Yom Kippur in Afghanistan

Bagram Air Base, Afganistan My name is SPC Alexander Hoffman, and I’m the Jewish lay leader for Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. After this past Yom Kippur, I decided to write my experience down. Until now, I haven’t shared my write-up. I was looking through some files on my computer, and found it, and decided that it was something I wanted to share with all of you.

Read on for the full story

As I stood in the front of the small wooden hut, I looked out at the group of 8 or 9 service members and civilians sitting in front of me. Nervously, I began chanting:

“Kol nidre, v’ehsoray, U’shvuay,”

Tonight was Erev Yom Kippur, and I am the Jewish lay leader for Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. Kol Nidre (“All Vows”) is the start of the evening service on the night before Yom Kippur. It is general chanted to beautiful melodies, and many times the crowd is moved to tears. The melody I was now chanting, I downloaded off the internet 3 days prior and spent hours learning.

The group of Jews sitting in front of me represented the small Jewish population of this and a few surrounding bases, plus a few civilians who work for CARE International out of Kabul.

I remember sitting in a briefing room not 7 months ago. We had just arrived in country, and we were being given an initial brief. They showed us where the PX and the chow hall were, the hours for the laundry, and of course, religious service times. At the bottom of the slide, in small print, I read to myself “Jewish Services: Friday -1830″. That Friday, I met up with the rest of the Jewish population in the chapel: All three of us.

Soon, I found out, MSG Geier would be heading back to NY to his family, and SPC Weinhaber would be transferred to a small base south of here. That left me as the lay leader.

Months have gone by since, and I’ve been fortunate enough to meet a few other Jewish personnel, who gladly attended services as regularly as possible. Most weeks, however, our numbers are small, nowhere near a minyan. Some weeks it has just been myself and my friend, SPC Ian Blake. We meet at the chapel, light the Shabbos candles, pray the Friday night service, and then eat dinner as a Jewish family, to include anyone who wishes to join us. We say Kiddush over either Kedem wine or grape juice (depending on what we have), say hamotzi over leftover matzo from Passover, eat dinner – kosher MRE’s (Meal, Ready to Eat), and then say the grace after meals, Birkat Hamazon.

There is no Jewish chaplain stationed in Afghanistan. Nonetheless, two Jewish chaplains have made their way out here to pray with us. CH(CPT) Felzenberg came from Iraq for 2 weeks over the summer, and CH(CPT) Horovitz came out for the High Holidays. He spent Rosh Hashanah with us in Bagram, and flew to Kandahar Air Field for Yom Kippur.

That brings us to today. We gathered ourselves in a small wooden shack, known as a “B-Hut” to pray. 15 folding chairs, a folding table, and a small Jewish Chaplain kit (Affectionately known as the Porta-Shul) containing a small torah, sat on the table.

We opened our prayer books, and, going down the order of the service which I had printed the day before, we prayed. Mostly in English, a little in Hebrew, but all from our hearts. We occasionally stopped to discuss a passage, teach each other bits of history or rituals, or to welcome a late arrival.

The next morning, we gathered back in our hut, donned desert camouflage yarmulkes and tallises, and picked up where we left off the night prior. We prayed as by whatever means we knew how. We thought about our loved ones, our homes, and our friends back home. We asked G-d for forgiveness for all our transgressions over the past year. We thanked Him for allowing us the opportunity to prey, knowing that 3 years ago, we would have been jailed or killed for even mentioning that we were Jewish in this part of the world.

For those two days, it didn’t matter that we sitting in a dingy wooden hut, that we were far away from the places we each called “my synagogue”. We forgot about the uniforms we were wearing, or the rifles that sat at our feet. For those short hours, we were Jews. We were a congregation.

As the sunlight grew dim, I held the small shofar up to my lips to blow the sounds that would conclude the holiday. As I blew the sound of the Tekiah G’dolah, I remembered why were were here. Why we were in a foreign land risking our lives for people we didn’t know: Freedom.