My Mother the Architect

This article is reposted from the HBI Blog of the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute 

by Cynthia Kaplan Shamash
author of The Strangers We Became: Lessons in Exile from One of Iraq's Last Jews

On October 18th, I spoke at the Iraqi Synagogue in Queens to celebrate the publication of my book, The Strangers We Became: Lessons in Exile from One of Iraq’s Last Jews. There were at least 70 people in attendance, and after reading a passage from the book in which I describe being interrogated by prison officers when I was nine years old—looking for a recording device with which to accuse me of espionage, they tore apart a doll my father had given me—I pulled the broken doll out of a plastic bag and showed her to them.

When I’d finished speaking, I asked if anyone had questions. A hand went up in the front row; it belonged to my mother, who is 81 years old. “Don’t just bring out your doll,” she said. “Tell them what we didn’t take with us. Tell them what we had to leave behind.”

Shamash's mother, on a Baghdady rooftop

You see, we did not leave Iraq because we wanted to. We left Iraq because we had been persecuted there, for our Judaism, and when we left we were not allowed to take anything except for a few suitcases packed as though we were only going on vacation. Who takes photo albums on vacation? Who takes rugs, or heirloom furniture acquired over generations, or—in my mother’s case—her most precious jewelry? No one. So we left ours behind in Baghdad, because if the authorities had come across any evidence of our intending to flee forever, they would have arrested us again.

My mother got married when she was eighteen. It was an arranged marriage, to a man 24 years older. She had been coloring in a notebook with Iraq’s young King Ghazi on the cover when she was called downstairs to be introduced to her groom. The detour in life lasted much longer than she’d anticipated.

She still talks about the dormant architect in her, the unfulfilled desire to pursue a desire. It wasn’t just her marriage that derailed her: it was also our exile, which threw her dreams an even greater distance away.

Mehandeesa, she will occasionally still say, with a sigh. I wanted to be an architect. Only two years after we fled Baghdad and had settled as refugees in Amsterdam, my father died of a heart attack. Now my mother was widowed, in a strange country, with four children in tow. How would it ever be possible now to fulfill her dreams of designing the arc of liberty?

How I wonder what her style might have been, what bridge she might have built! But then, who would have told me all those bedtime stories, and analyzed my dreams? In Amsterdam, we lived largely in a vacuum. For Mama, the focus was on survival, on providing for her family. Her role as a mother was intensified, in a sense. There was no room for being what the Westerners call a Supermom. Even though she was. She is. She decorated my spirit. She built bridges no one can see.

Shamash and her mother upon arrival in Holland

I remember when she came home from the first day of a potential job that our Dutch social worker had arranged for her. It was as if someone had died. This was shortly after my father had passed away. The social worker had told her that it would be good for her to get out for a few hours a day, to have a purpose, but it wasn’t clear to Mama until she arrived that the job was as a cleaning woman. When she got home, her mood was as if Papa had passed away all over again. She could never even mention that dusty day again. It was if she were in mourning—mourning for her potential.

Today, Mama lives near me, in Queens, where I have a husband, a dentistry practice, and five children of my own. I see clearly now that my having a family and a profession (two professions, if you count writing) is a well-rounded existence that was robbed from her. It was robbed from her like our life in Iraq was robbed from us, like our rugs and furniture and baby pictures and menorah and jewelry were all robbed from us, by anti-Semitism. It was difficult for me, being a child in a strange country, going to a school full of children who looked nothing like me and spoke a different language. But still, compared to my mother, I have enjoyed the express lane in life. When you are derailed as she was—when life is not architecture school but instead learning a new language at 40, familiarizing yourself with new soil, new hurdles, digging deep for courage and chutzpah you didn’t know you had, as though you’d arrived ex nihilo—suddenly it’s too late for your turn, your chance to celebrate your own G-d-given potential.

Or maybe she fulfilled her potential in a different way, building intangible things, through her inspiring nature and her children.

The anatomy my mother was sketching the day she met my father was left unfinished, but she did have time to color in the heart. And the handwriting in that notebook is beautiful, the envy of every high school girl today. She was on her way to liberation and choices. But that was only in the beginning. The beginning is always like this, my mother often says. Hopeful. Still now, when she visits my home, she makes little suggestions as to where I should position my furniture, or she comments on a window’s aspect, its light, the house’s location on the block. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. “Min el sharq illah el gharb,” my mother says with a sigh. They used to tell me I was good with design.

Cynthia Kaplan Shamash is the author of The Strangers We Became: Lessons in Exile from One of Iraq’s Last Jews, the most recent book in the HBI Series on Jewish Women. She serves on the board of the World Organization of Jews from Iraq and owns her own dental practice in New York City where she resides with her husband and five children.

6 Reasons a Knish is Better than a Bagel

And now for a fight we're pretty sure nobody asked for. But a fight that simply can't go unpicked.

Already you're shaking your head. There's just no way the bagel takes a back seat to the knish. Right?

We've thought about it, and we're so convinced the knish is the better of the two Jewish baked goods, we've decided that the entire month of May shall be dubbed Knish Month. (Ahem, #knishmonth.) The delicious designation is, of course, in honor of the May release of Knish: In Search of the Jewish Soul Food, by Laura Silver, a lovingly written paean to the humble, hearty knish.

Silver, undisputedly the world's leading expert on knish, uncovers the popular history and cultural impact of this potatoey pastry—not to be confused with its cousins the blintz, pierogi, dumpling (which we'll cover in a later post), and certainly not the bagel.

Lest you think we're crazy, read these reasons why the knish is having its moment. Then go get a knish. (Eat the knish.) Then find and fall for Laura Silver's Knish. Then tell us we're crazy.


1. Knish is an acceptable meal.
No one's saying a fresh-baked, pillowy, crispy-on-the-outside bagel is a bad thing, but don't fool yourself into thinking that's a smart way to start your day—it has zero nutritional value. But a knish? Stuffed with potatoes, it's an excellent source of potassium and Vitamin C. If you go with a meat-filled knish, there's your boost of protein! And you know what: with a knish you still get to have something fresh-baked, pillowy, and crispy-on-the-outside.

2. Knish has standards.
Whereas a bagel doesn't care if it's a day old, cold, tied up in a plastic sleeve and marked down for clearance, a knish simply demands to be eaten piping hot, straight out of the oven—and at least once in your life sears the roof of your mouth so you'll always be able to say it was worth the pain.

3. Knish is a welcome change of pace.
Knishes have been made and sold in New York City for well over a century, but like most things worth their weight in gold, you've got to know where to find them—from the legendary Yonah Schimmel's on the Lower East Side to Knish Nosh on Queens Blvd. Unlike the bagel, whose ubiquity makes it almost as easy to find a meh one as it is to find a good one.

Who's the more insulted, the bagel or the pizza?

4. Knish remembers from whence it came.
A bite out of a knish is—and always will be—a bite out of tradition, a nod to the strivers of the Jewish community on New York's Lower East Side in the early 1900s, as well as a loving gesture to the old world of the knish's origins. In her book, Laura Silver travels to Jerusalem, Paris, and parts of Poland, tracing not only the enigmatic roots of the knish, but a lineage of Jews for whom this pastry symbolizes the bonds of family. Silvers writes, "In Aramaic, 'a knish,' or rather aknish, meant a coming together, a joining of people, a community."

Now, the bagel's history is no less inspiring, but look at what we've done to it. "Old world" and "handmade" are the furthest things from our minds when we're made to wait in a line at Panera, trying to choose between sesame seed and pumpkin-spice-walnut-crunch or whatever else is in that thing.

5. In a 'food porn' face-off, knish always wins.

All right, the bagels do look pretty good.

6. You can put mustard on a knish.
And mustard beats cream cheese every day. (Lox is cheating.) 


Be sure to head over to Laura Silver's website, Knish.me, a working shrine to everything you ever wanted to know about the knish—a knishipedia, if you will. Find knish recipes, contribute your own personal knish story, locate U.S. knisheries on a map, see where Laura will be promoting Knish this summer, and weigh in on the only other knish debate that matters: round versus square!

Knish: In Search of the Jewish Soul Food, by Laura Silver is on sale now.