"To Honor My Mother"
Tribute to the Iraqi-Jewish Community
I was born the youngest daughter (sixth) of parents who immigrated to Israel from two ends of the earth. My father, Abraham Rabinoviz, immigrated from Skopje, Macedonia, and my mother immigrated from Bagdhad, Iraq. Throughout their entire marriage, my mother maintained the home and family all hours of the day, and my father was out making a living to support his big family from dawn to dusk, such that the entire household was run in the spirit of my mother’s Iraqi traditions and culture. For every question, my mother’s answer was a story she heard as a little girl. The center of our home was the kitchen, where my mother wowed us with the best traditional Iraqi dishes – moving up the stairs towards the house one would be embraced by the aroma of her authentic dishes, which she created exactly as my grandmother had before her, who had learned from her mother, and so forth and so on, women passed the recipes from generation to generation without even knowing how to read and write. I also had the good fortune to learn the secrets of the Iraqi cuisine, which pleased my children who loved their grandmother’s cooking.
I was also raised in a very musical home thanks to my grandfather, my mother’s father, Yaakov Yadgar, who was a talented Qanun player back in Bagdhad, who played in the Royal Orchestra and immigrated to Israel with instrument in hand. He immediately joined the Broadcasting Authority Orchestra, run by Ezra Aaron. Inspired by my grandfather, my mother listened to Arabic music at home and I grew up on the Arab films that were once broadcasted in Israel on Friday afternoons, as well as on the songs of Umm Kulthum, Farid Al-Atrash, and other important famous figures in Arabic music. When my mother passed away about three years ago, I made a decision to create a tribute exhibition on the Iraqi Jewish community, dedicated to her memory. I am still in the stage of collecting materials, interviews, documentation, photographs, paintings drawings etc. for the exhibition. The objective of the exhibition is to preserve the beautiful and extensive tradition and culture, which are hundreds of years old. I aim to perpetuate the heritage for the generations to come, so it will never be forgotten.
"To Honor My Mother"
מרגלית רבינוביץ ז"ל יהי זיכרך ברוך.
“Naomi Reads the Coffee Grounds”
My mother, of blessed memory, used to host a monthly “parliament” of Iraqi women at our home, who gathered together excitedly for an event called “coffee ground reading”. She was a very important and influential figure in their lives, since in effect she served as a kind of counselor on personal matters such as marriage, love and children etc. The women took very seriously every word that came out of her mouth when reading the coffee, and waited with great anticipation for an optimistic and supportive predication about the future.
The drawings are an experiential document of these events, through the eyes of a young girl peeking at the parliament, watching this fantastic group of women from the side and absorbing life stories, scents and flavors.
That little girl is…… me.
When I was little, my beloved aunt Rachel used to invite the entire family, including children, to a special photography session, because the neighborhood photographer had arrived to photograph and document us.
The women would wear their best garments, put on their best hairdos and makeup and just like actors in a theater, they would prepare a tableau on stage with special scenery for the photographs. A box full of costumes awaited us children and the mothers would choose a costume for us.
From the box of costumes, my mother picked a “queen of the stars” costume for me. The costume was not exactly my size but I liked it. She also did my makeup and drew “Asian eyes” marking two sharp lines with a black pencil.
These drawings document the celebration.
The Queen of the Stars
Porcelain Dishes
In the living room of my childhood home there was a glass vitrine which displayed with great pride expensive porcelain dishes my mother collected, which was very typical of traditional Iraqi homes. It was forbidden to open the vitrine, to touch or even think about using the dishes on display, Gd forbid. Once a month my mother had a very precise cleaning ceremony. She would shine the dishes one by one with a rag with her confident hand, and I would watch her every move, mesmerized. I always wanted to hold the porcelain dishes in my hands, and I imagined that I was a princess and the pictures on the beautiful dishes were mine.
When my mother passed away, about three years ago, when we were sitting shiva my sister told me that, before she died, my mother had asked her to give the dishes to me as a present. Now I too have a glass vitrine in my living room with all my beautiful serving sets. In honor of my mother.
