Enduring Enigma

The Sephardic Heritage Museum, an organization dedicated to education and preservation of the Syrian Jewish community’s history and traditions, maintains a private archive in Lakewood, New Jersey. They share some background on the synagogue’s fascinating, ancient history.

There are a number of opinions about how old the synagogue actually is. The community holds dear to the mesorah that the k’nees (a colloquialism for beit knesset, similar to the Ashkenazi term “shul,”)  is approximately 3,000 years old and predates even the First Beit Hamikdash, making it the oldest standing beit knesset in existence. It was also the longest running — the k’nees was a center of Torah and tefillah, nearly without interruption, until the last Jews were evacuated from Aleppo. Manuscripts held by the Sephardic Heritage Museum cite Midrashic sources that report the synagogue was first constructed by Yoab ben Seruyah, commander-in-chief of Dovid Hamelech’s armed forces, in about 900 BCE.

Some students of history believe the beit knesset was built at a slightly later date. As evidence, they cite an inscription on a plaque on the wall in the synagogue, known as the Eli bar Natan plaque. It reads (translated from the Hebrew): “This domed structure was built by Mr. Eli, son of Natan, son of Mubasser, son of man, through his toil and money, in the year tahalich tzedakah of minyan shtarot.” The letters hei, lamed, final chaf, and tzadi in the words tahalich tzedakah are crowned with dots, indicating by their numerical value the year 145 of minyan shtarot.

There is some discussion among scholars how to calculate the equivalent of this year in the current calendar, with estimates ranging from 167 BCE to 342 or 833 CE. According to Professor Abraham Marcus, professor of history at the University of Texas and historian for the museum, the plaque may not be indicative of the date of the building’s construction at all, because it may be referring to a later renovation or addition to the preexisting structure.

Other sources point to a construction date sometime during the Second Beit Hamikdash. The sefer Kehillat Moshe, written during the 19th century by Aleppo chief rabbi Moshe Sithon, describes a repair project undertaken in 1863. In it, a declaration signed by seven rabbanim of the community states: “The glorious and famous synagogue here in Aram Soba, may G-d protect it, famous in all provinces of Israel, was built and established, as is known, in the days of the Second Beit Hamikdash.”

And an analysis of the building’s architecture, which contains columns topped with ornate capitals decorated in the Byzantine style, suggest construction — or perhaps, renovation — in about 500 CE.

The Halabi community treasures a legend that guarantees the Great Synagogue will never be destroyed. Recorded in seforim by Aleppine chief rabbis, Likedoshim Asher Ba’aretz by Rabbi David Laniado, and Mayan Ganim, written by Rabbi Mordechai Abadi, the tradition is quoted from  a lost midrash.

The mesorah relates that after Yoav ben Seruyah led the successful conquest of Aram (Syria) in about 900 BCE (as recorded in Divrei Hayamim, Shmuel II, Tehillim, and Masechet Gittin), Dovid Hamelech rewarded him by annexing the city of Aram Soba (Aleppo) to Eretz Yisrael and gifting it to him. Yoav immediately began building a grand synagogue as sign of gratitude to Hashem.

Before the construction was complete though, Yoav reconsidered. “Dovid has captured Yerushalayim, and his son Shlomo will build the Beit Hamikdash there,” he reasoned. “The Shechinah will surely settle in Yerushalayim, and not in my synagogue. Why am I building it?”

The next part of the legend is one Halabi Jews have held close in their hearts through centuries of struggle, destruction, and repair. As Yoav debated the wisdom of continuing his project, a Bat Kol boomed from Shamayim. “Yoav!” it said. “Both Batei Hamikdash, first and second, will be destroyed. But your beit knesset will stand for all time!”

Throughout millennia of regional conflict and survival, Halabi Jews never doubted the power of this promise. When the Arab Spring protests sparked a civil war in Syria and opposition fighters took Aleppo in 2011, an official from the US Department of State asked museum leaders, “What do you think remains of your synagogue in Aleppo?”

“We don’t know about the rest of the city,” came the reply. “But we can guarantee that the synagogue is still standing.”

Indeed, the k’nees has survived numerous episodes of damage and destruction, including riots, earthquakes, and wars, and emerged structurally sound (see sidebar). It also suffered major damage from four years of war, between 2011 and 2015.
But while the last Jews left Aleppo in 1992, and the Halabi community is spread across many countries, including the United States, Mexico, Panama, Argentina, and Brazil, their reverence for their mesorah still burns brightly. Under the auspices of the museum, a small group of people began clandestinely forming and leveraging relationships with officials within the Assad government, the Kremlin, and even Syrian opposition factions, to rebuild, restore and preserve some of the most precious Jewish sites in the Middle East, including the Great Synagogue.

The repair work was almost complete when an earthquake struck the region in February 2023, followed by another breakout of fighting in late November 2024, as Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham opposition forces pushed through Aleppo on their way to Damascus.

Mystical Complex

The structure, design, and layout of the k’nees is steeped in Torah and kabbalistic concepts. Many of these features have been known to locals for millennia, but a 2008 mission to the area by museum officials, armed with findings from documents in the archive, revealed new secrets.

The building is comprised of three main sections, or midrashim, and numerous surrounding rooms, buildings, caves, and underground mysteries. The center of the k’nees is open to the sky and the Halabis would daven there when the weather was good. In the center of this courtyard stands a domed, raised platform, called the teba, (similar to the Ashkenazic bimah) from which the chazzan would lead tefillot and the Torah was read. A well, used for drinking water and Tashlich, is located near the teba. Above the midrashim, a second-floor women’s gallery looks down upon the central courtyard.

During the Middle Ages, the western midrash served as the main center of tefillah for the Jews of Arabian descent and minhagim, known as Mistarabim. The seven windows in this ancient section are of a particular pattern, designed to impart a mussar message: The windows gradually increase in height, from right to left before dropping off sharply. This is mean to be a poignant reminder of man’s sojourn through his seven decades in This World — he grows steadily, before experiencing a contraction of his powers near the end.

The eastern wing was usually used by Spanish exiles who fled the Inquisition in 1492 and found their way to Syria. Other midrashim are built into the structure surrounding the courtyard and the upper story.

The synagogue has 72 pillars, also dictated by Kabbalah, and no less than seven heichalot. The heichalot were rooms built into the thick walls and caves of the building. Sifrei Torah and other treasures were kept on niches within.

The famed Aleppo Codex, the oldest Tanach ever written, was kept in a heichal in the eastern wing until it was smuggled to Israel after the Arab riots of 1947. Locally, the codex is called Keter Aram Soba, the “Crown of Aleppo,” and local mesorah holds it was written by Ezra Hasofer himself, in the 4th or 5th centuries BCE. Other scholars peg the composition of the keter at the 7th, or perhaps 9th century. It is widely accepted to be the one referred to by the Rambam as the authoritative text for Tanach. Three other ancient codices were kept there as well.

For centuries, this heichal, known as Me’arat Eliyahu HaNabi, was considered a particularly holy site. People in need of a yeshuah would come to light candles and pray. When a member of the community took an oath on a Torah, it was done before the Keter.

Another heichal, located at the end of a midrash sandwiched between the courtyard and the western wing, is called the Heichal Satoom, the Sealed Heichal. This vault is closed with cement. In the sefer Holech Tamim u’Poel Tzedek, Rabbi Avraham Dayan, chief rabbi of Aleppo until his passing in approximately 1877, relates the story of the Heichal Satoom.

The reason this heichal is sealed was related to me by an elderly man. It occurred one Simchat Torah evening. While the congregation was singing and dancing and praising the king loudly, the pasha (mayor) of the city passed by. The official was filled with a spirit of jealousy, and he plotted to take the building and convert it into a mosque….

That night, a large snake departed from the heichal and coiled itself around the pasha’s neck. No one could draw near the man, because of the poisonous venom on the snake’s breath. The pasha shrieked for help, but no one could respond.

The pasha then sent for my ancestor, [also called] Rabbi Dayan. The rabbi asked him, “Did you have any evil thoughts about this building?”

“Yes!” the panicked pasha shouted. “But I repent! From now on, I will repay you double goodness!”

The rabbi turned and spoke to the snake. “Go, return to your place!” The snake uncoiled itself from the man’s neck and returned to the heichal.

The ark was sealed following two tragedies that occurred after this story, when two chatanim in their first year of marriage who were seated near the heichal both died suddenly and mysteriously shortly afterward.

Another heichal, Heichal Tekiah, is accessed by a flight of nine steps in the outdoor courtyard. The upper landing also served as the place where britot were performed, and on Rosh Hashanah, the shofar was blown there, hence its name.

Yet another of the Great Synagogue of Aleppo’s hidden elements is a sealed door in the wall of the k’nees. According to the local tradition, the door opened to a tunnel — now collapsed — that led underground all the way to the Aleppo Citadel, the oldest, highest building in Aleppo. The precise time of its construction is unknown but is believed to have served the Chiti (Hittites) living in the area before the conquest by Dovid Hamelech. According to tradition, after the battle recorded in Tanach, Yoab ben Seruyah inscribed in the fortress, “I, Yoab ben Seruyah, conquered this city and its fortress.”

The fortress is built atop a steep hill, standing 140 feet above the rest of the city, and surrounded by a deep moat. Legend has it that Avraham Avinu pastured his sheep on this hill and would give their milk to the poor, lending the city its local name: Halab, or milk. This legend is reported by Rav Pesachya of Regensberg, brother of the Ri Halavan, one of the Baalei Tosafot.

The fortress also creates a halachic question for locals regarding which day to celebrate Purim. Many Aleppine Jews would celebrate both the 14th and 15th of Adar, and the museum’s archives include a teshuvah written on this topic by Rabbi Efraim Laniado, chief rabbi of Aleppo in the eighteenth century.

Graveyard Shift

The Maharalbach was a late Rishon who visited the area at about the turn of the 15th century. In his writings, he wonders how Kohanim can enter the beit knesset, because of the many graves that surround the building. The comment seems puzzling. While a small open area containing graves can be seen south of the structure, it would not prohibit Kohanim from entering the actual building.

In 2008, officials from the Sephardic Heritage Museum led a delegation to the Great Synagogue to document and record the building for posterity. They painstakingly documented and photographed every inch of the building and its surroundings, creating blueprints and visual evidence to preserve it for the community that could no longer worship there. Along the way, they encountered mysteries, leaving them with the sense that there was much more to be discovered than meets the eye.

Just south of the main building stands a nondescript black wrought-iron door. Passing through it, one would find himself in an underground cave filled with tombstones. The inscriptions on the stones speak of centuries of great talmidei hachamim, rabbanim, and tzaddikim.

But a manuscript in possession of the archives indicated that there were many more graves than could be seen.

Now, standing in the underground cave, the delegation noted that the back walls appeared to be filled in with brick and cement. After careful consideration, they decided to remove the cement and explore further.

They found multiple additional rooms that had been hidden for centuries, each also filled with kivrei tzaddikim.

Still, the mission uncovered more mysteries than solutions. A nearby three-story home had a Hebrew inscription over its basement door, reading: “Here lie the graves of the tzaddikim and chassidim, the Tannaim and Amoraim.” (In Likedoshim Asher Ba’aretz, Rabbi David Laniado references this inscription, noting that Rav Assi lived in the area.) However, there were no graves inside. Two aged metal grilles were available to hold candles, but there was no sign of a burial tomb.

In the narrow alleyway outside of the k’nees complex, the team also noticed inscriptions in ancient script on the stones of the courtyard wall. A closer look revealed that these were headstones. But why were there matzeivot in a wall? Had someone sacked the cemetery and used the stones to build the wall? It didn’t seem logical that stolen Jewish headstones would be used to build a k’nees — a mystery that would remain unsolved for another eight years.

Home Base

Just a few years after the delegation’s first visit in 2008, the synagogue faced the greatest test to its indestructibility. When rebel forces entered Aleppo in September of 2012, they searched for hardened buildings from which to operate, and fighters quickly identified the Great Synagogue as a prime location. A group called the Syrian Free Army set up a base of operations in the k’nees. A nearby cave, filled with kevarim, was converted into a factory for bombs, weapons, and hand grenades.

“This may have been a blessing in disguise,” a museum representative reflects. “The armed groups didn’t attack the area and worked hard to lure fighting away from it — because they used it as a base.”

Nevertheless, the k’nees was badly damaged. When the dust settled in 2016, the museum sent staff members to explore and document it again. All the years of war had inflicted major damage on the area. Buildings had collapsed completely, the neighborhood was desolate of residents — and the ancient synagogue was finally ready to give up its secrets.

The wall of the complex with mysterious inscriptions and headstones had broken apart, revealing that the wall and the earth behind it were filled with kuchin, or crypts, in the burial style typical in the times of Chazal. Headstones were built into the wall to mark the graves and record who was buried there. Most of the inscriptions had been erased by the passage of more than a thousand years, but some, the ones the team had noticed in 2008, were still visible.

The team then turned their attention to the wall on the other side of the alley, and the basement bearing the inscription about kivrei tzaddikim. During the battle over the city, the entire three-story building had been reduced to rubble. Sifting carefully through the broken stones and dirt, the team found that the wall was also filled with kuchin, including those of Tannaim and Amoraim. The crypts bore headstones with Hebrew letters on them. Some of the legible ones featured names that appear in Shas.

Stunned, the team turned to the floor of the alley. Was this a cemetery as well? Workers began searching and found more graves. The basements of nearby abandoned homes were also found to contain burial crypts. The area is surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of kevarim.

The mystery of the missing graves was solved — but the images of destruction were heartbreaking.

The synagogue’s foundation and structure were indeed still standing, but that was just about it. The courtyard was filled with rubble. Walls were partially collapsed, and ancient colonnades and artistic moldings were in ruins. The teba in the courtyard was badly battered, and weeds and thistles were everywhere.

It got worse. The k’nees was booby-trapped, with trip wires strung across the courtyard. Weapons, grenades, and supplies for making explosives were everywhere. Locals and workers couldn’t even enter the building safely, for fear of triggering an explosion.

But it was the tombs and graves that had suffered the most. The rooms were utterly crushed. Smashed headstones lay on the floor. Multiple stories of buildings had collapsed on top of the graves, and many were broken open. Human bones —likely including some of Tannaim and Amoraim — were strewn all about the area. The beit kevarot had been turned from a national treasure to a historic disaster. It was clear that once the government organized itself, the entire area would be bulldozed to the ground and lost forever.

The delegates were struck by shock, dread, and a feeling of helplessness. The carnage seemed insurmountable. But then, slowly, they began to take action. They were determined to clear the rubble and begin the process of restoration.

Leveraging relationships they had developed within the Assad regime, museum staffers worked on getting permission to restore the site and the graves. Initially, government officials took umbrage at the request. “People’s lives are shattered, the community of the living is destroyed, and you want to rebuild graves!” they shouted.

But after much effort, President Bashar al-Assad granted permission for the museum’s team to begin restoration work. No one else was allowed on the site. The regime also granted them access to other Jewish cemeteries in Aleppo.

Work was slow. First, the team had to deal with the threat of interference from armed groups. Syrian soldiers, Russian military personnel, and opposition forces were still active in the area. Next, something had to be done about the bombs, booby traps, missile fragments, and land mines that littered the worksite, some buried deep in piles of rubble.

A team of contractors was eventually hired, and in December 2016, they began the daunting work of restoring the building. For eight years, construction crews have been working on the building, sending daily updates of their work to the museum. They restored the walls and roof, heichalot and teba, and even recreated the fine inscriptions and intricate decorations.

Meanwhile, museum officials turned to the question of what to do with the kevarim. Lengthy consultations were held with leading gedolim and poskim. Rav Chaim Kanievsky ztz”l, Rav Zalman Nechemia Goldberg ztz”l, and yibadel l’chayim tovim, Rav Moshe Sternbuch and others, issued clear directives.

The museum hired a team of experienced undertakers and grave workers. They began to remove the soil and dirt and carefully sift through every spoonful, collecting any bone fragments they could find. This work continues still today. Daily, these human remains are collected, laid out in individual graves, and reburied. No two fragments touch each other, because they are likely from different gufot.

As the workers do their jobs, they ask the souls of the departed for forgiveness. The crew foreman prays in Arabic, “Please forgive me, oh saintly one, I do this for your honor and peace.”

The workers, who are local Muslims, treat the remains with reverence. “The foreman has been working with human remains for 40 years,” a museum staff member told Mishpacha. “According to Muslim tradition, they can open a grave after ten years. He says he has opened hundreds of graves and never found a scrap of remains. He’s never seen bones. But here, he has bones from thousands of years ago.”

To date, the crews have restored over 1,900 graves, funded by donations from the Syrian expatriate community. About 95 percent of the repair work to the building is complete, an accomplishment museum leadership credits to the community’s support and donations.

Until 2024, the governments of Syria and Russia had been deeply invested in the museum’s work. The Assad and Putin regimes saw it as an opportunity to change the international narrative about their involvement in the civil war; perhaps to recast themselves as guardians of tradition, protectors of the faithful, and friends of the West. A major ribbon-cutting ceremony was planned for the moment the work was completed. Top officials from both governments planned to attend and take credit for the work and restoration.

In an unexpected twist of events, in late November, Hayat Tahrir al-Sham opposition forces backed by Turkey launched a lightning offensive they had been preparing for years. In a matter of hours, they stormed through Aleppo. From their offices in Lakewood, museum directors could only tensely watch and wonder: Would everything be destroyed again? Would the eight years of restoration and rebuilding be for naught?

But Hashem had other plans. Weeks before the latest round of fighting broke out, the team had — for some reason unclear even to them — issued orders to the work crews to strengthen the walls and structure, doors and locks. The synagogue survived the newest battle unscathed, and the repair work continues today.

The Halabi community may have fled Aleppo, but they still feel strong connections to their city of origin. The director of the Sephardic Heritage Museum shares his dream, a vision of the reclamation of the Torah glory of the community.

“It will be late one night, near midnight. As in days of old, Jews will flock through the darkened streets to the ancient, Great Synagogue. The Mustarabim, the Francos, the Sephardim… we will all be there. We will approach the mighty iron doors, and of course, knock respectfully.

“And then, beginning at chatzot, we will study Torah, as in days of old, until dawn.”

Destruction and Repair

The indestructible synagogue has withstood numerous attacks and natural disasters, including the following:

MAMLUKS: In 1250, the Mamluks, a Muslim slave militia based in Egypt, rebelled against their masters and seized power across much of the Middle East, including Aleppo. They quickly commandeered almost all the Jewish synagogues in the city, turning some into mosques and destroying all the remaining ones — but for the Great Synagogue.

MONGOL MANGLING: In January of 1260, Mongol hordes briefly seized parts of the Middle East from the Mamluks. They burned the Great Mosque of Aleppo to the ground and inflicted damage on the Great Synagogue. But the building survived, and was actually designated as a place of refuge. Having lost their mosque, Muslims began using the synagogue instead. It was later repaired by the community.

MAMLUK-MONGOL MENACE: Aleppo was soon recaptured from the Mongols by the Mamluk Sultanate, but the tide turned again in 1400. The Great Synagogue sustained significant damage when a Turco-Mongol conqueror named Tamerlane (or Timurid) sacked the Mamluks. Repairs on the synagogue did not begin until 1405 and were not completed until 1418. The Eli bar Natan plaque may have been moved during these repairs, which makes it unclear what the inscription on the plaque was originally referring to.

EARTHQUAKE: War was not the only threat to the k’nees. On August 13, 1822, a deadly earthquake rocked the city of Aleppo. Tremors shook the city continually from August 3 all the way through October, and continued sporadically for another 15 months.

The Great Synagogue remained standing, but the walls were left slightly tilted and in need of repair. In 1850, Isaac Altaras, a wealthy Syrian Jew living in Marseilles, France, financed extensive repairs to the building.

RIOTING: On December 1, 1947, following the UN vote for the Partition Plan, mobs launched the Syrian version of Kristallnacht. Jewish batei knesset, homes, and businesses were torched by mobs, while Syrian police looked on silently — or lent a hand. Thirty seven synagogues were destroyed, 150 Torah scrolls were burned, and tens of thousands of seforim and manuscripts went up in smoke. Two thousand pairs of tefillin were thrown into the fire.

Aided by soldiers, rioters broke into the Great Synagogue, setting fire to the genizah and later the building. Many sifrei Torah were burned. Survivors report seeing scorched pieces of parchment floating to the ground as far as three miles away. The k’nees was badly damaged and the roof caved in, but the structure overall was still sound.

Shortly thereafter, the Syrian regime passed laws restricting Jews from selling property. Two months later, the borders were sealed, and the Jews were locked inside.

REPAIR: When the riots subsided, the community repaired the eastern section of the beit knesset. In the early 1970s, a wealthy man named Murad Guindi paid to fix the western section. But the rest of the large campus lay in disrepair until 1987, when Guindi was joined by Albert Nakash and Jack Chakalo. The three obtained permission from government officials to restore the structure. The work was completed in one year, and the synagogue was restored to usable condition again, until civil war ravaged Aleppo in 2012.

ARAB SPRING: The synagogue suffered major damage from four years of war, between 2011 and 2015. When the fighting subsided in 2016, the Sephardic Heritage Museum undertook the task of repairing it. The work was almost complete when another major earthquake struck the region in 2023, followed by a resurgence of fighting in late November 2024, as opposition forces pushed through Aleppo on their way to Damascus.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1050)