Una Janucá Cubana—A Cuban Hanukkah

Sunday night was the first night of Hanukkah. Naturally, I visited one of the two local synagogues to see how the Cubans celebrate. To see what joy looks like to them.

As the sun was setting, we entered the Adath Israel synagogue in Old Havana. The synagogue was guarded by a barbed wire fence and a doorman. I went up to him and explained that we were Jewish Americans looking to celebrate the holiday with the local community, and after a short call to upstairs, we were brought inside. I don’t think antisemitism is a major issue in Cuba. Afterall, we’d heard almost exclusively about how welcoming Cuba is to everyone of all backgrounds. How nobody really cares what you practice or what you look like—everyone who is Cuban in spirit is treated as such. So I was surprised to find the barbed wire fence and “existent” security, but maybe even fears of antisemitism reach the most well-protected edges of the Jewish community nowadays.

We headed into the hall to find a sight that looks familiar and comforting. The synagogue looked like a synagogue. A giant wooden menorah covered one wall, and the ark, made of wood that looks just like my temple back at home, was decorated in a velvet cover. Jewish stars adorned the whole room, and at the top, an array of stained and frosted glass again made this place feel oddly familiar and homey. Off to the side, glass cases held pieces of Cuban Judaica—old Jewish books and objects that had found their way to Cuba, and off to the other side, a five-foot tall chanukiah ready to light for the first night.

The rabbi was dressed in Chabad black—wearing a black, striped suit and a brimmed, black velvet hat. Though he didn’t have payot, he certainly looked like an Orthodox rabbi. The other attendees, besides the rabbi’s son, wore just normal nice clothes—button downs and dresses. The women were separated from the men, though we all came together when it was time to light the chanukiah.

The praying was exactly what I’d expect from a rabbi dressed like him. A constant stream of prayers, several readings of the Mourner’s Kaddish, flowed out of his mouth. Often I was able to catch onto what prayer was going on by a few words in, but it moved so fast that I often couldn’t even keep up. It reminded me exactly of my experience in Tbilisi back in August, though this time, I could understand the commentary. I will say, the rabbi made one observation in his sermon about Hanukkah—basically retelling the story with his own commentary on top—that I had never thought of before. If one day’s worth of oil lasted for eight days, then why is the miracle eight days long? Shouldn’t it be seven? The first day is certainly not a miracle. I just found it some interesting food for thought…

Then the time came to light the chanukiah. I found it, at first, surprising that their song for lighting the chanukiah is the same as ours back at home, save a little change at the very end. But I later learned that much of the community is Ashkenazi—who came from Lithuania and Poland about 100 years ago—and thus, their traditions aren’t that estranged from my family’s. I’d heard that many Cuban Jews, historically, descend from those who escaped Spain during the Inquisition, so it was interesting for me to hear that the majority of the community, at least at Atadth Israel, are not Sephardim.

Being at the synagogue was comforting. I was in a place many would never visit, in an enemy of my own country at a time when our enemies are being attacked, and I was surrounded by poverty and hardship. But for just the evening, I forgot about all of that. I was reminded of home, of my own community and the stories shared across generations.

After services were over, we were invited upstairs to the Hanukkah party! There were food, drinks, and games for us to enjoy, and they were generous enough to include us in everything. First, they lit more chanukiot upstairs. They had each kid in the congregation light one of their own. The catch? That’s four. And two of them are the Rabbi’s kids. The Cuban Jewish population is shrinking, and there is not a next generation to carry on the tradition. Those old enough have moved away, leaving their community to dwindle away and disappear.  

The food was not what I was expecting—it was not Ashkenazi Hanukkah food. And, I doubt it was Sephardic Hanukkah food either. I think it was “Socialism Hanukkah Food.” They had some pasta in red sauce, a pasta salad, and Puré de Malanga, which is kind of like a more bitter, runnier version of mashed potatoes. There were not even latkes to be found. Nothing was particularly delicious, but out of gratitude for their hospitality, we finished it anyways.

After dinner, they did their gifts. This included some packets of gelt, a $5 bill to everyone in the congregation, and a raffle. Turns out, everyone won the raffle at some point. And the prize?

The raffle prize? A bar of soap and some laundry detergent.

For Hanukkah: soap and laundry detergent.

We’d heard about the lack of medicines, of soap, of hygiene on the island. We’d heard about the one tube of toothpaste allotted every three months. But this, this more than anything, accentuated the exasperation of the Cubans. It, more than anything else we’ve seen so far, made clear what it is that the Cubans both appreciate and need.

While I got robotics sets and gaming consoles for Hanukkah as a kid, they got laundry detergent and soap. Needless to say, we quickly turned around and donated our $5 to the temple’s tzedakah, and gave the soap and detergent to people we met along the way.

The rest of the evening was fun. We got to talk a little with the congregants, and otherwise, we kicked around a soccer ball under disco lights while Omer Adam and the Hanukkah song played on repeat in the background.

My time with the Jewish community in Cuba was really inspiring and educational. I learned that, despite the cultural disconnect between Cuba and the US, many traditions and customs are the same. Yet Cuban Jews undoubtably live with greater hardship, and thus, the holiday of Joy and Light for many in America turned into, for me, a holiday of thanks. A thanks for a growing, thriving community. Thanks for the extras in life—the things I don’t need, but want. But what I’m most thankful for is the intangible gift of being Jewish. The gift that I can connect with Jews anywhere around the world. That I can feel welcomed as part of a community I’ve never met just because of my family’s lineage and the way I was brought up. The Cuban Hanukkah proved that joy can be found even among the hardest of times, and that though that joy may look different, what’s free in life is often the most precious.