Sites of Silence: Jewish Memory and Sectarianism in Lebanon
Images: Raseef22.net, 2017
Remembering Lebanon’s Jewish Past: Echoes of a Shared History in Divisive Times
In the heart of downtown Beirut, tucked within what was once the bustling Jewish quarter of Wadi Abu Jamil, stands the Maghen Abraham Synagogue. Restored with care in 2009, it remains mostly empty, a silent monument to a community that once was. Its silence is powerful—a presence that speaks to absence, a memory that resists erasure. At a time when Lebanon continues to struggle with sectarianism, economic crisis, and identity fractures, revisiting the country’s Jewish past offers more than historical insight. It offers a chance to imagine a more inclusive, pluralistic future rooted in the truth of what Lebanon once was.
In recent years, Jewishness has increasingly been cast in a shadow, viewed through the narrow and deeply polarizing lens of the Israeli state's actions in Gaza and Lebanon. This conflation of Jewish identity with the politics of Zionism and occupation has led to a dangerous erasure of the complexity and diversity within Jewish communities, particularly in the Arab world. In Lebanon, where sectarian identity is both a source of division and cultural richness, the Jewish community was once an integral part of the nation's fabric. The Jews of Lebanon were — and for some, still are — as Lebanese as any other sect, part of the same historical and cultural fabric of the nation. Their synagogues, schools, merchants, writers, and musicians contributed meaningfully to the country’s intellectual and artistic life. Their heritage, now largely neglected or forgotten, remains a vital thread in the soul of Lebanon — one that deserves remembrance, not repression. In acknowledging this, we resist the simplification of identity and reclaim a broader, more human history.
A Shared Past
The Jewish presence in Lebanon has deep roots, stretching back to the time of the Phoenicians, perhaps even, as some say, as far back as the Babylonian exile in the 6th century BCE. In Roman and Byzantine periods, Jewish communities flourished in coastal cities like Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut. Their presence has waxed and waned with the tides of history, yet for centuries they remained a consistent part of the region’s social fabric.
Under the Ottoman Empire, Lebanese Jews were recognized as a religious millet and afforded relative autonomy and protection. With the advent of the French Mandate following World War I, Lebanon’s Jewish community entered a kind of golden age. The Jews of Lebanon were deeply integrated into Lebanese society, particularly in Beirut, where they held prominent roles in commerce, law, medicine, and education. They spoke Arabic, French, and Hebrew; they were Lebanese citizens and active participants in the civic life of the country.
By the mid-20th century, the Jewish population of Lebanon numbered around 10,000, primarily in the capital. Yet the regional fallout of the Arab-Israeli conflict, particularly after the founding of Israel in 1948 and the wars of 1967 and 1973, put increasing pressure on Jewish communities across the Arab world. While Lebanon’s Jews faced less immediate persecution than those in neighboring countries, they lived under growing suspicion. Many emigrated, quietly and often with great sadness, to Europe, the Americas, and Israel.
Maghen Abraham: A Beacon of Memory
Constructed in 1925, the Maghen Abraham Synagogue was the crown jewel of Jewish life in Lebanon. Built with funds from the Jewish philanthropist Ezra Anzarut and designed by the architect Mardiros Altounian—who also designed Beirut’s famed Parliament building—it was a symbol of confidence, permanence, and belonging.
Located in Wadi Abu Jamil, a neighborhood known for its schools, kosher shops, and Jewish institutions, Maghen Abraham served as a spiritual and social hub. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, and holy days brought the community together in celebration and prayer.
The outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War in 1975 marked a turning point. The synagogue was damaged during the war, and the surrounding neighborhood was depopulated. Although some feared it might be demolished or converted, the building remained standing. In 2009, an initiative led by the Lebanese Jewish community, with support from Prime Minister Saad Hariri and Hezbollah’s tacit approval, resulted in the synagogue’s restoration. Today, it stands in quiet dignity—restored but rarely used, protected but often forgotten. Its presence is less about religion and more about remembrance.
Beyond Beirut: A Dispersed Legacy
While Maghen Abraham is the most well-known and visible site of Lebanon’s Jewish heritage, it is not the only one. Across the country, remnants of this history remain, many of them crumbling or hidden from view. In Saida (Sidon), the old Jewish quarter still exists, although its synagogue, one of the oldest in the region, lies abandoned. Once central to a thriving community of traders and craftsmen, the building is now in disrepair, a fading relic nestled among the city’s tangle of streets. The Sidon Synagogue is one of the oldest synagogues in the world. Believed to have been originally built in 833 CE (and probably built on a much older foundation that dates back to the time of the destruction of the Second Temple around 66 CE), it served for centuries as a central place of worship for the local Jewish community, which once thrived in the city. The architecture reflects typical Levantine synagogue design, with influences from both Islamic and Byzantine styles, and it stood as a quiet testament to the long-standing Jewish presence in Lebanon.
Prayers in 2012
In April 2012, a remarkable event took place: for the first time in decades, Jewish prayers were recited in the Sidon Synagogue by rabbis from Neturei Karta, an anti-Zionist organization in honor of Land Day. The occasion was low-key and highly symbolic. A group of Lebanese Jews, including members of the expatriate and diaspora communities, visited the synagogue and held a small prayer service. This act, though modest, was deeply meaningful. It signified a moment of reconnection with heritage, a form of cultural and spiritual return, and a gesture toward reconciliation with a neglected past.
The event was not widely publicized, but it received coverage in international and regional media, which noted its significance against the backdrop of Lebanon's complex religious and political dynamics.
Tripoli, Lebanon's second-largest city, hosted a small but active Jewish community, whose presence dates back centuries. They lived primarily in the el-Mihjar and el-Mutran neighborhoods and had a synagogue, schools, and community institutions. The Tripoli Synagogue, known locally as Kanees el-Yahoud, was the main house of worship for the city's Jews. It is believed to have been constructed in the 19th century and was located near the city center. Like many synagogues in Lebanon, it was closed in the second half of the 20th century due to political and demographic changes, and
The mountain towns of Aley and Bhamdoun were once summer retreats for Beirut’s Jewish families. Synagogues built for seasonal use lie dormant, their Torahs long since removed, their doors mostly sealed. The Bhamdoun synagogue was built in 1922 and abandoned in 1976 when the Syrian Army entered the city during the Lebanese Civil War.
The building of the Beirut-Damascus railway in 1895 brought wealthy Jews to Aley to spend the summer in the mountains. The region already contained refugees from Deir AEl Qamar and Barouk, who had fled in 1860. The Ohel Jacob Synagogue in Aley was, until the building of the Maghen Abraham Synagogue, the major philanthropic agent for the Lebanese Jewish community.
Deir el-Qamar, the Ottoman capital of Mount Lebanon, had a Jewish presence, integrated among Druze and Christian families. These scattered remnants tell a story not just of urban life but of rural integration and community coexistence.
Now many of these sites are undocumented, unprotected, and at risk of collapse. Their neglect is not just a matter of heritage preservation—it is a reflection of the selective nature of national memory.
The Silence of Erasure
In post-war Lebanon, narratives of identity and history have always been fiercely contested. The country’s sectarian political system often reinforces division rather than unity. Within this framework, memory itself becomes a battleground.
Lebanon’s Jews have been all but erased from the public narrative. They are not included in official counts of the nation’s recognized sects; their history is not taught in schools; their contributions are not celebrated. Fear, conflation of Judaism with Zionism, and the wider Arab-Israeli conflict have created a climate where even acknowledging Jewish heritage can feel politically charged.
But memory is never neutral. The absence of Jews from Lebanon’s historical story is not accidental—it is a byproduct of conflict, fear, and ideological distortion. Reclaiming that memory is an act of intellectual and moral integrity. It is also a necessary step toward healing.
Why It Matters Today
In today’s Lebanon—a nation fraught with a litany of issues—the temptation is strong to retreat into narrow identities, to blame the “other,” and to reduce the past to myth. But Lebanon was not always like this. Its strength has always come from its plurality, its mosaic of communities, its polyphony of voices.
Remembering Lebanon’s Jewish past challenges the idea that sectarian division is inevitable or natural. It reminds us that there was a time when synagogues stood beside mosques and churches, when families of different faiths lived side by side, and when national identity was capacious enough to hold many forms of belonging.
To recover this history is not to romanticize the past—it is to learn from it. By preserving synagogues, marking Jewish cemeteries, teaching the stories of Lebanese Jews in schools, and inviting their descendants into dialogue, Lebanon can begin to craft a more honest and inclusive identity.
In a region where religious difference is often weaponized, embracing Jewish heritage is a radical act of resistance against sectarianism. It affirms that Lebanon’s diversity is not its weakness, but its legacy and its promise.
Who Will Remember?
Today, the work of remembrance is being carried out by a small group of historians, activists, artists, and members of the Lebanese Jewish diaspora. Some are documenting oral histories; others are cataloguing cemeteries and abandoned synagogues. Exhibitions, short films, and articles are beginning to draw public attention to this forgotten chapter.
Artists, too, are engaging with this history—using memory as both material and message. In doing so, they open space for reflection and conversation, asking what it means to belong, to remember, and to be Lebanese in all its complexity.
Yet much more needs to be done. Without institutional support—whether from municipalities, the Ministry of Culture, or civil society organizations—these efforts risk remaining marginal. Preservation must go hand-in-hand with education, legislation, and open public discourse.
Memory as Foundation
Preserving Jewish heritage in Lebanon is not only a matter of honoring the past, but also a vital affirmation of the country's rich and complex identity. For centuries, Lebanon has been home to a diversity of communities, each contributing to the cultural, religious, and intellectual fabric. Jews, once an integral part of Beirut’s vibrant life, deserves remembrance and recognition alongside Lebanon’s many other sects and traditions. It is essential to distinguish between Jewish identity and the state of Israel—Judaism is a faith and culture that spans the globe, and Lebanese Jews are part of Lebanon’s own history. Upholding the memory and heritage of this community is an act of national dignity and cultural responsibility. In a time when division too often defines the region, Lebanon's true strength lies in its diversity—and in the courage to protect all of its stories.
As Lebanon searches for a path forward, memory must play a central role. Not just the memory of trauma and loss, but of coexistence, contribution, and shared life.
The Maghen Abraham Synagogue will likely never return to the vibrant center of community life it once was. But its silence speaks volumes. It asks: Who were we? Who are we? And what do we choose to remember?
In answering these questions, Lebanon has the chance to reclaim not only a forgotten history, but a vision of itself rooted in plurality, dignity, and mutual respect. In divisive times, remembering becomes an act of unity. The past, if we allow it, can still offer light.
Remembering Lebanon’s Jewish Past: Echoes of a Shared History in Divisive Times
In the heart of downtown Beirut, tucked within what was once the bustling Jewish quarter of Wadi Abu Jamil, stands the Maghen Abraham Synagogue. Restored with care in 2009, it remains mostly empty, a silent monument to a community that once was. Its silence is powerful—a presence that speaks to absence, a memory that resists erasure. At a time when Lebanon continues to struggle with sectarianism, economic crisis, and identity fractures, revisiting the country’s Jewish past offers more than historical insight. It offers a chance to imagine a more inclusive, pluralistic future rooted in the truth of what Lebanon once was.
In recent years, Jewishness has increasingly been cast in a shadow, viewed through the narrow and deeply polarizing lens of the Israeli state's actions in Gaza and Lebanon. This conflation of Jewish identity with the politics of Zionism and occupation has led to a dangerous erasure of the complexity and diversity within Jewish communities, particularly in the Arab world. In Lebanon, where sectarian identity is both a source of division and cultural richness, the Jewish community was once an integral part of the nation's fabric. The Jews of Lebanon were — and for some, still are — as Lebanese as any other sect, part of the same historical and cultural fabric of the nation. Their synagogues, schools, merchants, writers, and musicians contributed meaningfully to the country’s intellectual and artistic life. Their heritage, now largely neglected or forgotten, remains a vital thread in the soul of Lebanon — one that deserves remembrance, not repression. In acknowledging this, we resist the simplification of identity and reclaim a broader, more human history.
A Shared Past
The Jewish presence in Lebanon has deep roots, stretching back to the time of the Phoenicians, perhaps even, as some say, as far back as the Babylonian exile in the 6th century BCE. In Roman and Byzantine periods, Jewish communities flourished in coastal cities like Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut. Their presence has waxed and waned with the tides of history, yet for centuries they remained a consistent part of the region’s social fabric.
Under the Ottoman Empire, Lebanese Jews were recognized as a religious millet and afforded relative autonomy and protection. With the advent of the French Mandate following World War I, Lebanon’s Jewish community entered a kind of golden age. The Jews of Lebanon were deeply integrated into Lebanese society, particularly in Beirut, where they held prominent roles in commerce, law, medicine, and education. They spoke Arabic, French, and Hebrew; they were Lebanese citizens and active participants in the civic life of the country.
By the mid-20th century, the Jewish population of Lebanon numbered around 10,000, primarily in the capital. Yet the regional fallout of the Arab-Israeli conflict, particularly after the founding of Israel in 1948 and the wars of 1967 and 1973, put increasing pressure on Jewish communities across the Arab world. While Lebanon’s Jews faced less immediate persecution than those in neighboring countries, they lived under growing suspicion. Many emigrated, quietly and often with great sadness, to Europe, the Americas, and Israel.
Maghen Abraham: A Beacon of Memory
Constructed in 1925, the Maghen Abraham Synagogue was the crown jewel of Jewish life in Lebanon. Built with funds from the Jewish philanthropist Ezra Anzarut and designed by the architect Mardiros Altounian—who also designed Beirut’s famed Parliament building—it was a symbol of confidence, permanence, and belonging.
Located in Wadi Abu Jamil, a neighborhood known for its schools, kosher shops, and Jewish institutions, Maghen Abraham served as a spiritual and social hub. Bar mitzvahs, weddings, and holy days brought the community together in celebration and prayer.
The outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War in 1975 marked a turning point. The synagogue was damaged during the war, and the surrounding neighborhood was depopulated. Although some feared it might be demolished or converted, the building remained standing. In 2009, an initiative led by the Lebanese Jewish community, with support from Prime Minister Saad Hariri and Hezbollah’s tacit approval, resulted in the synagogue’s restoration. Today, it stands in quiet dignity—restored but rarely used, protected but often forgotten. Its presence is less about religion and more about remembrance.
Beyond Beirut: A Dispersed Legacy
While Maghen Abraham is the most well-known and visible site of Lebanon’s Jewish heritage, it is not the only one. Across the country, remnants of this history remain, many of them crumbling or hidden from view. In Saida (Sidon), the old Jewish quarter still exists, although its synagogue, one of the oldest in the region, lies abandoned. Once central to a thriving community of traders and craftsmen, the building is now in disrepair, a fading relic nestled among the city’s tangle of streets. The Sidon Synagogue is one of the oldest synagogues in the world. Believed to have been originally built in 833 CE (and probably built on a much older foundation that dates back to the time of the destruction of the Second Temple around 66 CE), it served for centuries as a central place of worship for the local Jewish community, which once thrived in the city. The architecture reflects typical Levantine synagogue design, with influences from both Islamic and Byzantine styles, and it stood as a quiet testament to the long-standing Jewish presence in Lebanon.
Prayers in 2012
In April 2012, a remarkable event took place: for the first time in decades, Jewish prayers were recited in the Sidon Synagogue by rabbis from Neturei Karta, an anti-Zionist organization in honor of Land Day. The occasion was low-key and highly symbolic. A group of Lebanese Jews, including members of the expatriate and diaspora communities, visited the synagogue and held a small prayer service. This act, though modest, was deeply meaningful. It signified a moment of reconnection with heritage, a form of cultural and spiritual return, and a gesture toward reconciliation with a neglected past.
The event was not widely publicized, but it received coverage in international and regional media, which noted its significance against the backdrop of Lebanon's complex religious and political dynamics.
Tripoli, Lebanon's second-largest city, hosted a small but active Jewish community, whose presence dates back centuries. They lived primarily in the el-Mihjar and el-Mutran neighborhoods and had a synagogue, schools, and community institutions. The Tripoli Synagogue, known locally as Kanees el-Yahoud, was the main house of worship for the city's Jews. It is believed to have been constructed in the 19th century and was located near the city center. Like many synagogues in Lebanon, it was closed in the second half of the 20th century due to political and demographic changes, and
The mountain towns of Aley and Bhamdoun were once summer retreats for Beirut’s Jewish families. Synagogues built for seasonal use lie dormant, their Torahs long since removed, their doors mostly sealed. The Bhamdoun synagogue was built in 1922 and abandoned in 1976 when the Syrian Army entered the city during the Lebanese Civil War.
The building of the Beirut-Damascus railway in 1895 brought wealthy Jews to Aley to spend the summer in the mountains. The region already contained refugees from Deir AEl Qamar and Barouk, who had fled in 1860. The Ohel Jacob Synagogue in Aley was, until the building of the Maghen Abraham Synagogue, the major philanthropic agent for the Lebanese Jewish community.
Deir el-Qamar, the Ottoman capital of Mount Lebanon, had a Jewish presence, integrated among Druze and Christian families. These scattered remnants tell a story not just of urban life but of rural integration and community coexistence.
Now many of these sites are undocumented, unprotected, and at risk of collapse. Their neglect is not just a matter of heritage preservation—it is a reflection of the selective nature of national memory.
The Silence of Erasure
In post-war Lebanon, narratives of identity and history have always been fiercely contested. The country’s sectarian political system often reinforces division rather than unity. Within this framework, memory itself becomes a battleground.
Lebanon’s Jews have been all but erased from the public narrative. They are not included in official counts of the nation’s recognized sects; their history is not taught in schools; their contributions are not celebrated. Fear, conflation of Judaism with Zionism, and the wider Arab-Israeli conflict have created a climate where even acknowledging Jewish heritage can feel politically charged.
But memory is never neutral. The absence of Jews from Lebanon’s historical story is not accidental—it is a byproduct of conflict, fear, and ideological distortion. Reclaiming that memory is an act of intellectual and moral integrity. It is also a necessary step toward healing.
Why It Matters Today
In today’s Lebanon—a nation fraught with a litany of issues—the temptation is strong to retreat into narrow identities, to blame the “other,” and to reduce the past to myth. But Lebanon was not always like this. Its strength has always come from its plurality, its mosaic of communities, its polyphony of voices.
Remembering Lebanon’s Jewish past challenges the idea that sectarian division is inevitable or natural. It reminds us that there was a time when synagogues stood beside mosques and churches, when families of different faiths lived side by side, and when national identity was capacious enough to hold many forms of belonging.
To recover this history is not to romanticize the past—it is to learn from it. By preserving synagogues, marking Jewish cemeteries, teaching the stories of Lebanese Jews in schools, and inviting their descendants into dialogue, Lebanon can begin to craft a more honest and inclusive identity.
In a region where religious difference is often weaponized, embracing Jewish heritage is a radical act of resistance against sectarianism. It affirms that Lebanon’s diversity is not its weakness, but its legacy and its promise.
Who Will Remember?
Today, the work of remembrance is being carried out by a small group of historians, activists, artists, and members of the Lebanese Jewish diaspora. Some are documenting oral histories; others are cataloguing cemeteries and abandoned synagogues. Exhibitions, short films, and articles are beginning to draw public attention to this forgotten chapter.
Artists, too, are engaging with this history—using memory as both material and message. In doing so, they open space for reflection and conversation, asking what it means to belong, to remember, and to be Lebanese in all its complexity.
Yet much more needs to be done. Without institutional support—whether from municipalities, the Ministry of Culture, or civil society organizations—these efforts risk remaining marginal. Preservation must go hand-in-hand with education, legislation, and open public discourse.
Memory as Foundation
Preserving Jewish heritage in Lebanon is not only a matter of honoring the past, but also a vital affirmation of the country's rich and complex identity. For centuries, Lebanon has been home to a diversity of communities, each contributing to the cultural, religious, and intellectual fabric. Jews, once an integral part of Beirut’s vibrant life, deserves remembrance and recognition alongside Lebanon’s many other sects and traditions. It is essential to distinguish between Jewish identity and the state of Israel—Judaism is a faith and culture that spans the globe, and Lebanese Jews are part of Lebanon’s own history. Upholding the memory and heritage of this community is an act of national dignity and cultural responsibility. In a time when division too often defines the region, Lebanon's true strength lies in its diversity—and in the courage to protect all of its stories.
As Lebanon searches for a path forward, memory must play a central role. Not just the memory of trauma and loss, but of coexistence, contribution, and shared life.
The Maghen Abraham Synagogue will likely never return to the vibrant center of community life it once was. But its silence speaks volumes. It asks: Who were we? Who are we? And what do we choose to remember?
In answering these questions, Lebanon has the chance to reclaim not only a forgotten history, but a vision of itself rooted in plurality, dignity, and mutual respect. In divisive times, remembering becomes an act of unity. The past, if we allow it, can still offer light.
