In Georgia, a 23-year-old maintains a venerable synagogue, the last remnant of his community
Soviet repression caused most Georgian Jews to flee, leaving behind a 2,500-year-old history whose memory is beginning to fade. In his village, one young man seeks to preserve it
AKHALTSIKHE, Georgia — What may be one of Europe’s oldest synagogues stands in a small town along the southwestern border of Georgia. It is the last remnant of a once-lively Jewish community that first migrated to the country during the Babylonian exile in the sixth century BCE. Today, it is preserved by 23-year-old Beniamin Levishvili, the synagogue’s gabbai and guardian of its history and survival.
“I stay because if not me, who will do it?” he says. Without a gabbai, or beadle, the synagogue’s existence would be threatened. But even the synagogue’s guardian doesn’t care for it full-time: Levishvili splits his time between Israel and Georgia and returns to Akhaltsikhe for the high tourist season, often guiding Israeli travelers.
At its peak, the Akhaltsikhe Jewish community grew to include two synagogues and nearly 3,000 members. However, when repatriation to Israel in the 1970s and 1990s offered many an escape from Soviet repression, their departure left a void — though one that is not felt as strongly by the town’s younger generation.
Levishvili came of age without a functioning Jewish quarter. He did, however, grow up with stories about his grandfather’s efforts to preserve Jewish cultural life during Stalin-era religious repression.
After both synagogues were seized and placed under Soviet government control, grandfather Ioseb Levishvili advocated fiercely for the synagogues’ restitution. The oldest was returned after Stalin’s death, but the community couldn’t save the second synagogue, which was eventually repurposed into a movie theater and sports hall. Today, the building stands largely in ruins.
By the early 2000s, the congregation lacked a minyan, or the 10 adult Jews required for a prayer service. When Levishvili lost his father Simon four years ago at age 19, he quickly took up the family mantle of preserving the synagogue.
Dating game
The synagogue’s date of construction is a matter of some debate. A cornerstone on the exterior facade is inscribed with the year 1863. However, some locals, including historian Tsira Meskhishvili, believe that the synagogue’s origins may date back further, going as far as to assert that it is one of the oldest synagogues in Europe.
Meskhishvili’s interest in Georgian Jews is informed by her close relationship with the former community in Akhaltsikhe. The community, says Meskhishvili, is remarkable for its strong sense of Georgian identity. Unlike most countries in the Jewish Diaspora, Georgia is one of the few places that does not have a modern history of institutionalized antisemitism.
Meskhishvili studied Georgian Jewry in the region for seven years and published a dissertation in which she claims that the synagogue dates back to the 1740s. She cites travel diaries from Yehuda Halevi Chorny and notes economic prosperity in the 18th century, asserting that the rising merchant class led to an increase of Jewish settlements in the region. Although data on the scope of the Jewish population only emerged in the 20th century, Meskhishvili disagrees with the claim that Georgian Jews prayed in makeshift shelters. Their economic success under Ottoman occupation, Meskhishvili says, advanced Jewish society and architecture in the city’s ancient neighborhood of Rabati.
Dr. Moshe Danieli, an associate professor of civil engineering at Ariel University, argues otherwise. Speaking to The Times of Israel by phone, Danieli describes the synagogue’s interior structure, pointing out its polygonal ceiling and thick underlying wooden plank, which serves double duty as an aesthetic feature and a support system.
Danieli visited the synagogue in 1995 as part of an effort to restore and preserve the building, and he explains several reasons for the accuracy of the 1863 construction date. Firstly, the impressive structural features in the ceiling required technological advancements made available only in the 19th century. Danieli believes that the synagogue was built following the arrival of Russian Jews and its construction was overseen by Russian forces.
Moreover, in the inscription, small discrepancies in pronouncing Akhaltsikhe, as ethnographer Nican Bebalikashvili asserts in his book “Jewish Inscriptions in Georgia,” hint that the construction can be attributed to Ashkenazi Jews, who largely arrived after the Russian annexation of Georgia in the 19th century.
Despite the synagogue’s disputed date of construction, the building remains a destination for many visitors. Several Torahs are stamped with ownership imprints tracing back to the USSR, and a 16th-century Torah from Iraq is hidden behind the Holy Ark. Upon its reveal, many visitors are often moved to tears, Levishvili says.
Rabati, not Georgian, Jews
As recently as the 1970s, the Jewish community of Georgia, one of the oldest Christian countries with a long history of occupation, numbered nearly 60,000. In 2014, only about 1,500 remained.
Hailing from the Sephardic traditions and later migrating from countries such as Turkey, Iran and Morocco, these Jews developed an ancient Aramaic ethno-dialect, identified as Judeo-Georgian. Linguist Tamara Lomtadze says that although the dialect is on the verge of extinction, it once served to distinguish between the Sephardim and the later-arriving Ashkenazi Jews.
The presence of migration and cultural exchange is reflected in the diverse religious and architectural heritage of Samtskhe-Javakheti, Georgia’s southwestern region. The Rabati neighborhood in Akhaltsikhe, in particular, stands as an emblem of the region’s diversity, with religious buildings from different traditions nestled in close quarters.
The Rabati Castle is a ninth-century fortress that sprawls across the town’s skyline. Once used by Ottoman and Russian Imperial forces, the neighborhood’s religious diversity ranges from the Armenian Apostolic church to the Turkish mosque.
David Boterashvili, 64, spent his childhood in Rabati. Though he now lives in Tbilisi, he maintains a strong regional identity.
“I always remember my community not as Akhaltsikhe Jews, Georgian Jews, or Jews — but as Rabati Jews,” Boterashvili says. “They stand apart from the rest who live in Georgia. There was always a difference, externally and internally.”
Boterashvili describes how most Jewish residents lived in subterranean homes, known as erdo in Georgian, a term derived from words meaning den or cave. Today, most have been built over to accommodate new houses.
Boterashvili says that the rise of Bolshevism in Georgia contributed to an influx of deportees to Akhaltsikhe. His relatives participated, though unsuccessfully, in opposition movements that attempted to safeguard Georgian independence in the early 20th century. Known as the Siberia of Georgia, Akhaltsikhe became a place of exile; its harsh climate and rugged terrain further cemented its reputation as a remote and unforgiving location.
The Bolshevik Revolution also ushered in a new economic landscape for the Caucasus. An archival document from the National Library in Jerusalem highlights the achievements of Jewish collective farms in Akhaltsikhe. Written in 1931 in Russian, the document’s title, “Successful Collective Farms of Akhaltsikhe Jews,” expresses praise of a relatively small Jewish demographic. The document includes details on the construction of irrigation dams and the amount of crops yielded. Today, Georgia’s periphery remains underdeveloped with high rates of unemployment and poor infrastructure.
According to Oxford historian Thea Gomelauri, several factors influenced Jewish identity and strengthened a kinship between both groups. Jews had Georgian suffixes in their surnames, often ending in “shvili” or “adze,” attended Georgian schools, and defended the country. This camaraderie, Gomelauri says, evoked the concept of nationality well before it existed. In the Soviet years, the spirit of community was a necessity in order to survive against the state machine, she says.
Though the Jews of Georgia were an inextricable part of the social fabric of the various regions in which they found themselves, their repatriation diluted their cultural impact. Jews carry on their Georgian practices in Israel, speaking Judeo-Georgian in a few pockets across the country, such as in Ashdod in the south and Haifa in the north. However, the generation born from Georgian-Jewish emigres in Israel has little to no attachment to the birthplace of their parents, further deepening the cultural gap. The changing demographic landscape signals a new reality for both Georgians and Jews.
“Loss. There is only one word to describe it,” historian Gomelauri says. “[The emigres] were parting with their own flesh and blood.”
The Times of Israel Community.