It is perhaps not every day that an Arab Muslim woman living in Paris contributes an article to a newspaper in Israel.
But I can think of no
better way to share my story.
In late December, I happened across a New
article by Eva Weisel, an 83-year old Jewish woman from Los Angeles.
The article told the story of Eva’s childhood during the Holocaust, a childhood
interrupted by the yellow star, a home stolen by German soldiers, fear that the
men in her family would not return from forced labor.
By a stroke of
luck, she and the other women in her family found protection in the generosity
of a courageous non-Jewish local who provided shelter on his sprawling farm
outside of town. But just when they felt safe, two drunk German officers found
Nearly 70 years later, the horror of that night is still palpable
to Eva: “They started banging on the courtyard door and shouting: ‘We know you
are Jews and we’re coming to get you!’ My grandmother started screaming ‘Cachez
les filles’ – ‘Hide the girls!’ I remember being shoved under the bed, trembling
and sobbing as I tried to hide under a blanket.”
EVA’S STORY, however,
does not end in tragedy. A guardian angel – their non- Jewish protector –
arrived just in time to intervene with the Germans and prevent a
She doesn’t know exactly what the man did; she presumes he
bribed the Germans. But she and the other women in the family are forever
grateful to this man for saving their lives.
Why was this story printed
in the New York Times
, the most influential newspaper in the world? After all,
while stories of rescue are not as nearly as common as the stories of millions
whose lives were cut short by the Nazis, they are not uncommon.
story is newsworthy because it took place in Mahdia, a small town on the eastern
shore of Tunisia, and because her rescuer was an Arab man named Khaled
Abdul-Wahab. She chose the Times
as a venue to call for Abdul-Wahab, a Muslim,
to be recognized as the first Arab “righteous among the nations,” along with
thousands of other non-Jews who saved Jews during the Holocaust.
Abdul-Wahab was my father, though he never spoke about his heroism with us. I
once asked him about the war years, but all he said was that some Jewish
families stayed on our farm. Always modest, all my father ever told me when I
once asked about the war years was that some Jewish families stayed on our farm.
As Eva’s account confirms, that was an understatement.
My father died in
1997, taking the secret of his protection of Eva and her family with him to the
grave. I didn’t learn about his heroism until five years ago. This chapter of
his life adds one more layer of pride to the connection I have with my father
and another chapter to a book of happy childhood memories I have from my
YAD VASHEM, an institution that serves as a beacon of
justice and memory for people around the world, has twice rejected my father’s
nomination to be recognized as a Righteous Gentile. I call on the leadership of
Yad Vashem to heed Eva’s plea and to reconsider the case while she and the other
rescued members of her family are still alive. If Yad Vashem recognizes my
father as a righteous, I would proudly travel to Jerusalem to accept the honor
in his name.
However, if Yad Vashem decides that the eyewitness testimony
of three Tunisian Jewish women my father protected – Eva, her late sister Annie
Boukhris and their cousin Edmee Masliah– does not satisfy its requirements, its
refusal does not diminish his righteous deeds.
I have been overwhelmed by
the outpouring of gratitude expressed by numerous organizations – including the
Simon Wiesenthal Center in Los Angeles, the Anti- Defamation League in New York,
the US Holocaust Memorial Museum and Adas Israel Congregation in Washington, and
the Gardens of the Righteous in Milan – which have already honored my father’s
More important than all these honors, however, is that the story
of my father’s care for the Jewish families on our farm has come full circle.
Two years ago, during the making of the documentary film Among the Righteous
traveled back to our farm. There, I had the privilege of meeting Edmee, one of
the women my father had protected.
Although Edmee and I had never set
eyes on each other before, it was like a family reunion, full of tears and
hugging. Since then, over sumptuous Shabbat dinners of her delicious Mahdia
couscous, our friendship has deepened. I have become part of her family, just as
she and her family had been part of ours long before I was born. Both Edmee and
I have new reasons to be grateful for my father’s act of courage that winter’s
night in Tunisia, 69 years ago.The writer lives in Paris. She works in
the film industry.