In a personal reflection prompted by the Canadian Museum for Human Rights’ Nakba exhibition, Shoshana Shalev Minuk recounts her family’s forced displacement from Iraq and calls for a fuller understanding of the experiences of all communities uprooted by the conflicts that reshaped the Middle East.
TheJ.ca Editor’s Note: The following is a Letter to the Editor submitted by Shoshana Shalev Minuk in response to the public discussion surrounding the Canadian Museum for Human Rights’ Nakba exhibition and the broader question of how the history of 1948 and its aftermath should be remembered.
WINNIPEG, Manitoba – I am writing in response to the public discussion surrounding the inclusion of a Nakba exhibition at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, and the broader question of how the history of 1948 and its aftermath is remembered.
My family’s story is part of the history of the ancient Jewish community of Iraq, a community that lived there for more than 2,500 years and was deeply rooted in the cultural, economic, and social life of the country, particularly in Baghdad.
Throughout the twentieth century, Iraqi Jews experienced profound upheaval.
A major turning point was the Farhud of June 1 and 2, 1941, when violent pogroms erupted against the Jews of Baghdad during the Jewish holiday of Shavuot. Many Jews were killed and injured. Jewish homes and businesses were looted, and the community’s sense of safety within its homeland was deeply shaken.
For many Iraqi Jews, the Farhud marked the beginning of the end of a centuries old Jewish presence in Iraq.
In the years leading up to the establishment of the State of Israel, the entire region experienced growing national tensions and violence. In Mandatory Palestine, then under British rule, events such as the 1929 riots and the 1936 to 1939 Arab Revolt included attacks on Jewish communities and contributed to the escalation of conflict.
In 1947, the United Nations General Assembly adopted the Partition Plan for two states. Jewish leadership accepted the proposal, while Arab leadership rejected it.
Following the declaration of the State of Israel on May 14, 1948, a full scale war broke out during which the armies of Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq invaded the newly declared state. The first year of the war was marked by intense fighting and events that would shape the future of the Middle East.
In Iraq, the aftermath of these events brought increasing pressure upon the Jewish community. Jews were increasingly suspected of ties to Israel, faced discrimination and economic restrictions, and many lost their sense of security and belonging.
This was my family’s reality.
My brother was imprisoned in Iraq after being accused of being a “Zionist.” My father lost his job. Our family faced uncertainty and fear, and eventually we were forced to leave Iraq.
This was not a simple migration or voluntary departure.
Hundreds of thousands of Jews, including my entire family, were forced to leave Iraq and other Arab countries during this period. Historians estimate that approximately 850,000 Jews were displaced from Arab countries and Iran between the 1940s and 1970s. Between 1950 and 1951 alone, approximately 130,000 Iraqi Jews left Iraq as part of Operation Ezra and Nehemiah.
At the time of our departure, my mother was pregnant.
My parents arrived in Israel as part of the great immigration wave of 1950, and I was born shortly afterward in December of that year.
My maternal grandparents also made the journey with us to Israel. My grandmother was paralyzed from the waist down, adding another enormous challenge to an already difficult journey of displacement and rebuilding a new life.
Our family’s struggle did not end upon arrival.
We lived for three years in a ma’abara, or transit camp, before receiving permanent housing. I was the youngest of ten children.
Before I was born, my brother Yosef passed away at the age of two following an illness. My parents carried the pain of leaving behind his grave in Iraq as they began building a new life in a country still struggling to absorb hundreds of thousands of immigrants and refugees.
Yet our story is also one of resilience.
Despite everything we lost, our family rebuilt. All of us became educated and created meaningful and productive lives.
That experience is shared by countless Jewish families whose histories remain largely absent from contemporary discussions about displacement in the Middle East.
I believe that institutions dedicated to human rights and historical memory have a responsibility to present the full complexity of this period and recognize the experiences of all displaced communities in the Middle East, including both Palestinians and Jews.
Acknowledging different narratives does not erase either of them. Rather, it allows us to understand more fully the human cost of conflict, displacement, and the struggle to rebuild.
Human rights museums should seek not only to preserve memory, but also to broaden understanding. The history of 1948 did not produce a single narrative or a single refugee population. Multiple communities experienced profound loss, upheaval, and displacement.
Their stories deserve to be remembered together.
Only when we acknowledge the full historical record can we begin to appreciate both the tragedy of what was lost and the extraordinary resilience of those who rebuilt their lives.
The history of the Middle East is more complicated than any one narrative can convey. Its remembrance should be no less honest or comprehensive.
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