Vanishing History: Baghdad's Last 21 Jews

Jan. 30, 2004 -- It may be the most secret location in all of Baghdad.

Watch tonight's report on Baghdad's Jews on ABCNEWS' Nightline.

There is no sign outside — no visible markings whatsoever, just a plain metal gate in a brick wall, no different from any other house on the block.

Chances are if you come knocking, the nervous man who answers will say no one is home.

"Please," he told our translator, "just go away."

Hidden Away

Baghdad's last synagogue is tucked in a side street of what used to be a mostly Jewish neighborhood, one of several in the Iraqi capital.

But the Jews are long gone.

The only hint that they used to live here is the subtle pattern in the arrangement of the bricks and mortar, one brick in a dozen placed at an odd angle, a secret code embedded in the architecture. It's so discreet that the current inhabitants of those houses probably haven't even noticed it. But once someone points it out, you begin to see it everywhere.

In 1948, there were more than 150,000 Jews living in Baghdad. Now there are 21 left.

No one comes to worship at the synagogue anymore. It would be too dangerous for Iraq's Jews to gather in one place. The rabbi has been dead for seven years.

Most of the people who live near the synagogue are unaware of its existence. Those who do seem to know about it appear to view any Western visitors with deep suspicion.

The temple itself is heartbreaking. It looks always ready for a service that will never happen. There are stacks of scriptures at the ends of the cushioned benches. On one wall, there's a clock with Hebrew lettering, the hands frozen at 7:30. A pair of old pajamas hung from a clothesline strung across the front of the building one recent Saturday. It little mattered. No one was coming to pray that day.

In a locked cabinet at the front of the shul, the ancient Torah scrolls are easily 100 years old. The casings are inlaid with semi-precious stones and the silver jingles when the scrolls are opened. The Hebrew calligraphy was done by hand on vellum yellowed with age.

Birthplace of Abraham

The story these scrolls tell reaches far back into the history of Iraq. Jewish history began in this country 4,000 years ago, in the ancient city of Ur, where the patriarch Abraham was born. Today, Ur is part of a sprawling American air base near Nasiriyah.

In the northern city of Mosul, where U.S. forces cornered and killed Saddam Hussein's two sons, the prophet Jonah is believed to be buried, his grave marked by a whale bone.

Near the oil fields of Kirkuk, where experts from Halliburton Corp. are now hard at work, the prophet Daniel is said to have amazed Nebuchadnezzar II when he "walked in fire but was not burnt."

Centuries before Christ, the diaspora began in Iraq. Assyrian invaders sacked the Temple in Jerusalem, and banished the 10 tribes of Israel. Thousands of Jews were carried back to Babylon as slaves. The Psalms describe how they lay down by the banks of the Euphrates and wept, remembering Zion.

A few miles away, in the city of Hilla, the prophet Ezekiel saw his vision of a burning wheel, an inspiration to the Jews that it would be possible to worship God in exile as well as in Jerusalem.

20th-Century Departure

But in modern-day Iraq, it has become increasingly difficult for Jews to practice their faith. As a result, the rich history of Judaism in Iraq appears about to come to an end. The vast majority of the Jews left the country voluntarily in the late 1940s and early 1950s, when the state of Israel was in its infancy.

Those who remained were subject to decades of persecution. Zionism was a capital offense under the Baath Party.

In 1969, half a million Iraqis celebrated in the streets when a dozen Jewish "spies" were publicly hanged. Later, a pro-Palestinian gunman opened fire in another Baghdad synagogue.

"I was one of the only people who escaped without a scratch," said Aaron Bech, who was there that day.

Dozens of violent crimes against Jews went unpunished in Saddam Hussein's Iraq.

Untended Graves

Just outside town, there is a vast Jewish cemetery. But these days, the graves go largely untended. On the walls of the synagogue, small white plaques list the names of the dead.

"That's my father," said Khalida Eliahu, a dentist, pointing at one plaque. Eliahu's father was shot in the head in 1998 as he worked at a construction project.

Eliahu wants passionately to keep her tradition alive. She asked ABCNEWS for a Hebrew-English scripture with a larger typeface, because she has such trouble reading the microscopic print in her only copy. She does her best to celebrate the high holy days with her mother, but she has to lie to her boss about the reason she wants to get the days off work.

Her knowledge of Jewish history is sketchy at best. For instance, when asked what she knew about the Holocaust, she had no idea about it.

But she never pretends to be something she is not.

"I am Jewish and proud to be Jewish," she said.

Eliahu, now in her middle 40s, may be the youngest person left in Iraq's Jewish community. Most of the others are too old to leave, or they would have joined the dozen or so who fled to Israel immediately after the American invasion.

Under a Staircase

Most of the 21 Jews live Anne Frank-style, in hiding. The synagogue's ancient cantor, Tawfiq Sopher, has a bed beneath a staircase in the synagogue he has slept in for 35 years. He is cared for by Mohammad Abril, a young Muslim friend who rarely leaves his side.

"I have no family," Sopher said. "It is a hard life, but what can I do?"

He is 89 years old, and most days can barely lift his head from the pillow.

One by one, one of the oldest Jewish communities in the world is dying off. Not long ago, they were one of Iraq's larger ethnic groups. Now, they may well be the smallest persecuted minority in the world.

They live in secret, they worship in fear, but they still have their synagogue. And their pride.