Waiting for the magic carpet
CHURACHANDPUR, India – When Asher Kipgen is asked the Hebrew name of his father, who immigrated to Israel six years ago from a village in the northeastern Indian state of Manipur, he blurts out “Netanyahu” without thinking twice. The real name of his father, who lives in Kiryat Arba, is Natan, but the mention of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s name is no coincidence. Many of the 7,232 members of the Kuki, Mizo, Lushai and Shin tribes carefully followed the elections in Israel, in the hope that the new prime minister of Israel would bring them to the country.
That’s because they consider themselves Bnei Menashe, residents of northeastern India, along the border with Burma and Bangladesh, who claim descent from one of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, who were sent into exile by the Assyrian Empire more than 27 centuries ago. Advertisement
Since hearing rumors last summer that the Israeli government planned to bring the Bnei Menashe to Israel, Kipgen and his family have been waiting – though they aren’t concerned about what to bring with them.
In their mud house, in which bamboo nets serve as windows, there aren’t any suitcases. The only decorations are a mezuzah sent as a gift from Israel, a clock and a calendar. “Our parents told us not to take anything material to Israel,” says Kipgen as the family sits on a mat on the living room floor, “only to believe in God.” Symbolizing the hope (“tikva”) that the Bnei Menashe will eventually be brought to Israel, Kipgen’s community has named the village synagogue “Petah Tikva.”
In spite of all the ups and downs experienced by the community in the wake of the contradictory decisions of Israel’s leaders – which seem to open the door a little, only to slam it in their faces – they still have to keep planting crops. Kipgen is doing just that, even as he worries he may not have time to harvest the crop and sell it to an intermediary to bring it to the local market. However, he did sell his five calves, so that nothing would delay him if Israel suddenly decides to bring over the remaining Bnei Menashe.
Since the Bnei Menashe first made contact with Israel in the 1950s, about 1,500 of them have moved here. Israel’s Asheknazi chief rabbi, Yona Metzger, recognized them in 2005 as the descendants of one of the lost tribes. After formally converting to Judaism in the Indian state of Mizoram, a group of 219 Bnei Menashe came to Israel, as full Jews and new immigrants. But the gates have recently clanged shut, and even indirect immigration – in which Bnei Menashe who come to Israel as tourists convert here and become citizens once they are already in the country – has ceased.
In addition to doubts regarding the historical connection of the Bnei Menashe to the lost tribes – some say Christian missionaries were the ones who convinced the tribes that they were descendants of Menashe – Israel’s main fear is that the moment the Bnei Menashe are allowed entry, Indians will convert to Judaism en masse and stream into Israel.
However, the Bnei Menashe are hoping that Netanyahu’s interior minister, Eli Yishai, will show greater understanding of their desire to come to Zion.
A 77-year-old woman named Mekonnang, from a village in Manipur, is sending a hint that she cannot wait forever: She has decided to have her own tombstone made, engraved with a Star of David, verses from the Bible and a plea to come to Zion as soon as possible.
‘Please hear our cry’
About 2,000 Bnei Menashe from 36 villages in Manipur – and two in Burma – attended a celebration of Israel’s Independence Day held last week in the Churachandpur district of Manipur. The Bnei Menashe from Burma traveled for over three days on poor roads, with frequent stops at checkpoints set up because of 30 armed resistance movements active in Manipur. But the exhausting trip did not keep them from waving Israeli flags at the event, which took place in a huge hangar rented for the festivities.
The celebration featured emotional songs about the longing for Zion, and community leaders gave a letter for Netanyahu to Michael Freund, founding chairman of Shavei Israel, an organization that works to strengthen the tie of the lost tribes to Judaism and to Israel.
“For 2,700 years our forefathers wandered in exile, but they never forgot who they were or where they came from, and they transmitted this precious legacy to us: love of Zion and a desire to return to it and to embrace its holy soil,” the letter states. “We pray for the day when the rest of the Bnei Menashe who are still in India will be able to return to their home in the Promised Land.” The letter also said, “We are turning to you as the leader of our beloved Jewish state, please hear our cry and put an end to our waiting.”
Freund has promised to give Netanyahu the letter upon his return to Israel – and the prime minister’s door is not likely to be closed to him, since Freund served as deputy director of communications and policy planning at the Prime Minister’s Office during Netanyahu’s previous stint as prime minister, in the 1990s.
Though some of the Bnei Menashe who have participated in Judaism seminars sponsored by Shavei Israel often say they want to be soldiers, rabbis or scribes, Shimshon Panai, 16, has other plans. “In the end I want to be a doctor and to help the poor,” he says. “In Mizoram it’s hard, and in Israel it will probably be even harder, but I’ll try very hard.”
Panai says he prefers rock bands to Psalms, and because he is the only Jew in his school, he does not wear a skullcap. And when he surfs the Internet, he searches for the lyrics of songs he likes, not for religious sites.
“I would like to be like you, the Israelis – you’re so sure of yourselves, and we’re very shy,” he says. “But we also have good qualities. We help the poor, we help one another.”
One of the young women in the community, whose father has hung Stars of David at the entrance to his place of business, which he closes on Shabbat, questions the need to wear long skirts, as some say the Jewish laws of modesty require.
“It’s not very comfortable, and almost all the girls in the city wear pants,” she says gently. “But if it’s essential, we’ll make the effort.”
But not all those who identify as Bnei Menashe are knocking on Israel’s door.
Nagorliana Sailu Maizul, who recently celebrated his 100th birthday, speaks happily about the customs of the tribe from the days of his forefathers, before Christianity came to the region. His grandfathers, who belonged to the priests of the tribe, used to chase away passersby from the road and shout, “Good people are coming, Bnei Manamusi, make way!”
But although he believes he is a descendant of the tribe of Menashe, he wants to stay in India, growing corn and pumpkins and raising pigs. Only one member of his family considers himself Jewish today.
“Christianity is the only religion I’ve known since I was a child. I once wanted to travel to visit Israel, but you had some war again,” he says, a laugh exposing the only two teeth remaining in his mouth. Nor do his grandson and his wife understand why people are so eager to change their religion, even if 2,700 years ago they really were expelled from the Holy Land by the Assyrians.
At first, Zaitenchungi, who has devoted 30 years to studying the roots of her tribe and others claiming descent from Menashe, rejected their connection to Israel, but she has since become an enthusiastic supporter of the idea – even as she describes herself as a believing Christian.
“I continue to believe in Jesus, because every time I prayed my prayers were answered,” she says. “But we have a special connection to Israel, and not only because we’re Christians. I was skeptical, but conversations with the village elders convinced me that we’re a lost tribe.”
Such sentiments won’t necessarily translate into a wave of wannabe immigrants, though.
“That doesn’t mean that everyone will want to return to Judaism and ask to immigrate to Israel,” says Zaitenchungi. “But we have a strong emotional bond toward Israel, and that could be nice if it’s mutual.”
Meanwhile, even some of the Indians who are set on making aliyah know that it probably won’t be easy.
Asher Kipgen and his wife Rebecca (originally named Lamno) have four children, aged 2 to 10, but at this point he does not know how he would support them in Israel or how to speak Hebrew. In an apologetic tone, Kipgen explains that getting up at 4:30 A.M., working hard in the field and going to sleep at sunset drive the Hebrew words he is trying to learn right out of his head. But such practicalities are not his main focus.
“A livelihood is a secondary thing compared to worshiping God,” he says. “We want to live in a country where it’s possible to observe Shabbat properly.”
“We are tired of waiting,” says Kipgen. “But we’ll continue to wait.”