Expect the Unexpected

 

Oh my God!

 

You are not going to believe the story I am about to tell you – even I find it hard to believe!

Penelope and I had come to the city of Xian and settled ourselves into a hotel for the weekend.

 

Friday afternoon, we wandered around the marketplace buying fresh food for Shabbat. Next to me, picking apples, was a Chinese guy wearing a funny hat. It seemed a bit odd, but I didn’t think much about it. Suddenly he looked at me and, in a thick Chinese accented English said: “Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

“Actually, I am” I said, flabbergasted. 

 

“Yes, I thought so. So am I. Are you here for long? Can I invite you to join my family for Shabbat?” I was reeling, quite unsure how to relate to this absurd introduction. The guy saw my disorientation and clarified “Don’t worry, we keep kosher. But there won’t be any meat - it is hard to come by in these parts”.

I looked down at Penelope who remained silent. I was pretty sure she was waiting for me to make a decision. I was intrigued by a Chinese Jewish fellow in the middle of nowhere. But my mantra has always been, ‘Never say no to a new experience’. 

 

“That would be lovely. We are staying at the Xianximen Hotel”. 

 

Ying Dao was his name and he wrote his address for me in Chinese letters as well as in PinYin (using roman letters). Then, glancing at Penelope, he added, “Please bring your friend. You are welcome to carry her – we are inside the city walls so there is no problem of carrying on the Sabbath”. I wasn’t quite sure whether this fellow really was Jewish, but this was certainly going to be an unusual cultural experience. How exciting!

P and I finished our shopping and headed back to the hotel. We were in a relatively small town with a population of only 1 ½ million, but the traffic was already at a standstill. So instead of catching a rickshaw we went by foot. All the way, Penelope couldn't stop chattering about everything she had read on China’s Jewish communities. Beijing and Shanghai have had Jewish populations on and off for ages, although now they mostly identify with Chabbad. I told her about a cousin of mine, today living in Melbourne at 97 years of age, who grew up in Harbin – north east of Beijing - after leaving Russia in 1917. Also well known is the Jewish community of Kaifeng, which is now defunct. But here, in the country’s midwest?

The sun came low on the horizon and we lit Shabbat candles at the hotel (after notifying the staff for safety reasons). Then we then set off past the bustling Muslim night market to the home of our host.

Ying Dao lived in a small hutong (Chinese alleyway) built around a network of siheyuen (courtyards). The fragrance of delicious cooking emanated from a particular courtyard and I called out our host’s name. Ying Dao rushed out to greet us, dressed in traditional Chinese garb. “Shabbat Hou” (Chinese for Shabbat Shalom) he said and ushered us inside to meet his family. Dao Taitai (Mrs Dao) was a quiet, modest woman, but like most Chinese, she smiled warmly. The young son wore a square silk Kippah, while the daughter stood aside quietly, nodding recognition of our presence. The table was set with a white cloth and three loaves of circular bread. Looking around the room it was clear that these were not wealthy people, but they exuded a warmth that was very inviting.

Until that moment I had been on alert, half expecting my hosts to be representing Jews for Jesus. All the time I had to remind myself that proselytising in China is illegal and I had nothing to worry about. And I was right.

Dinner was delightful. The Shabbat ritual was unusual to say the least, with tunes I had never heard before. Then the food came; Chinese vegetarian dumplings, mushroom and eggplant stirfry (with tons of garlic, just the way I like it!), vegetable soup (boring but tasty), stringy tofu with a silky texture and copious amounts of steamed rice. As usual in Chinese meals, there was no fresh salad. I ate well, to the extent of feeling a little embarrassed.

Penelope just sat at her place, silently, staring at the walls. I am not sure why she felt uncomfortable, because our hosts had been so accepting of us both and of her in particular. (I periodically knocked her chopsticks so that it looked like she had used them).

Ying Dao told us a little about his family. They were the only Chinese Jews - that they knew of - in the area. Family legend attributes their Judaism to the experiences of an ancestor who went to California in the gold rush era, during the reign of the second last Chinese emperor. Our host apparently had an uncanny ability to recognise Jews, and whenever he did he instantly invited them home to grace his table.

There were times, Ying Dao told us, when Maoist officials had caused him problems. It started with persecution for breaching the country’s ‘One Child’ policy, and he and Dao Taitai had not dared do that more than once. But government policies had relaxed in recent times, and he was accordingly less concerned with hiding his religious practice. In a half concealed section of the back room (he later showed me) was a computer with Internet connection, on which he liked to watch the free Kabbalah channel.

His daughter had an alluring air about her and I tried to distract myself from it. I am not sure if this was noticeable, but Penelope was suddenly asked all sorts of questions. Our new friends were clearly intrigued by our connection, especially when I described us as “partners”. (That word means so many different things these days. I hope they understood my meaning…).

Dessert consisted of caramelised banana. We were warned that this had to be eaten while hot, otherwise the caramel would solidify and becomes impossible to eat. It was delicious. The meal closed with a cup of lychee tea (the others had green tea, but I avoided drinking caffeine).

Grace after meals (their version of it) was recited by the son in dulcet tones and I spent most of the time trying not to laugh because he sounded so funny. Penelope bit my finger to shut me up.

P and I got up to leave, but in a departure from Chinese tradition, Ying Dao embraced us both. It had been an amazing evening. This was one of those travel experiences that are unique and personal and must be cherished. As we stepped back out into the hutong, I braced myself for the cold weather.

We walked back to the hotel in silence. So much to think about. Jews? Out here? Who would have thought? How do they deal with issues requiring a minyan, or a mikveh? To whom did they refer their rabbinical questions? Why didn’t they move to seek out a Jewish community? How did they educate their children? Did they live like Spanish Marranos? If they wanted to pass on their tradition, who would their children marry? How were they able to maintain their strict religious beliefs in such a foreign atmosphere? Didn’t they sometimes just want to be the same as everyone around them?

We got back to the hotel quite late and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hotel attendant smiled graciously, pointing to where we had lit the candles to show that they had been let to burn themselves out. She then pulled out her master keycard and opened the electric lock on our room door. I turned to close the door behind us to block out the noise and faint smell of booze wafting up from the bar downstairs. But first I looked at the attendant. Knowing that she would not understand, I quietly wished her a “Shabbat Hou”.

Then, as the door shut, I thought I heard her whisper back knowingly, “Ni Yeh Yo Shabbat Hou” (You also have a good Shabbat).

And if you believe all that, then you’ll believe anything.