can’t fill the synagogue."

With further research, I learned that just over 1,000 Jews remain in Bulgaria today. I can understand why so few Jewish people remain in Bulgaria. For Jews in Bulgaria, our encounter with that tourist and his lack of understanding is their everyday reality. 

True to the words of my Hebrew school song, visiting Sofia showed that there is indeed someone Jewish everywhere--at least in Europe. However, there is still no place like home. Yom Kippur in Bulgaria taught me not just to treasure the days in synagogue back home, but also to identify what makes that space so special for me: understanding.