The Kiddush Cup: A Legacy of Resilience
I was born in Baghdad. On the occasion of my birth, my maternal grandmother gifted me with something very meaningful. She gave me a sterling silver kiddush cup. Of course, I was an infant and did not realize the value of what she had given me. I am not talking of monetary value, but of intrinsic value. By the time I was about a year old, we had to flee from Iraq. We fled to Tehran, the capital city of Iran. We were fortunate enough to have relatives in Baghdad who eventually were able to hire persons who safely delivered our possessions to us. The Kurds were honest, brave, and reliable. They crossed the border between the two countries and eventually delivered all our possessions to Tehran. It was because of the Kurds that my family was able to regain most of our belongings. Amongst my parents’ valuables was my kiddush cup. Of course, at that tender age, I was unaware what my grandmother had given me. However, I knew that it was called Stella’s Kiddush Cup. The Kiddush Cup appeared at every religious occasion. It always glimmered and glowed proudly. Years passed. I became an adult. I got married and had children and a home of my own. The Kiddush Cup moved with me into my new home. I grew attached to it, for my grandmother gave it to me when I was born. I did not remember my grandmother, for she and my uncles fled to Israel and I only met once years later. But I have my mother’s tale to endear her to me.
Back to the Kiddush Cup. On each festive occasion, grandmother’s Kiddush Cup would proudly appear, buffed and sparkling, ready to perform the blessings over the wine. I had become very attached to the kiddush cup and regaled my children with its history.
Alas, living in the Middle East, life did not offer stability. All too soon we had to reconcile to yet another upheaval! There was great unrest in the country and a coup d’état in which Khomeini’s ugly head reared up. There was mayhem, destruction, arrests, and murders of all kinds of people. There was a revolution and the Shah was overthrown.
We quickly packed my parents’ home and ours into a forty-foot container, and it was shipped off to San Francisco where my siblings were then living. About six months after we shipped the container, we left Iran. It was emotionally disturbing and scary. It was very traumatic. It felt as if someone had violently torn our hearts out of our bodies and thrown us by the wayside. We were literally throbbing with pain.
We arrived in New York in the midst of a snowstorm. When we landed, we breathed a sigh of relief. We were no longer in the midst of the Iranian Revolution. We thought we were safe. That was not so. We had encountered great fear and terror. Now we met with a great deal of hatred and animosity. We realized that in this country they considered us to be their enemies. They were against us. One image that particularly disturbs me even to this day was that of the poster of Mickey Mouse sticking his middle finger at us. This poster appeared everywhere, on storefronts, on buses, everywhere we went. Each morning we woke up to the same car parked in front of our kitchen window. That image of Mickey Mouse sticking his middle finger at us from that car parking in front of our home is indelibly imprinted upon my memory! Each morning when I looked out of the window, I felt as if I was swallowing bitter gall when I saw that driver park by my kitchen window! He knew that a Persian family lived there. He looked at me watching him with disdain. He hoisted his pants up in a very rude manner and strutted away. I felt helpless. I felt bitter. I felt angry! I was too scared to say or do anything. My son had already been attacked in school for being from Iran. One woman who walked her dog by our house each day had the temerity to very nonchalantly walk up to our front door and smear dog feces on it. I stood frozen at my window, horrified and not knowing what to do. In the end I did nothing, but each time I saw her walk past our house, I felt a great wave of hatred go through me! Each time I saw her after that incident, I tried to keep a low profile and behave meekly. Thinking of her makes me tremble with rage!
The container with all my parents’ and our belongings seemed to have disappeared into thin air. I felt guilty, for Mama was not in the country. Papa and I had packed the container and sent it on its way. I felt unreasonably responsible! A year had passed since the container was shipped and there was still no sign of it.
One day we finally received word that our container had surfaced! For some reason the container was discovered at the bottom of the storage yard in San Francisco. Ah! At last we were reunited with our possessions! It felt so good to have our things from our previous life back! And there, in all the things that I had thought I had lost, was my grandmother’s kiddush cup! As I unwrapped it, I felt a thrill of delight. Once more, it is used on religious holiday occasions. Oh, how it glittered! Oh, how it trembled with pride! How very happy I felt. Life continued plodding along. My son and daughter were growing fast. First they turned into teenagers, then to young adults! Before I could blink an eye, my daughter got married and had a beautiful son. At his birth I decided to give him a kiddush cup as well. There was an Iraqi silversmith who had emigrated to Israel. He created similar kiddush cups to the one my grandmother had given me at my birth. He made one for my grandson. That was twenty-three years ago, almost twenty-four years ago. This year we are blessed with three new babies. My two sisters have become grandparents ten months ago. The girls were one day apart from each other and my brother will be a grandpapa soon! Their great-aunt will continue to carry on their great-great-grandmother’s tradition. They received Kiddush cups! What else?
And my grandmother’s Kiddush Cup? It sits proudly in a place of honor in my display case in the dining room.