His name was Gamal Abdul Nasser. I’d never heard of him before, but he was about to destroy my perfect childhood world

Photos: AP Images

As told to Leah Gebber by Mrs. Bella Sharer

AS

a young girl, I would sit next to my father under the ornate ceiling of the Ben Ezra Synagogue in Cairo, and when everyone stood up, I’d inspect my white Shabbat shoes. My father’s voice would ring out as he bid for the honor of placing the silver crown atop the sefer Torah before it was returned to the aron kodesh. And then he would lead me to the bimah and lift me into the air. I would grasp the silver keter and stretch and stretch and set the crown in its place.

This was my world, a world that was lost.

A kitchen filled with women: mother, grandmother, aunts, and cousins. The sound of rice poured onto the table and the chatter as so many pairs of arms shot forward to check the grains for infestation, fingers moving, rice sliding over the tabletop and into a glass container. Great crates of tomatoes being skinned and pushed through sieves to make tomato sauce and the smell of vinegar and sugar as the seasonal produce was pickled.

An olivewood box, crafted by hand in the far-off land that was Eretz Yisrael, purchased by my father on one of his business trips. It was covered in scenes that felt alive in our hearts: Kever Rachel with its distinctive dome, Mearat Hamachpeilah. They were the places we learned about, read about, but only dreamed about. Far more real to me was the Sphinx and the Pyramids, which were a regular Sunday afternoon destination.

It was a world of affluence and tranquility. Cairo was an ancient Jewish community, with a glorious history of scholarship and chesed. As a child, I was safe and secure in the arms of my beautiful family. All that was asked of me was that I learn my French verbs and arrive at school before the old-fashioned bell rang.

This was my world, a world that was lost.