My father, Rabbi Ezekiel N. Musleah, Congregation Mikveh Israel, 1975. Courtesy of the Special Collections Research Center, Temple University Libraries. Philadelphia, PA.

Music has always been my umbilical cord to my father. He carried our ancestry in his voice.

My father made many "formal" recordings to preserve our musical tradition. I tried never to lose an opportunity to record him in informal settings, especially when he would teach me the Baghdadi-Indian liturgy and songs, and when he would share his stories.

When my family moved to the United States in the summer of 1964, my father became the rabbi of Congregation Mikveh Israel, Philadelphia's historic Sephardic synagogue which dates to 1740. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were imminent, and he had very little time to absorb the Spanish and Portuguese melodies. I remember him sitting with a clunky reel-to-reel tape recorder listening over and over to the voice of Reverend Leon Elmaleh, the hazzan emeritus. 

In the fifteen years we spent at Mikveh Israel, I came to love the elegant and glorious Spanish and Portuguese High Holiday nusah. Later, I learned many of the Baghdadi-Indian melodies for Selihot, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which pierce my heart with their direct and pleading eloquence.

Today, whenever I cook for Rosh Hashanah, I take out my old-school CD player and listen to my father’s High Holiday recordings according to the Calcutta tradition. It's a heartbreaking and healing ritual of my own making. As I prepare the apple maraba (jam), and the rest of the special foods for our seder yehi ratzon, each one symbolizing a wish for the new year, the scent of cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, and rosewater embrace me along with his unwavering voice. Often, there's no escaping the tears.

This will be the sixth Rosh Hashanah without my father, yet in the recordings, he is as present as he was when he was alive. His voice is strong, emanating from his soul and creating healing energy. It comforts me even when it breaks me.

“Kiddush for Rosh Hashanah,” he announces, and chants the series of biblical verses in the mystical ritual that precedes the blessing over the wine.

"Tahel Shanah u-virkhoteha!" he concludes, the drama in his voice waking up my own soul like the sound of the shofar. Let the new year begin with all its blessings! 

I cannot replicate my father's voice, but I carry its blessings with me always.

Our inaugural tour of Vietnam and Cambodia was a resounding success!

Our group explored the breathtaking natural beauty of both countries, from river deltas and serene bays to dramatic mountain ranges. We enjoyed the bustle and lively charm of major cities—Hanoi in the north, Hoi An in the center, and Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) in the south. The area's religious, cultural, and historic heritage came alive as we visited temples, pagodas, shrines, and museums. In some of its breathtaking vistas like meditative Ha Long Bay, we could almost forget the quagmire of world politics.

Several sites hold record-breaking status: the Ba Na Hills Cable Car, which holds several Guinness Book records, took us up a mountain top to a spectacular flower garden, the Golden Bridge, and a towering Buddha statue of almost 90 feet. Cambodia's Angkor Wat, a stunning fusion of symbolism and symmetry, is the largest religious monument in the world. Ta Prohm is famous for its awe-inspiring, tree-root-covered ruins (above).

Besides the region's Jewish history and personalities, we found unexpected and intriguing Jewish connections. In Siem Reap, we discovered an NGO established by a Jewish family that provides scholarships for over 100 high school and college-age students. The students who run the NGO spoke movingly about the profound impact of education on their lives.

And then there was the food! Even if I could share photos of every incredible feast we enjoyed in Vietnam and Cambodia, they would not do justice to the gastronomic adventure we savored. The cuisine is both traditional and inventive, layered with intriguing flavors, delicately and lovingly prepared, and beautifully presented. Buddhism encourages vegetarianism so vegetarian and vegan restaurants are plentiful, from simple village cafes to Michelin superstars—and we found the best of the best. We even enjoyed two superb cooking classes. I love the fact that "Chay" in Vietnamese means vegetarian! 

Join us for our next tour:
February 23-March 5, 2026
Learn more HERE
Register HERE

Travel+Leisure magazine recently contacted me to be featured on its new podcast, Lost Cultures: Living Legacies. The podcast delves into the rich history of Kolkata's Baghdadi Jewish community.  Host  Alisha Prakash also interviewed writer, scholar, and Calcutta resident Jael Silliman.

The Kolkata community has grown smaller, but its legacy remains monumental. It's always been my mission to try to preserve and share that legacy with as many people as I can, through my tours, programs, writing, and recordings.

The title of the podcast is exactly on target. As I told Alisha on the podcast, "Maybe people aren't living in the places where they came from, but it doesn't mean that the culture is lost, because we are carrying on our traditions wherever we are."

Learn more about the Baghdadi Jews in Kolkata on Season 2, episode 3 of Lost Cultures: Living Legacies, available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music, Player FM, or wherever you get your podcasts. Better yet, join one of our next in-person tours and see Kolkata for yourself!

It's hard to believe that ten years have passed since our first tour in January 2015.

Our tours have maintained their integrity, dynamism, charm, and passion. We incorporate the same "neshamah," the same soul and spirit that imbued our very first trip, and every tour since. That neshamah is integral to the way we explore India and Jewish India together.

One thing has changed: India’s Jewish communities are getting smaller. That's why we encourage you to join us now to maximize your experience. Don’t miss this chance to explore the richness of Indian Jewish life alongside India’s vibrant hospitality and magnificent sites.

In a world full of chaos, India remains a safe and welcoming destination.

Join our upcoming November tour. Learn more here. Register now!

Freedom—or the lack of it—is on my mind this Pesah.

The tragic state of the world today, ravaged by war and injustice, divisiveness and pain, leaves me with a grieving heart. When 59 hostages remain in captivity in Gaza, when freedom itself in many parts of the world seems to be caged, fettered and ensnared, how can I celebrate it? I feel like the "simple" child, the pure child, who cries out sharply, Mah Zot? "What Is This?" or the child who has no words at all.

The story begins, Avadim hayinu: We were slaves in Egypt. B'chol Dor vador, in every generation we have to see ourselves, we have to show ourselves, as if we ourselves had left Egypt. There are instructions: Kol dichfin yetei v'yachol. Everyone who is hungry, come and eat. There is faith in the face of sober reality. V'hi she'amda, Many enemies have tried to destroy us, but God, Who stood up for our ancestors, saves us.

Embedded in the traditional text, I find space for both sorrow and solace, for hope and balance.

Mitzrayim, the confining captivity of Egypt, is not underplayed. The Haggadah traces the origins of Israelite enslavement. The Children of Israel cry out in agony and terror. After generations of suffering, God redeems Israel "b'yad hazakah u-vizroa netuyah," with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.

Why did God need both a strong hand and an outstretched arm? Wasn't the mighty hand of a victorious fighter enough? No. God reached out to us simultaneously, like a parent or grandparent embracing a inconsolable child, like a lifeguard rescuing a drowning swimmer. God needed to be both powerful and gentle. So, too, in our world today, our power lies in merging courage and compassion.

There are still many reasons for gratitude. Following COVID, it's no small thing to be able to sit at the seder table surrounded by my family of four generations. In no particular order, I'm also grateful for the legacy I cherish; for travel, for music; for friends, for food, for health; for the freedom to pray, to dance, to write; for the ability to give tzedakah. The world is still torn and broken. But for today, dayenu.

Tizkoo l'shanim rabot! May we merit many years in which there are still things to be grateful for.

This interpretation of "b'yad hazakah u-vizroa netuyah, the illustration of the kiddush cup above and the four illustrations below are included in my contemporary retelling of the Haggadah: Why on This Night? A Passover Haggadah for Family Celebration (reissued by Kalaniot Books).  The Haggadah is available on all major platforms, including Amazon; Barnes and Noble; Walmart, and Bookshop.org. Order today!

Winter seems like a funny time to celebrate Tu B'Shevat, our Jewish Arbor Day or Earth Day. It’s a new year for the trees and a time to celebrate the fruit of the earth. In Israel, the rainy season has passed, and the first buds begin to appear around Tu B'Shevat, the 15th day of the Hebrew month of Shevat, which falls on February 13 this year.

Here in New York, bare branches silhouette the sky, and the earth seems to shiver instead of blossom. In Los Angeles, fire has devastated so much of what we hold dear. In Israel, our hostages have begun to come home, but the destruction Hamas sowed before, on, and after October 7 continues to traumatize us.

Several years ago, in the middle of the pandemic, I was privileged to interview Rabbi Jennie Rosenn, who founded Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action, to mobilize the Jewish community to confront the climate crisis on a systemic level. You can read the interview here. Tu B’Shevat, she said, is an opportunity to connect spiritually both to the severity of the climate crisis as well as to the beauty of our earth and humanity. Please read about Dayenu's new endeavors to combat the climate crisis.

One of the most tangible ways to remind ourselves of our obligation to repair our world is to hold a Tu B'Shevat seder. Originally a kabbalistic ritual that combines both the tangible and mystical, it honors the most wondrous of birthdays—the earth’s. A Tu B'Shevat seder is an appropriate way to bless the land, pray for its regeneration, and take action.

Four cups of wine or grape juice represent the changes in the season—white, pink, light red, dark red. Fruits and nuts mentioned in the Bible make a tasty and colorful array, ranging from those with coverings on the outside, like oranges; those with pits, like peaches and olives, and those that can be eaten both inside and outside, like figs and raisins. In India, we loaded our table with over 50 varieties of fruits and nuts! A contemporary seder could pair each fruit we choose with an act of climate change or hesed.

Ladonai haartez um'lo'ah. The earth and its fullness are God’s.
--Psalms 24:1

We are caretakers of the earth. It is up to us to protect and preserve its beauty.

From my earliest childhood, I remember the name Flower. She was a close friend of my father's from India, and often came to visit my parents in Philadelphia. I knew she was an accomplished chef. When I lived in Israel in 1980, I took some cooking lessons with her mother, whom I knew as Aunt Mary. I still use the haggadah with Aunt Mary's inscription every Pesah.

I really didn't get to know Flower that well myself until I began my tours of India in 2015. Jewish groups didn't venture all the way east to Calcutta at that time but I knew firsthand that the city, its Jewish history, and mesmerizing personalities were worth the trek. We had an emotional reunion in the Maghen David Synagogue. Flower graciously invited our groups to her home and delighted us with her spunky, spellbinding storytelling and vast culinary talents. I always looked forward to a good aloomakala, a triple-fried potato specialty of the Baghdadi Jews in India, part of the feast that she set out for us. The group members never forgot her.

Born in 1930, Flower traced her roots to El Ozer, Iraq, the site of the tomb of Ezra the Scribe. The family emigrated to Bombay and worked for the Sassoon family before settling in Calcutta at the end of the nineteenth century. She lived in Jerusalem and Brooklyn before returning to Calcutta in 2009 with her daughter Jael, an author, former associate professor of women’s studies at the University of Iowa, and creator of the digital archive, Recalling Jewish Calcutta. Flower passed away in October. She is the second luminary the Indian Jewish community has lost in the past few months (Cochin's Queenie Hallegua passed away in August.)

Yehi zikhra barukh. May her memory be a blessing.

Read more about Flower in Tablet's article here.
Watch the memorial service here.

Our November group is still basking in the glow of the amazing experiences we shared in India. In the picture above, Barry Kravitz, an avid photographer and member of our group, captured the serenity and sanctity of Calcutta's Maghen David Synagogue, even though it is just a few feet from India's cacophonous street life. That unexpected balance of contrasts IS India.

Hanukkah also celebrates the unexpected—the unexpected victory of an army small in numbers and mighty in faith. On Hanukkah, as we have for over a year, we pray for the safe return of our hostages and Israel's continued resilience. On Hanukkah, we honor the bravery and courage of our heroes both ancient and modern. On Hanukkah, we pray for light to emerge from darkness, on personal, communal, and global levels.

According to Sephardic tradition, after we light the Hanukkiah we recite the words of Psalm 30, Mizmor Shir Hanukkat Habayit L'David. Its heartfelt words are as resonant today as they were centuries ago.

Hafakhta mispedi l'mahol li, pitakhta saki va't'az'reni simhah
God, You have turned my mourning into dancing.
You have removed my sackcloth and girded me with joy.

Tizkoo l'shanim rabot!

Queenie Hallegua, the guardian of Cochin’s Paradesi Synagogue and one of the last Jews in Cochin, passed away on August 11, 2024. Because of her Baghdadi background, she felt like family to me. She welcomed me into her home many times and graciously shared the stories, photos and customs of the community.

I have a distant personal connection to Queenie: my great-aunt Helen, my grandmother’s sister, married Yosef Hallegua (anglicized to Hallen), among the dozen or so Cochini Jews who lived in Calcutta. When I visited Cochin with my parents in 1997, Queenie (her real name is Esther, the queen in the Purim story) and her husband Sammy, who was of Spanish and Portuguese heritage, welcomed us with a Shabbat feast that included pastel, a thin crepe made of rice flour and filled with egg and potato, as well as Baghdadi dishes finished off by homemade apricot brandy, ginger wine, and coffee liqueur.  Sammy’s conversation overflowed with commentary about the legal and historic aspects of Judaism. His expertise ranged from managing the family’s substantial real estate assets to conducting synagogue services and playing tournament bridge. He often burst into song, marking the history of the community by the dates of the musical compositions.
 
Sammy has since passed away, and their two children have settled in the U.S. The stewardship of the tiny community was in Queenie’s hands.
 
On many subsequent tours, I visited Queenie in her home. The main living area was furnished with heavy, carved rosewood settees; a British Colonial plantation recliner with outstretched arms, and chairs with cane seats around a long dining room table. Often, she had just woken from her afternoon nap and was watching a soap opera with her servant, one of two sisters. She always wears the Magen David necklace with a Q in the center, a wedding gift from her household staff. I asked whether the Magen Davids that ornament her windows are a safety concern.
 
“We don’t have any trouble,” she said.
 
She brought out old albums. There she is as a bride in a long brocaded white wrap skirt, matching top, and shawl—the typical Cochini wedding dress. Before the wedding ceremony, she remembered, she walked to the synagogue to kiss the Torahs in the ark, accompanied by twenty Hindu drummers.  
 
“Pesah, oh my God! We used to make our own matza,” she said, flipping to pictures showing friends and family mixing the dough, rolling it out, cooking it on heated griddles, then storing it in huge bins in a special Passover room. “This is Sarah [Cohen], in the plaid wrap skirt,” she pointed out. “She was in charge of giving out the exact amount of water for the dough. This is me,” she pointed to a blurry figure with a brass rolling pin.
 
I wanted to know if she still had the rolling pin. Queenie got up and, after a few moments, returned with it. It was slim and heavy, and when she rolled it back and forth over the table, the metal bead inside rang like a bell.  Its rhythmic peal added to the drama of Matza Day, when the men used to blow the shofar and sing sections from the Haggadah while the matza was prepared. Thicker matzas that would be stacked in a set of three on the seder table were distinguished by designs made with prongs: The matza on the top had two lines; the middle one had three, and the one at the bottom, four.
 
“How do you stay Jewish with so few people here?” I asked.
 
“I pray at home three times a day. Even for festivals, I know how to pray. I learned by going to the synagogue. A Hebrew master came to teach us at home. Our elders passed it on to the next generation. They knew all the halacha and the youngsters learned from them.
 
“This place is full of history. It was really beautiful. It was a little Jerusalem. Now it’s all gone. It’s all gone with the wind.” She sighs. “I’m all alone here. It’s a tragedy that everything is ending here. It’s sad but everything happens like this.”


Yehi Zichra Baruch. May her memory be a blessing.