On Miracles: A Passover Reflection from Tbilisi

Saida Averbukh has witnessed a miracle or two in her nearly nine decades of life. Among these, Averbukh, 88, watched the Soviet Union crumble and Jewish life blossom in her native Tbilisi, Georgia. As Passover approaches, she looks back on the miracles that have defined her life. 

One evening in 1919, a gang surrounded my father’s shtetl in Ukraine. 

Sensing danger, my father hid in the trees until morning. When the sun rose, he saw what had happened: The entire village had been burned down — and everyone in it, slaughtered. 

The destruction was immense. My father lost his father, mother, two little sisters, and a brother. He was just 14 years old — and completely alone. In the ashes, he found a single photo of my grandfather, Naum Isaakovich Averbuch. Everything else was gone. 

I keep Naum’s photo here with me. It’s the one thing that binds me to that place and time. This photo reminds me that, though much was lost, my father survived that horrific night. In that awful moment, a miracle happened — his deliverance from those who sought to destroy him and other Jews.   

Maybe that’s why he always told me, “You have a roof over your head, you live in peace, and no one bothers you. That’s all you need — be happy.” For him, it was miraculous just to be alive. 

I’ve experienced miracles I still don’t understand. As a young girl, my family took a trip to the Black Sea. One night, I wanted to go swimming. I tiptoed down to the water, not waking a soul.

I stepped into the sea. Alone and free, I swam beneath the stars. Once I’d had enough, I turned around and tried to reach the shore. One enormous wave hit me, and I struggled like a dog trying to get out. Then another wave hit me. Then another. I was being pulled back. 

I screamed for help, but the surf was loud and no one was around. Then, everything went dark. 

I woke up lying on the rocks. How did I get there? Who pulled me out? I have no idea how the waves carried me ashore. All I knew is that someone — or something — had delivered me from imminent death. 

I also realized that my life was precious. So, I devoted it to the one thing that makes me happiest — music. Music is its own kind of miracle and it saves me. Even now, it’s my best friend.

From a young age, I studied piano at music school and then attended conservatory. Every parent thinks their child is talented and could be successful, but my father was more realistic. 

“You’re Jewish,” he said. “Know that you’ll have to work extra hard to be appreciated.”

And I did work hard. I was a piano teacher for more than 60 years, and I gained a reputation that attracted some of the most committed and talented pianists around. 

Sometimes, parents would even come to me and say, “We’re bringing our child to you because we know that Jews are great musicians.”

“Why only musicians?” I’d ask. “What about doctors, physicists, and chemists? It’s not just Jewish musicians who are great.” That’s how it was — casual antisemitism was everywhere during the Soviet era.

However “great” we were, musicians were always paid little. In the Soviet Union, eight lessons a month would get you $9. But here’s the surprise: It was enough. Everything was cheaper then. I worked at three different schools and didn’t have to struggle. 

All of that changed in the 1990s — a decade of chaos and financial ruin. After the Soviet Union collapsed, we were paid in coupons. Bread might cost 2 million coupons while our salary was just 5 million. It wasn’t enough for anything. We were starving, and people were collapsing in the streets.

I wouldn’t have survived without JDC. My pension is too small to cover basic expenses. But without fail, JDC closed the gap between what I have and what I need — food, medicine, heat, and more. 

Decades later, they still do. This is yet another miracle — the collective power and strength of us Jews when we support each other.  As I grow older, I feel this care more and more.

It’s uncomfortable for an aging person to live in the world. If you fall, everything breaks and hurts. I used to run around like a child, but now I use a cane, and my mobility has only gotten worse with age. I broke my shoulder during the pandemic. My injury still hasn’t healed, and it limits what I can do around my home. 

Humans are poorly designed — I don’t like it. We should live to be 300, like turtles! 

That’s why I’m also grateful for Lera, my JDC homecare worker. Yes, I have trouble moving around my apartment. But it’s clean and I have food — that’s all thanks to her. Each day, she arrives promptly at 9 a.m. and helps me with everything I need. Best of all, though, is the time we spend just talking. 

Sometimes, JDC’s assistance is less tangible, but even more profound. I’m thinking of all the ways they allow me to live and breathe my Jewishness. Through the JDC-supported Hesed Eliahu social service center here in Tbilisi, I’m able to celebrate Jewish holidays, participate in Shabbat gatherings online, and feel proud of my heritage in numerous other ways.

This is the miracle of our Jewish traditions, which give me resilience and hope, and as Passover approaches, JDC is helping to make this Festival of Freedom feel joyful and authentic. 

Years ago, matzah used to be baked at a local synagogue, and I’d buy it there. Inside, there was this enormous vat filled with water and flour, and nearby was a peculiar machine. It would roll and roll, and the finished matzah would come out. It smelled incredible and tasted delicious. 

I bought it by the kilogram and had to hail a taxi to carry it all home. 

Now, I don’t even have to leave my apartment to enjoy matzah — JDC delivers it right to my living room. I enjoy cooking with it, and these recipes — passed down through the centuries — tie me to generations of Jews who yearned for freedom, the very spirit of Passover. 

Freedom means I can openly express what I think and feel. It means I’m not afraid. From my father’s shtetl to rising global antisemitism today, Jews have endured so much tragedy and suffering. But we always emerge victorious. 

We’re still here, and that’s the greatest miracle of all. 

Saida Averbukh, 88, is a JDC client living in Tbilisi, Georgia.

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