Zoya Borukhova
From the word "Barukh" - blessed.
Please tell us about your family, and about the traditions of the Bukharan community.
I was born in the capital of Tajikistan, in the city of Dushanbe, to a traditional Jewish family, where the laws of kashrut were strictly observed, all holidays were celebrated and Shabbat held with special reverence.
My parents, Rachel and Bekhor, were cousins. And both my grandmothers - Mazal and Bitiya - were sisters, daughters of the respected Samarkand merchant Borukh Malak Mullojanov. He was known in Central Asia as a successful owner of caravanserais - inns where travelers and merchants found shelter.
My mother was born into the family of Rabbi Ephraim ben Iso Borukh Yusupov – a wise, noble and deeply respected man. He received his religious education in Samarkand, in the yeshiva of the famous Chassidic Rabbi Shlomo Leib Eliezer, a native of Poland, which was then part of the Russian Empire.
My grandfather spoke many languages: in addition to his native Jewish-Tajik, he spoke Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic, Russian and Uzbek. After the revolution, despite the threat of repression, he continued to perform religious rites for Jews – circumcision, chuppah and others – secretly and free of charge, and was also a shochet (slaughterer) in Samarkand, providing the community with kosher meat.
When a new wave of Stalin's terror began in 1948, my grandfather and his family secretly moved to Dushanbe, where he continued his service as a rabbi of the local community. I often spent my childhood at my grandparents' house. Once, when I was very little, I saw my grandfather praying for the first time. He stood with his eyes closed, wearing a tallit and tefillin, in white clothes, like an angel, and whispered the words of prayer. This sight was deeply imprinted in my memory. I didn’t know then what exactly he was doing, but I felt with my whole being: this was something great, important… and maybe even forbidden. And so I decided for myself: I will maintain sacred silence!
My grandfather on my father’s side, Abo Chai ben Matat Alayev, was a deeply religious man, with amazing inner fortitude and devotion to the Torah. In the harsh Soviet years, he worked as a watchman at night so that he could study the Torah during the day. He would sit over the holy books, try to comprehend the wisdom of the teachings of Judaism, which the authorities banished from public life, but could not banish from the hearts. Every Saturday he would get up before dawn, at four in the morning, and walk across Samarkand, from his mahalla (quarter) to the synagogue in the new city. This path was not just a route, it was his soul's calling.
Here, perhaps, it is worth saying a few words about what a mahalla is. A mahalla is not just a neighborhood. It is a world. The Jewish-Uzbek mahalla was like a living organism, where every family, every old person and child were inscribed in a single fabric of tradition. There, among the labyrinths of clay streets, the way of life passed down from generation to generation was preserved. In the mahalla, everything was connected – joys and worries, meals and prayers, help and respect. It was a genuine community – not formal, but living, breathing with one spirit.
My grandfather's younger sons – my uncles Abrash and Yair – followed in his footsteps. Thanks to him, they not only learned Hebrew, but also took risks studying the Torah in an underground Chabad school.
In the early 70s, my grandfather's greatest dream came true – the dream of his whole life: he left the country where the faith was driven underground, and emigrated to the Holy Land with the families of his sons and daughter. He lived his last years in Israel, and he now rests on the Mount of Olives – as a sign that the path of the righteous, which began in the Samarkand mahalla, ended at the gates of eternity.
In the ancient cities of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khujand, Jewish life pulsed with a special rhythm – it intertwined deep traditions, reverence for the holy places and Soviet everyday life. All this was preserved with amazing resilience until the end of the 1980s – the time when mass aliyah to Israel began. The women in our family, including my mother, continued the path of their pious mothers and grandmothers. With the arrival of the Shabbat, holidays, or on a Yahrzeit – the day of remembrance of the departed – they lit candles, the flickering flames of which seemed to echo the souls of loved ones blessing their descendants from the higher world.
At community gatherings, married women, as expected, covered their heads – some with a scarf, some with a kerchief. Men in kalapushs (a type of eastern kippah, a traditional skullcap) sat at the table opposite their wives and children.
The whole week was built around one thing – the approaching Shabbat. It seemed that every weekday was filled with only one concern: how to celebrate Shabbat with dignity, honor, love and awe. Preparing for Shabbat was not just a household chore, but a form of spiritual attunement, when the home, heart and soul were prepared for the arrival of the of the Shabbat Queen.
Preparations for Shabbat began already on Sunday. My mother went to the synagogue for meat, which she then koshered herself according to all the rules of Jewish law. On weekdays, they bought fruits, vegetables and greens – everything for Shabbat. On Wednesday, they prepared semi-finished products and stored them in the refrigerator. Shabbat did not just arrive – it entered the house like a dear guest, bringing with it peace, warmth and a sense of eternal connection between generations.
