E-mail a Friend

You are sending:
Assignment in paradise: Pursue the site of Yom Kippur services

Your Email:

Friend's Email:

Note: (optional)

Message: If you are having trouble reading this email, you may view this article online at: http://www.jweekly.com/14181/full/14181/assignment-in-paradise-pursue-the-site-of-yom-kippur-services/ Assignment in paradise: Pursue the site of Yom Kippur services Friday, October 6, 2000 | by MARK CHESTER I am not a religious Jew, but I have been a spiritual one ever since my bar mitzvah 42 years ago. I make every effort to attend services on Yom Kippur, which begins this year at sundown Sunday. Once, I was assigned to photograph a story in Tahiti. I jumped at the chance. But when I realized the dates coincided with Yom Kippur, I stepped back a few paces and pondered my moral dilemma. What punishment would I suffer if I did not go to services on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year in Jewish life? I didn't obsess over it. I'd atone for my sin later. I've photographed in Fiji and the kingdom of Tonga before, but I had always wanted to visit French Polynesia. So why does such an opportunity like this come at Yom Kippur? I started to think that maybe the Almighty was sending me a message. Was this a test of restraint? Temptation? So, shortly after arrival in Papeete, I set out determined to find a Yom Kippur service in Tahiti. Surely there must be some Jews living here, I reasoned, feeling optimistic. Jews can hone in on other Jews. At Club Med, on the island of Moorea, I met one of the directors. He looked like Victor Mature in the role of Samson—long, curly hair, hooked nose, dark complexion. And around his neck he wore a cylindrical shaped ornament that at quick glance looked like a mezuzah. He was Jewish, I thought. He was from England. A closer look at his "necklace" revealed it was a Tiki god. So he wasn't Jewish. He was Tiki! I commented that I thought it was a mezuzah. He said that he had lost his gold Star of David scuba diving. He was Jewish after all. But he was leaving for San Francisco the next day and couldn't give me any leads about finding a Yom Kippur service. Yom Kippur eve (Kol Nidre) was three days away. From Moorea, I called the concierge at the Maeva Beach hotel where I was staying. We had met when I checked in the previous day. She was a Mormon and half Polynesian. I asked if she could assist in finding a Yom Kippur service that Friday evening. She said she would try. But I sensed that she had no idea what I was talking about. Nevertheless, I left it in the hands of the Almighty—and the concierge. I figured that if God could create heaven and atolls in seven days, then two days to drum up a Yom Kippur service here in Tahiti wasn't a big deal. On my return to Papeete the concierge gave me the bad news. She didn't know of any Yom Kippur services. She couldn't locate any Jewish families, nor did she know anyone who knew any Jews living in Papeete, which is the hub of the islands. I wasn't giving up. There had to be a Jewish community here. I just felt it. But where to look? I scoured the telephone book looking for kosher butchers, synagogues, tailors, gem merchants, anyone with a Jewish-sounding name or business. Most names just had vowels—not consonants—and certainly none ending in "stein" or "berg." I called the editor of the English-speaking newspaper; then the French Foreign Legion, thinking there might be some Jewish finance officer, or soldier of fortune (or misfortune), attached to a nuclear weapons unit. No luck there. Not even a chaplain was reachable. Yom Kippur was starting at sundown, five hours away. But I didn't panic. I was optimistic and driven. Somehow the Red Sea would open. I just had to be more resourceful. I even thought of calling Marlon Brando, who lives on his own private island here. Instead, I telephoned the Church of Latter-day Saints, asking if their "lost tribe" could find mine. No progress there, either. I called the police department, to no avail. As a last resort, on a whim, I went to the tourist office in central Papeete. "Hello. I'd like to tour the Jewish community and, could you please direct me to a religious service tonight?" I desperately asked the receptionist. "Juif?" the woman behind the desk asked. "Jewish," she repeated in soft English with a wispy tone. She was Polynesian—honey-brown skin, long, black, shiny hair that covered her bare shoulders and sleeveless cotton blouse. She was beautiful. And she had a gentle presence. Her smile showed a perfect occlusion. I could barely keep my teeth from chattering. "Juif?" she asked again. "Yes, I'm Jewish," I said, explaining that I wanted to go to a Yom Kippur service, but I really wanted to be with this dream lady. However, I fought the temptation. She gave me a guava juice and told me to sit still, while she flipped through a Rolodex file on her desk. Calling one telephone number after another, speaking French each time, she was as determined as I was to find a Yom Kippur service. Twenty minutes later, she gave me a slip of paper with a name and address. "This is where the service is tonight. You are welcome to join," she said, showing her pretty smile again. God surely guided me to this goddess. But the service was starting in 30 minutes. The private house, which was near my hotel, belonged to the owner of David's Rugs, a store in Papeete. Like a wandering Jew coming in from the Sinai Desert, I was greeted at the front door as if I were a family member. There were nearly 50 people—men, women and children. The men wore yarmulkes and prayer shawls. We all stood in the dining room in front of a podium covered with a velvet cloth and embroidered with a Star of David. Overhead, hung a light bulb, hooked up to a Rube Goldberg-fashioned (who else?) wiring jigs. The "rabbi"—an Orthodox CPA—read from the prayer book and Torah as we followed along. The service was in Hebrew and French. Many did not speak English. Most were refugees from Morocco, Egypt and Algeria—Sephardim who came to Papeete via Paris and other parts of France. There was a spirit among us Jews. We were not strangers. And so I prayed and gave thanks, knowing, somehow all along, that no matter how remote Tahiti is, I would find a home among brethren to share such an important holiday. Tahiti is more than a Land of Milk and Honey—and coconuts.

Please enter the letters and numbers you see in the image below:

E-mail a Friend

Subscribe to: