DAMASCUS, SYRIA-- Bakhour Chamntoub is not what you might expect from one of the last Jews in one of the Arab world’s most anti-Israel countries.
Chamntoub does not spend his days locked away in his house, fearing for his safety. He prefers to swagger around the Old City, where he is something of a local celebrity. With a broad smile and a wry sense of humour, Chamntoub greets seemingly every second person on the street, receiving warm welcomes of salam, marhaba and even shalom from his many neighbours.
“This is what I love about this city, and why I’ll never leave,” Chamntoub says. “I have too many friends here to ever leave. Can’t you tell?”
Chamntoub was recently appointed as the head of Syria’s Jewish community by the new Syrian government of Ahmed al-Sharaa, the rebel leader-turned-Syrian president whose forces ousted the regime of Bashar al-Assad two months ago. While it’s largely a symbolic position, it’s still an honour, and a sign that the new government plans to work with and protect the community. Not that there was much competition: just seven Jews remain in Syria, all in Damascus and all elderly. Two others died of advanced age in just the past month.
Chamntoub lives in a modest but handsome home just off Al Amin Street, historically the heart of the Jewish quarter of Damascus’s Old City. Sitting on his rooftop balcony overlooking the minarets and churches, he describes the decline of one of the world’s oldest Jewish communities.
“Under the Assad regime, we had so many restrictions,” Chamntoub says. “A Jew could not leave Syria - we could not even visit areas outside of Damascus. People used to get smuggled out of the country, but if the regime found out, they would go to their family members, arrest them and beat them,” he says.
Syria’s Jews were barred from leaving the country for decades, even before the Assad family under Hafez al-Assad took power in 1970. There was nevertheless a steady trickle of departures as allies abroad worked to spirit away their brethren in Syria to safer pastures. One was particularly successful: Judy Feld Carr, a teacher in Montreal, managed to rescue 3,228 Syrian Jews over the course of nearly three decades.
In 1993, the trickle became a flood. The Assad government finally agreed to grant exit permits to its remaining Jewish citizens, almost all of whom would leave within a year. Chamntoub’s seven brothers were among them, with three heading to Israel and four to the United States, but he decided to stay.
“I was planning to leave at that time, too, to be honest,” says Chamntoub. “But I started hearing about how difficult it was for the people who did. They had to sort out new jobs, new documents, to restart their lives completely. I didn’t have a wife or children, and I liked it here, so I decided to stay,” he says.
Chamntoub doesn’t follow much in the way of Jewish traditions or dietary restrictions. All the synagogues closed long ago for want of worshippers; with no local rabbi, a kosher diet is out of the question, too.
Still, Chamntoub manages to receive shipments of kosher meat from a rabbi in Istanbul, Turkey on regular occasions, sent with friends visiting via Lebanon.
Had he left Syria, one thing in particular would have been impossible to bring with him - his local reputation.
“I am the best tailor in Syria,” Chamntoub proclaims, beaming. “Back under the regime, there used to be a mukhabarat (military intelligence) agent posted on my street, specifically to watch me. They would arrest people just for coming to me, for buying clothes from me - not just men, but even women,” he says.
Even the threat of arrest and punishment could not stop the flow of customers.
“The mukhabarat agent here, he would ask the people coming to me. ‘There are a thousand tailors in Damascus, why do you have to go to the Jew?’ And they would say, ‘because he’s the best!’” he says with a laugh.
The fall of the regime brought an end to that, and to other restrictions. But not everything is rosy.
‘Forced his way’
“The main problems here are the most basic: water and electricity,” he says. “It was bad during the war and over the last few years, but it got a lot worse since December 8 (the day Assad fled the country). Most people here are just in survival mode now.”
The entry of the rebels into the capital has brought new issues, too.
“A few weeks ago, an HTS (Hayat Tahrir al-Sham) fighter came to one of the old Jewish houses here,” Chamntoub says, speaking of the rebel group headed by Sharaa that overthrew Assad and now runs the country.
“These houses had been locked up and empty for 30 or 40 years - even the regime didn’t touch them. But this guy just showed up, forced his way and refused to leave, even when my neighbours and I confronted him,” he says.
The arrival of the fighters - bushy-bearded Islamists, from the largely rural, conservative Sunni Muslim province of Idlib in the north - has discomforted residents of the interfaith, cosmopolitan Old City.
“They don’t fit in here,” Chamntoub says of the newcomers. “They even look scary, with their masks. I don’t understand why they have to cover their faces – if they’re not planning on doing anything wrong, why should they hide them? It makes people afraid,” he says.
While events in the Old City have remained peaceful despite the tensions over the house seizures, the same cannot be said for everywhere in Syria. Revenge killings against Alawites - the sect that the Assad family and much of Syria’s former security apparatus belonged to - have disquieted other minorities, who are largely open to the new government but wary of its leaders’ jihadist pasts.The ongoing violence, concentrated in Syria’s central Homs province, is spoken of extensively in concerned tones in the capital and elsewhere.
‘We have no laws’
“Only an hour ago, a friend of mine told me about another young Alawite woman in Homs who was kidnapped and killed,” Chamntoub says. “Just because Assad was an Alawite does not mean that every one of them is guilty. This is a huge problem now - we have no laws, no police,” he says.
While other areas of Syria may be prone to sectarian violence, it’s clear that Damascus’s Old City, with its centuries-long history of close interfaith ties, is all but immune.
As we walk through the neighbourhood, Chamntoub cries out in joy at one face in particular. He walks up to a nearby store and claps the man there on the shoulder: Nizar al-Aswad, a Palestinian and Chamntoub’s best friend since childhood.
“We might argue about politics, but I could never dislike this man,” says Aswad of his companion. “He is a humble guy, he never thinks he’s above anyone. He has respect for everyone,” he says.
“As we always tell people: he is the Palestinian resistance, and I am the Jewish spy,” says Chamntoub, with a laugh.
Recent days have brought more positive news. On February 19, a delegation of Syrian Jews who had long since emigrated to the U.S. returned to Damascus for the first time in more than 30 years, having previously been barred by the Assad regime.
The visit brought emotional reunions with old friends and a promise to help participate in the country’s rebuilding. While none are presently planning to stay permanently, even the brief visit cast a glimmer of hope that Syria’s Jewish community might survive a bit longer.
For now, it’s clear that as long as Chamntoub is still breathing, there will be at least one Jew in Damascus.
“I’m not married, and I’m something of a womanizer,” Chamntoub grins. “That’s why I can never leave: all my ladies are here!”
Written by Neil Hauer, Edited by Mary Nersessian
