This story was related to us by Inessa, who is today happily married and living in a suburb of Brooklyn, NY. I was born into a non-religious Sefardi family in Azerbaijan, a predominantly Muslim country located southeast of Georgia, on the shores of the Caspian Sea. We lived in a city, in an ancient apartment complex, surrounded by a courtyard in which our Muslim and Jewish neighbors mingled. Our family, like the others around us, was very poor. There were no appliances or machinery; clothes were washed by hand, and water had to be pumped from the well. New clothing was a luxury, and a decent education was a pipe dream. Even food was strictly rationed and of limited variety.
Although we lived on the same standard as our Muslim neighbors, they hated and resented us for our superior standards of cleanliness and moral behavior. They would taunt us in the primitive school we attended, and call us ugly names. My parents were born during wartime, and were determined to establish a safe haven for their family. Though we lived in a backward, intolerant culture, our daily lives were peaceful, even idyllic. I was the fourth child in the family; three older sisters preceded me. In Muslim culture, boys occupy an elevated status, and most parents yearned for a male heir. Before my birth in 1972, my parents were sure that I would be a boy; after all, they already had three daughters. What was the use of another one? My mother, especially, was dreaming about her long-awaited son and counting the days until his arrival. (Ultrasound technology was still light-years away from Azerbaijan, where infant mortality was high.) Shortly before my arrival, my father, who worked hard as a day laborer, was busy painting the house in anticipation of his longawaited son. This was remarkable, as Father never did household chores; in our culture, men took care of the field work, while women ran the home. However, in this case my father made an exception. While he worked, my mother took a nap, as she was exhausted. Suddenly she awoke, bathed in perspiration and frantic. “I had a terrible nightmare,” she sobbed. “What happened?” my father asked, shocked and distressed by her tone.
My parents, as did many of the villagers in our small community, placed great emphasis on dreams. “I dreamed…that I had given birth to a girl!” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. My father breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that all? I thought something terrible happened.” But to my mother, having a healthy baby girl instead of her long-awaited boy was the worst possible scenario. And indeed, several days later her nightmare came true. When the midwife announced that the new baby was a girl, my mother was devastated. She developed an instant dislike to her new daughter who had robbed her of her dreams. It didn’t matter that I was dark, beautiful, and perfect. It didn’t matter that the midwife crooned over me and called me the name of a well-known singer. It was only due to my father’s insistence that a baby girl was also a blessing that she even brought me home. Twelve days after I was born, my mother brought me home to the two-room shanty where our family resided. My homecoming was a rather subdued affair, I was told, because my mother still hadn’t recovered from her shock and distress. However the family soon settled back into a routine. I was fed and cared for, albeit in a perfunctory manner.
Then Hashem, in His mercy, created a miracle, enabling me to regain my position as the beloved baby in the family and to receive the love I was entitled to. When I was just a few weeks old, on a frigid winter night in December, my father lit a fire to keep the family warm. (There was no steam heat in our shanty.) As we all slumbered peacefully a fire erupted, and soon the walls were on fire. Still we all slept, oblivious to the smoke and the heat. Suddenly, I awoke and began to cry for food. My desperate cries woke my father, who realized something was seriously wrong. In an instant, he shouted to wake up his wife and children, and tossed them out the window to safety, one after the next. Miraculously, he managed to get us all out before the ceiling caved in and the whole hut was consumed by fire. My parents and siblings sat outside, terrified, watching as their earthly possessions were destroyed in the flames. Yet they were incredibly grateful for the miracle that had occurred, thanks to their baby daughter’s cries.
From that day onward, I was no longer the unwanted child who had robbed my parents of a baby boy. I was the miracle child whose cries had saved her family! My father, especially, was very grateful to me for my role in the drama. Perhaps subconsciously he also felt guilty for the way my mother had treated me, and tried his best to shower me with love. If he saw my siblings taking advantage of me, forcing me to do their chores, he would come to my assistance and tell them to leave me alone. When I was five years old, the longawaited miracle occurred: My only brother, the boy for whom my parents had waited and dreamed, was born! What a simchah! From that moment on I played second fiddle to my younger brother, who was spoiled and cosseted.
My childhood was similar to that of my siblings and most of my friends. We spent our days doing household chores, playing games outside, cooking and baking. I was known as Inessa the tomboy, because I preferred climbing trees and jumping from rooftops, to playing with dolls. My mother would say wryly, “You were supposed to be a boy, and that’s why you are acting exactly like a boy.” I didn’t have too many friends, in any case. I’d always been somewhat of a loner and was regarded as “strange” by my peers. Though I didn’t know much about my faith, I sensed there was a G-d in the world and spoke to Him during many long, lonely hours. Though perhaps I didn’t belong in my family, I knew that G-d loved me, and that’s all that mattered. When I was about seven years old, I began to go to school with my sisters. School was a one-room shack where we were taught by our teacher, a semi-illiterate villager. At school, I was exposed to the ugly scourge of anti-Semitism in Muslim countries. “What are you doing here, in this country?” an Armenian boy once asked me. “You belong in Israel, not here.” His words got me thinking. What, indeed, was I doing there? Why didn’t I move to Israel? Why did we live in such a hostile, backward country? What was keeping us from moving? It would be many long years, though, before I’d have the opportunity to realize my dream.
In the meantime, my childhood was punctuated by several other open miracles. One miracle occurred when I was about seven years old. My mother, having grown tired of washing clothes by hand, persuaded my father to purchase a primitive washing machine. This was a square, metal box with open moving parts, very unsafe in a family of young children. I was about eight years old at the time and had just returned from playing outdoors. My bare feet were muddy, and I went into the bathroom to wash them. I held onto the machine for balance while I washed my feet with our water hose. Suddenly, some water splashed onto the machine, soaking me and creating an electrical current. I received a strong electric shock from the exposed metal parts and fell to the ground, unconscious.
Meanwhile, water continued pouring from the hose onto the bathroom floor, nearly drowning me. I was lying prone in a puddle of water, unable to breathe, while my mother was hanging laundry outside, oblivious. Finally, my mother came into the bathroom to check on the laundry and found me, near death. In a panic, she yelled to my father, who was working in the garden. He quickly lifted me and carried me outside, placing me in the sand in order to absorb the electric current still inside me. At the same time, he gently tried to tilt my head so that the water would drain from my body. He waited anxiously until I finally began to breathe on my own. That wasn’t my only brush with death. Once, during the summer season, we went to the beach to spend the afternoon playing near the sea. My sisters and I waded into the water, but they were taller than I was, and soon the water covered my mouth and nose. I was frantic, gasping for air, but was too far in to go back. I silently struggled, desperate for air as the water closed in on me.
Finally one of my sisters turned back and realized what was happening, and immediately plucked me out of the water. These near-misses gave me a powerful insight into G-d’s hashgachah. Though I didn’t understand these concepts at the time, I instinctively knew that my life had been saved by a miracle. I knew that G-d was the only One I could rely on. I would walk outdoors, in the fields near my home, and admire His beautiful world. What was all this created for? I would wonder. And what is my role in this world? My childhood years passed quickly; I was busy going to school, climbing trees and getting into trouble, and helping my mother with the never-ending chores. And then came the day I was dreading: my eighteenth birthday. My three older sisters had been married at that age to suitors chosen by my parents.
In many Sephardic cultures, young women have absolutely no say in whom they will marry. At times a girl’s suitor can be a man ten years her senior. These arranged marriages are very different from chasidic marriages, where the young man and woman are consulted every step of the way. In our culture, it didn’t matter what we thought or wanted. We were simply told whom we would marry, and willingly submitted to our father’s choice. However, I was not like my sisters, who had agreed to let Father find them a groom. I didn’t want to marry some stranger my father chose. I wasn’t ready to get married at such a young age, in any case. But my father didn’t ask for my opinion. He wanted me married at eighteen because it was unsafe in our Muslim community for a young woman to be unmarried. And so, one day he found a suitable groom, the son of a friend who lived in a distant country. The young man came to visit along with his parents, and my mother cooked up a storm. Everyone was so excited about the betrothal party—everyone but me. The guests arrived and a lavish meal was served.
I observed my future husband, but he didn’t appeal to me. He looked way older and gave off a boorish, uncouth impression. After the meal my mother put a ring on my finger and told me I was engaged. Everyone burst into joyous song, but I stared morosely at the ceiling. As soon as they left I went into bed and began to sob, praying that the young man would change his mind. I spent most of the night crying, until I eventually fell asleep. I dreamed a very strange, elaborate dream. I was sitting in an exquisite garden when suddenly I saw a thin, dark-haired young man approach, holding the hands of two small children. They looked so happy and content; I yearned to join them. “Are you coming with us?” the young man asked. “I would love to join you, but my mother will be worried,” I replied. At that point I opened my eyes and found my mother standing near my bed. Her eyes were red. She, too, had been crying. “Inessa, I see that you are very sad about this engagement. I, too, have my doubts,” she said. “I will return the ring and see that the engagement is nullified.” When she said these words, I was suffused with joy and gratitude. G-d had listened to my silent prayers! The young man went back home to seek his fortune. Years later, I would learn how G-d saved me; he later murdered someone and was sentenced to 25 years in prison! My life with this violent man would have been a living nightmare. I remained unmarried for the next few months, which proved fortunate as the situation in our community worsened. The anti-Semitism was at its peak and it became dangerous to go outdoors alone. We had relatives in America who were urging us to join them.
When I was eighteen and a half, our family finally made the decision to uproot our lives and move to America. Our move was traumatic and our adjustment not much easier. For the first few months following our arrival, we stayed at the home of an aunt, a traditional Sephardic Jew. We didn’t know the language— we spoke exclusively Russian and Persian— and were unfamiliar with the lifestyle and culture. Yet she played old-style Israeli music, which I found soothing and comforting. Something deep within me stirred. I realized that I knew almost nothing about my heritage. With the help of kindhearted neighbors, I enrolled in a college ESL program to learn English, and slowly began to get used to my new life.Several months after we arrived in New York, we moved to our own apartment in Bensonhurst, on a block with numerous shomrei Torah u’mitzvos. However, at first we had no relationship with them. All that changed after my accident, yet another twist in my fascinating life story. My mother was feeling unwell, and an ambulance was called. As she was being taken to the hospital, she asked me to run home and get some clothes for her. I was shaking with fear as I ran back, got the clothes, and tried to cross the street to reach the waiting ambulance. As I crossed, a car was coming in the opposite direction; he waited for me, and I hesitated. Then, as I made the decision to cross, he sped up at the same time and hit me. I was thrown a few feet and got pretty banged up and bruised. Fortunately, however, I was spared permanent damage. Now the ambulance took both of us to the hospital. My mother recovered quickly but I was sore for months.
When I returned from the hospital, I realized that G-d was sending me a message. I needed to make some changes in my life. That first Shabbat, I went with my brother to a nearby Conservative synagogue. I walked right out when I saw a woman playing the piano. Even I knew that it was forbidden to play music on Shabbat! The next week I went to a Reform synagogue, and was disgusted as well. By the third week, I knew I needed to find an Orthodox place. At that moment, it was like the blessing of “pokei’ach ivrim.” G-d opened my eyes and I realized what I had been missing all these years. I discovered a wonderful family that lived on my street. They welcomed me with open arms and adopted me as their daughter. They encouraged me to enroll in Aish HaTorah’s Brooklyn program, where I began to learn the Hebrew alphabet and the rudiments of my religion. Within a short time I was on a whirlwind of excitement and joy. I was going to Aish HaTorah, learning English in college, and meeting wonderful new friends. I was also babysitting for a very kindhearted family that invited me for Shabbat meals. Slowly I began to experience the beauty of Shabbat, and I realized what I had been missing all these years. My brother, who was then in his teens, accompanied me for Shabbat meals, and was even more enthusiastic than I was. He was enrolled in Sinai Academy and was soon wearing a kippah, eating kosher and keeping Shabbat.
The first time I saw him washing netilat yadayim I burst into tears. I thought he had gone crazy! Why was he doing something so strange? But then he explained it to me and I calmed down. Two days later, I, too, was washing my hands that way. At first, my parents thought they had lost two of their children to some bizarre cult. But when they saw how well we were adjusting, they realized that it wasn’t all bad. Yet my mother wanted us to have all the opportunities America offered, and she was afraid that religion would stifle my choices. It took a while to persuade her that I was happier than ever. A year after our arrival in the States, my mind was made up. I decided to go to Israel to learn in the Neve Yerushalayim seminary there. There was only one issue: My parents were very upset about my choice. In our culture, daughters obeyed their fathers without question. It took a lot of persuading and convincing for him to allow me to go. I was supposed to stay for two months, but ended up staying for seven months. All told, it was an eye-opening experience. When I returned home to attend a cousin’s wedding, Hashem sent me my bashert on a golden platter. I was introduced to a wonderful young man from Persia who was kindhearted, gentle, and a baal teshuvah like me. We got married a short while later and built a true Jewish home. Today my husband and I are the proud parents of several young children. We live in a well-known Torah community, and our children attend Bais Yaakov. I am also very involved in Oorah, and I teach Torah to a TorahMate. I am incredibly grateful that my dream of long ago, when I was a miserable little girl living in Azerbaijan, has come true.