It saddened me to hear of the passing of Mr. Ari Haimoff. He was a very important man in the development of a group of twenty Bukharian Israeli families in the early 1960′s to mid 1970′s.
As a person born in this country, it’s hard to imagine what immigrants go through, whether it is the new language, the new culture and so forth. Our parents were immigrants. It wasn’t like today where whole communities migrate at the same time. I remember my father telling me how one day he heard Hebrew on one of the streets of 63rd Drive. He ran towards the person to greet him.
We actually learn in next week’s parsha, that even though G-d told Abraham to go to a different land and promised him a better life, he still found it hard to leave; it was one of his tests. As kids, we sensed that our parents were uncomfortable and were having a hard time adjusting. It was easy for us to communicate with the natives; after all, we too were ‘crazy Americans’. However, they had a tough time.
Ariye, as he was called, had charisma and was able to captivate an audience by being a tremendous orator. Bukharians have a tradition to make a yartzeit a bit more elaborate. Back then there weren’t many of us and the yartzeit dinner would take place at the home. We would all gather there whether it is a sense of obligation for the deceased or just for our parents to share the company of their own kind. I still remember the nicely set up table and coshkalich (rounded sugary dough with the confectionary sugar customary at yartzeits). Every time Ariye Haimoff would speak, it would always bring joy to our parents. He would say nice things about the deceased. He would joke about the Americans. He would say some Divrei Torah and would talk about the past. He had the ability to strike an emotional cord, whether it is laughter and tears all in one speech! Our parents, homesick as they were, enjoyed this spark plug called Ariye. He brought the small-knit-group closer which was important. It was the support group that they needed and Mr. Haimoff helped wedge these families together. I remember at my Bar Mitzvah how he danced and made people laugh.
I didn’t realize how uncomfortable these immigrants were until my parents and I went to Israel shortly after my Bar Mitzvah. My father and I took a walk on the streets of Florentine, Tel Aviv, my father’s old neighborhood. I noticed a transformation in my Pop, which was tremendously pleasant to see. Pop was walking, not needing a GPS, saying hello, shaking hands, and joking with everybody with complete confidence. For those two weeks, he wasn’t the lost, ‘no speak English’ immigrant. He was a lion in his hometown. Then I realized the sacrifices they had to take to live in America.
At my father’s one-year yartzeit, six and a half years ago in Israel, Ariye Haimoff spoke with such emotion; he had tears rolling down his eyes. He mentioned when he first came to America, my father took him (like many others) to see the Lubavitcher Rebbi for a bracha. He spoke of those years in Queens and how much hope they had for a better life and how young and vigorous they felt.
I can truly say how much I miss my Pop and that generation. We learned from them how to handle adversity, how to raise our own family, and how to make the best of what we have. This warmhearted group of pioneers helped shape our lives. |
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