Lebanon has 18 official religious sects. Many groups, such as the Maronites, Sunni and Shia Muslims, and Druze, for example, play a daily role in Lebanon’s civic affairs.  But how many Lebanese Chaldean Catholics or Ismaili Muslims have you met?  Other sects, like the Alawi, Assyrians and Coptic Christians also add to the Lebanese mosaic.

But one sect, which numbered nearly 17,000 in the 1960s, is nearly extinct today. Lebanon still has an officially recognized Jewish sect, made up of roughly 60 citizens, mostly residing in Beirut’s eastern suburbs. The most recent community representative, Joseph Mizrahi, lived in Beirut until 2003, when he left for France.

Although their numbers steadily decline, Jewish shadows linger in Beirut and across Lebanon. Even if you’ve never been inside, chances are you’ve walked by the Magen David Avraham synagogue in Wadi Abu Jamil, the old Jewish quarter just below the Grand Serail. Now and then, elderly women are spotted walking into the Jewish cemetery in Sodeco or the vandalized, neglected cemetery by Saida’s coastal trash landfill. Deir al-Qamar boasts Lebanon’s oldest synagogue, yet the structure itself has been sealed shut for nearly 33 years. And Tripoli, Bhamdoun and Saida still have abandoned synagogues, closed since the outbreak of the civil war in 1975.

One of the last Jews to remain in Beirut is Liza (for reasons of security, her last name will be withheld).  Liza continues to live in Wadi Abu Jamil and steadfastly refuses to leave Lebanon.  An internal refugee from the days of the civil war, Liza now lives in an abandoned building set for demolition by Solidere.  She may be the last Jewish presence in Wadi Abu Jamil.  Living alone with several generations of pet cats, she is quick to emphasize how important Lebanese identity is to her. 

“Before anything else, I want you to know that I am Lebanese… and I am Jewish,” she says at the beginning of our interview. “Don’t ask me questions about Israel because I know nothing about that.”

Following the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, Lebanon’s Jewish population actually increased.  Most of the newly arrived Jews fled from Syria in search of security and found it easiest to escape to Beirut. Lebanon’s Jewish community felt safe, and saw its future here rather than abroad. Well-integrated in commerce and trade, many Lebanese Jews left the relatively poor Wadi Abu Jamil district and moved to the upper-middle class neighborhoods of Hamra and Clemenceau.

“When I was a child, my family used to take trips to Bhamdoun,” recalled Liza.  “I used to play with other families – Christians, Muslims, Druze, anyone you could imagine. The ability for me, a Jewish woman, to play with Christian and Muslim girls and boys and never think anything of it, makes me as Lebanese as anyone else.”

But Lebanese Jews shared the fate of other Arab Jews in the aftermath of the 1967 Arab-Israeli war. Although their numbers began to decline following the 1958 civil war, the majority only chose to leave after 1967. The community suddenly found itself exposed to violence, as it became increasingly difficult for Arab Jews to stay in their native countries without facing discrimination and hostility.  Thus, the active role of Jews in Lebanese society quickly deteriorated with Israel’s victory in the 1967 war.

Targeted for the Arab blunders in that war, demonstrations against Jews in Wadi Abu Jamil became routine. In her book, The Jews of Lebanon: Between Coexistence and Conflict, Kirsten Schulze describes the rapid politicization of Palestinians and Jews in Lebanon following the war. The Jews, fearing a backlash from Palestinians and Lebanese sympathizers due to the Arab defeat, sought protection from the Kataeb party. The general climate of fear drove the Jewish population down to 3,000 after the 1967 war; after the first year of civil war in 1976, only 400-500 Jews remained in Lebanon.

When Israel invaded Lebanon and reached Beirut in the summer of 1982, the Israeli government offered the remaining Lebanese Jews Israeli citizenship. According to a report issued by British daily The Times in August of that year, not one Lebanese Jew accepted the offer. “I was offered Israeli citizenship,” Liza confirmed, “when [Ariel] Sharon came to Beirut. I wasn’t the only one then to simply turn it down. I am not, and will never be, Israeli.”  Indeed, Zionism was largely unattractive even to many of the 500,000 Arab Jews that fled to Israel.  However, there was no other country willing to accept them as refugees.

So, where are the Lebanese Jews today? Most of them fled to Paris and Montreal and became citizens of their host countries. Less than 200 settled in Israel, reflecting Zionism’s lack of appeal at the time to the overwhelming majority of Lebanese Jews.

We are left with only a glimpse into a history that is often forgotten in Lebanon.  After the civil war ended in 1990, many Jews temporarily returned to Beirut to sell the property they still owned in Wadi Abu Jamil to Solidere. Walking in the former Jewish neighborhood today, the area feels more like a newly paved parking lot than a dense quarter that was home to thousands. Some Jewish-owned buildings still stand, but most have been destroyed.  The Magen David Avraham synagogue remains abandoned, roofless and gutted. Solidere will likely renovate the structure but keep it closed to the public until the community decides to reopen it. Of course, that would first require a Lebanon ready to accept an active Jewish presence – not to mention a functioning synagogue right below the Grand Serail. In any case, the Jewish community and its presence in Lebanon are pushed to the backburner by domestic politics. Sadly, their concerns are largely considered a non-issue by most of their fellow Lebanese.

Liza believes that Lebanon’s Jewish community is beyond revival. “You are asking for the impossible, for me, a Jew, to really feel part of this country,” she said.  “Don’t get me wrong, I am Lebanese, 100% Lebanese. But I am rejected because people think I am Israeli, or a Zionist or a Mossad agent.”

Even the government’s identification of Jews is a reminder to Liza of her rejection by Lebanese society.  She reaches over into a dresser and pulls out an old Lebanese birth certificate, pointing to the mazhab, or religion, section.  “The government is too afraid to list me as a Jew. I am ‘Moussawi,’ because I follow Moses,” she says.  “But the followers of Moses are Jews, so why can’t I be a Jew? I can’t because of the problem with Israel. Get that solved and I’ll be fine.”

A telephone call interrupts our conversation, and Liza asks to end the interview here. I leave her building and quickly get stopped by a Solidere security guard asking why I was visiting Liza. I explain, and he quickly asks if I am Jewish. I tell him no, but ask why he’s curious. He says, “She’s the only Israeli I know in Lebanon. And she seems nice, and I thought you were related to her. You’d be the second Jew I meet.”

Inextricably linked – against her will – to Israel, the last Jew in Wadi Abu Jamil is protected by a guard who thinks she’s Israeli. We may be down to 17 sects very, very soon.

Click here for a full transcript of NOW Lebanon’s interview with Liza.