“I will protect this cemetery until my last breathe,” says Arif Chand Baloch, the 53 year-old caretaker who lives in the precincts of the Bene Israel cemetery, near Mewa Shah, one of Karachi’s biggest and the oldest graveyards. “My father Suleman Bashir Baloch handed over the responsibility of looking after this cemetery to me some years ago.”
Bearing the weight of time and neglect, and nestled between Muslim graveyards, the 2.5 acre Bene Israel cemetery is surrounded by an 8-10ft high dilapidated wall. As you enter you see one hut on the right and four on the left.
“I was born here,” says Baloch, as he pointed at the two-room hut on the right, built by the Jewish community. “When my father was young, this was the only house in the cemetery for caretakers of the graves. My mother Meharunissa aka Mehro has lived here since decades. In 2018, some of our relatives also moved here and they live in the other four huts.”
It is not easy to find the cemetery, as the ramshackle wall often goes unnoticed, and the six-foot high iron gate half covered with a worn-out cloth and a plastic sheet acts as a barrier and purdah, suggesting that a family resides on the other side, hence the area within the walls and beyond the gate is out of bounds. Emerging boldly on either side of the weathered gate, two majestic, blue Star of David symbols proudly guard hallowed cemetery. These concrete symbols are as old as the graveyard, and caught the eye of some vandals 10 years ago, who threatened to destroy the cemetery, but Baloch remained unruffled. “We will protect this place and its character at any cost, because it is our responsibility,” he says.
Apart from the older, disintegrated ones, the Bene Israel cemetery has approximately 250 breathtakingly beautiful graves made of delicate, white marble with heartfelt messages, prayers, profiles and dates inscribed in Hebrew and English. Time has worn away the stone, leaving behind weathered and crumbling monuments that tell tales of forgotten memories. The construction of these graves is completely different from the others in the area and reflect the love and affection that the bereaved family members built them with. Taller than the others, one of the marble graves has a prayer inscribed in an open book that is placed on a rostrum.
The cemetery is shrouded in wild shrubs and overgrown tangled weeds, and some graves are difficult to see. “Be careful, the thorns are toxic and hurt pretty badly,” says Baloch, showing his wrists and ankles covered in scars and scratches as he makes his way between the graves. “I cannot clean-up and get rid of these plants on a regular basis anymore,” he explains. “Until 10 years ago, it was not neglected and unkempt like this but now I have medical issues and I have no energy to work much.”
Baloch showed an old photo of his daughter and son in his lap, surrounded by flowering plants in the cemetery. “It used to be well-kept previously,” he says. “My grandfather and his grandfather served the Jews,” he recalled. “It’s our fifth generation as caretakers of graveyards.”
Although some graves date back to 1814, and the last burial was in 1987, it is difficult to say when exactly was the first Jew buried in this cemetery or who looked after it.
“I do not remember if anyone was buried after 1987,” says Baloch, trying to recall, as he stood near the latest grave. “I remember being quite young then and my father helped in the burial.”
Baloch remembers that his father knew some Jewish families and elders living in Saddar and Ranchore Line, and they paid Baloch’s father to look after the graves, which was his only source of income.
“I remember them as decent, kind and peaceful people,” says Baloch. “I don’t know their names, but they frequently visited the cemetery accompanied by women. I am not sure if people living abroad still visit the graves of their relatives, because visitors do not always disclose their identity, but when they ask about specific graves, I get a feeling that they are probably family members who don’t live in Karachi anymore and are here to pay respects to their departed.”
In a corner of the cemetery, is a large yellow-stone enclosure with two graves. In one of these lies Solomon David Omerdekar who died in March 1902. He was a surveyor in Karachi municipality who in 1893 built Karachi’s Magain Shalome synagogue which was demolished in 1988 on orders of the Zia regime and replaced by a commercial building.
Baloch remembers an old woman by the name of Rachel (presumably Rachel Joseph, known as the sole custodian of the cemetery, who was 89 in 2007, according to newspaper reports, and now lost in oblivion or passed on) who used to visit the cemetery regularly. “She was very attached to the cemetery, but I have not heard anything from her for some years,” he says. “Some foreigners still visit us. Several locals also visit, and if they appear to be civilised people, I let them in, but I don’t allow random visitors who I feel I can’t trust. Some people want permission to use a part of this cemetery for more graves. Another time some government officials wanted me to handover the land and graveyard to them. I am not duty bound to them and as caretaker, will not allow anyone to use this land for any other purpose.”
Baloch’s mother Mehro who sells rose petals outside a Muslim graveyard since years, makes about Rs500 per day. After the shock of her younger, 22-year-old son Tariq being shot dead by gangsters in 2014, her memory has suffered badly. Baloch’s young nephew Abid Baloch was also shot dead by the same criminals in 2013.
Mehro tries to recall the past when she would visit Jewish families living in Ranchore Line, some 3km away from the cemetery. “I think they left the city after 1990s,” she says, making an effort to speak. “Some foreigners still visit us, but I do not talk to them, because I do not remember much.”
Several abandoned spots in the cemetery are frequented by drug addicts. “Some criminals and drug addicts jump over the wall and hang out at the back,” says Baloch pointing at burnt out matchsticks and a couple of used syringes littering the ground. He suddenly stopped near a grave where some amulets lay wrapped in plastic.
“Don’t touch those as they carry bad energy and you can fall sick,” he warns. “People often use non-Muslim graveyards to practice black magic. Once I found several amulets and some dead owls.”
It was interesting to see the Muslim name Alarakh Sultan prominently written in black on several graves. “He was a Muslim who crafted the tombstones,” explains Baloch. “It is good to have respect for each other without any discrimination. I feel proud that this cemetery exists in a Muslim country and people have not vandalised it.”
Since Mewa Shah and the surrounding community-specific graveyards in Lyari and its adjacent areas are functional, caretakers are appointed and paid either by the communities or by the government. The Jewish cemetery is neither functional nor a historical site and this is where the problem of remuneration arises for Baloch. “The government does not recognise our services for this historical cemetery,” he complains. “I look after this large and historical cemetery without any support, which is why I do not see my son succeeding me in this responsibility.”
Another Jewish cemetery
Surrounded by the Kutchi Memon Muslim Graveyard, near Lyari’s famous Cheel Chowk at a walking distance from Ranchore Line, lies another small Jewish cemetery. The tombstones of some 20 disintegrating yellow-stone graves that once stood proudly, are now cracked and chipped. The Star of David symbols are visible, while the epitaphs in Hebrew, once carefully engraved with sharp and legible letters are faded, with only fragments of names and dates are barely discernible. The Muslim community elders of the surrounding graveyard had a wall built around the Jewish graves, so no one could encroach upon them or desecrate them, and a panaflex sign marks it as ‘Yahudi graveyard.’
On one side of this cemetery, close to Ranchore Line, is an exit ― an old door that has been closed for security purposes. “The cemetery is abandoned and I have not seen a visitor in years,” a young boy who looks after the graves in the surrounding Muslim graveyard casually remarks.
The graves here are relatively closer and older than the ones in the Bene Israel cemetery. Perhaps the Jewish community that lived in Karachi required a bigger cemetery at some point and land was sought farther from the city for bigger Bene Israel cemetery, where the graves have more space in between.
“If these cemeteries become heritage sites, they would be conserved and the world would come to know how in a Muslim country such as ours, we respect and take care of Jewish cemeteries,” says Baloch, who is aware of the cemetery near Ranchore Line.
The Director Sindh Archaeology and Antiquities Department, Abdul Fatah Shaikh says that the Bene Israel Cemetery has been not enlisted as a heritage site yet, but there are plans for a team from his department to visit the location soon and recommend it as a heritage property. With no date and timeline mentioned, his reply reeked of typical government lethargy.
I visited both the Jewish cemeteries several times in regard to this piece and each time I brought back some of the eerie and melancholic aura that both cemeteries exude. The human connection is undeniable and my thoughts endless. Are we in denial about the Jewish cemeteries or are we going to acknowledge them? These cemeteries are an important part of our past and provide a history of our nation’s growth and a valuable insight into its development.
A thriving community who lay their departed there, left our country because of religious and political differences. Somewhere far away in their homeland or elsewhere, they must remember their loved ones who lie those graves that stand as a time-tested testimonial of their love and bereavement. I don’t want to think of the pain and longing they must go through, knowing that they cannot return to visit the graves of their departed in Karachi, a culturally rich and historically diverse city.
My thoughts continue. If Baloch’s wish came true and the Jewish cemeteries are declared historical sites, he would get paid for his work. If special allowances could be made for people to visit these historical sites, perhaps the conserved graves would look even more beautiful with rose petals scattered, and wreathes placed by visitors arriving from abroad to pay their respects to their departed.
“I will protect this cemetery until my last breathe,” says Arif Chand Baloch, the 53 year-old caretaker who lives in the precincts of the Bene Israel cemetery, near Mewa Shah, one of Karachi’s biggest and the oldest graveyards. “My father Suleman Bashir Baloch handed over the responsibility of looking after this cemetery to me some years ago.”
Bearing the weight of time and neglect, and nestled between Muslim graveyards, the 2.5 acre Bene Israel cemetery is surrounded by an 8-10ft high dilapidated wall. As you enter you see one hut on the right and four on the left.
“I was born here,” says Baloch, as he pointed at the two-room hut on the right, built by the Jewish community. “When my father was young, this was the only house in the cemetery for caretakers of the graves. My mother Meharunissa aka Mehro has lived here since decades. In 2018, some of our relatives also moved here and they live in the other four huts.”
It is not easy to find the cemetery, as the ramshackle wall often goes unnoticed, and the six-foot high iron gate half covered with a worn-out cloth and a plastic sheet acts as a barrier and purdah, suggesting that a family resides on the other side, hence the area within the walls and beyond the gate is out of bounds. Emerging boldly on either side of the weathered gate, two majestic, blue Star of David symbols proudly guard hallowed cemetery. These concrete symbols are as old as the graveyard, and caught the eye of some vandals 10 years ago, who threatened to destroy the cemetery, but Baloch remained unruffled. “We will protect this place and its character at any cost, because it is our responsibility,” he says.
Apart from the older, disintegrated ones, the Bene Israel cemetery has approximately 250 breathtakingly beautiful graves made of delicate, white marble with heartfelt messages, prayers, profiles and dates inscribed in Hebrew and English. Time has worn away the stone, leaving behind weathered and crumbling monuments that tell tales of forgotten memories. The construction of these graves is completely different from the others in the area and reflect the love and affection that the bereaved family members built them with. Taller than the others, one of the marble graves has a prayer inscribed in an open book that is placed on a rostrum.
The cemetery is shrouded in wild shrubs and overgrown tangled weeds, and some graves are difficult to see. “Be careful, the thorns are toxic and hurt pretty badly,” says Baloch, showing his wrists and ankles covered in scars and scratches as he makes his way between the graves. “I cannot clean-up and get rid of these plants on a regular basis anymore,” he explains. “Until 10 years ago, it was not neglected and unkempt like this but now I have medical issues and I have no energy to work much.”
Baloch showed an old photo of his daughter and son in his lap, surrounded by flowering plants in the cemetery. “It used to be well-kept previously,” he says. “My grandfather and his grandfather served the Jews,” he recalled. “It’s our fifth generation as caretakers of graveyards.”
Although some graves date back to 1814, and the last burial was in 1987, it is difficult to say when exactly was the first Jew buried in this cemetery or who looked after it.
“I do not remember if anyone was buried after 1987,” says Baloch, trying to recall, as he stood near the latest grave. “I remember being quite young then and my father helped in the burial.”
Baloch remembers that his father knew some Jewish families and elders living in Saddar and Ranchore Line, and they paid Baloch’s father to look after the graves, which was his only source of income.
“I remember them as decent, kind and peaceful people,” says Baloch. “I don’t know their names, but they frequently visited the cemetery accompanied by women. I am not sure if people living abroad still visit the graves of their relatives, because visitors do not always disclose their identity, but when they ask about specific graves, I get a feeling that they are probably family members who don’t live in Karachi anymore and are here to pay respects to their departed.”
In a corner of the cemetery, is a large yellow-stone enclosure with two graves. In one of these lies Solomon David Omerdekar who died in March 1902. He was a surveyor in Karachi municipality who in 1893 built Karachi’s Magain Shalome synagogue which was demolished in 1988 on orders of the Zia regime and replaced by a commercial building.
Baloch remembers an old woman by the name of Rachel (presumably Rachel Joseph, known as the sole custodian of the cemetery, who was 89 in 2007, according to newspaper reports, and now lost in oblivion or passed on) who used to visit the cemetery regularly. “She was very attached to the cemetery, but I have not heard anything from her for some years,” he says. “Some foreigners still visit us. Several locals also visit, and if they appear to be civilised people, I let them in, but I don’t allow random visitors who I feel I can’t trust. Some people want permission to use a part of this cemetery for more graves. Another time some government officials wanted me to handover the land and graveyard to them. I am not duty bound to them and as caretaker, will not allow anyone to use this land for any other purpose.”
Baloch’s mother Mehro who sells rose petals outside a Muslim graveyard since years, makes about Rs500 per day. After the shock of her younger, 22-year-old son Tariq being shot dead by gangsters in 2014, her memory has suffered badly. Baloch’s young nephew Abid Baloch was also shot dead by the same criminals in 2013.
Mehro tries to recall the past when she would visit Jewish families living in Ranchore Line, some 3km away from the cemetery. “I think they left the city after 1990s,” she says, making an effort to speak. “Some foreigners still visit us, but I do not talk to them, because I do not remember much.”
Several abandoned spots in the cemetery are frequented by drug addicts. “Some criminals and drug addicts jump over the wall and hang out at the back,” says Baloch pointing at burnt out matchsticks and a couple of used syringes littering the ground. He suddenly stopped near a grave where some amulets lay wrapped in plastic.
“Don’t touch those as they carry bad energy and you can fall sick,” he warns. “People often use non-Muslim graveyards to practice black magic. Once I found several amulets and some dead owls.”
It was interesting to see the Muslim name Alarakh Sultan prominently written in black on several graves. “He was a Muslim who crafted the tombstones,” explains Baloch. “It is good to have respect for each other without any discrimination. I feel proud that this cemetery exists in a Muslim country and people have not vandalised it.”
Since Mewa Shah and the surrounding community-specific graveyards in Lyari and its adjacent areas are functional, caretakers are appointed and paid either by the communities or by the government. The Jewish cemetery is neither functional nor a historical site and this is where the problem of remuneration arises for Baloch. “The government does not recognise our services for this historical cemetery,” he complains. “I look after this large and historical cemetery without any support, which is why I do not see my son succeeding me in this responsibility.”
Another Jewish cemetery
Surrounded by the Kutchi Memon Muslim Graveyard, near Lyari’s famous Cheel Chowk at a walking distance from Ranchore Line, lies another small Jewish cemetery. The tombstones of some 20 disintegrating yellow-stone graves that once stood proudly, are now cracked and chipped. The Star of David symbols are visible, while the epitaphs in Hebrew, once carefully engraved with sharp and legible letters are faded, with only fragments of names and dates are barely discernible. The Muslim community elders of the surrounding graveyard had a wall built around the Jewish graves, so no one could encroach upon them or desecrate them, and a panaflex sign marks it as ‘Yahudi graveyard.’
On one side of this cemetery, close to Ranchore Line, is an exit ― an old door that has been closed for security purposes. “The cemetery is abandoned and I have not seen a visitor in years,” a young boy who looks after the graves in the surrounding Muslim graveyard casually remarks.
The graves here are relatively closer and older than the ones in the Bene Israel cemetery. Perhaps the Jewish community that lived in Karachi required a bigger cemetery at some point and land was sought farther from the city for bigger Bene Israel cemetery, where the graves have more space in between.
“If these cemeteries become heritage sites, they would be conserved and the world would come to know how in a Muslim country such as ours, we respect and take care of Jewish cemeteries,” says Baloch, who is aware of the cemetery near Ranchore Line.
The Director Sindh Archaeology and Antiquities Department, Abdul Fatah Shaikh says that the Bene Israel Cemetery has been not enlisted as a heritage site yet, but there are plans for a team from his department to visit the location soon and recommend it as a heritage property. With no date and timeline mentioned, his reply reeked of typical government lethargy.
I visited both the Jewish cemeteries several times in regard to this piece and each time I brought back some of the eerie and melancholic aura that both cemeteries exude. The human connection is undeniable and my thoughts endless. Are we in denial about the Jewish cemeteries or are we going to acknowledge them? These cemeteries are an important part of our past and provide a history of our nation’s growth and a valuable insight into its development.
A thriving community who lay their departed there, left our country because of religious and political differences. Somewhere far away in their homeland or elsewhere, they must remember their loved ones who lie those graves that stand as a time-tested testimonial of their love and bereavement. I don’t want to think of the pain and longing they must go through, knowing that they cannot return to visit the graves of their departed in Karachi, a culturally rich and historically diverse city.
My thoughts continue. If Baloch’s wish came true and the Jewish cemeteries are declared historical sites, he would get paid for his work. If special allowances could be made for people to visit these historical sites, perhaps the conserved graves would look even more beautiful with rose petals scattered, and wreathes placed by visitors arriving from abroad to pay their respects to their departed.