By Peymana Assad
Growing up, my dad would always tell me about a theory that Afghans are descended from one of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. It fascinated me, sparking a lifelong curiosity about Afghanistan’s rich and diverse history. I’ve spent hours looking at old photos of Afghan Jews in Afghanistan and watching videos of Afghan Jewish weddings where couples wore traditional Afghan clothes but followed Jewish rituals. It saddened me that Afghanistan has lost so much of its diversity over time: war has erased communities, while the Israeli-Palestinian conflict made many Afghans hesitant to acknowledge this part of their history.
As a practising Muslim, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the Holy Land: home of the Abrahamic faiths and the land of the Prophet Moses, whose story of leading the Israelites to freedom from Pharaoh is central to Islam. His journey has always given me faith that justice can prevail, and that we should never lose hope. The idea that Afghans might have originally come from that land? It blew my mind. So, when I was invited to visit Israel in May 2023 with Labour Friends of Israel, I immediately said yes. This was a chance to explore a hidden part of my Afghan identity and to better understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Wanting to make the most of my trip, I contacted the Jerusalem Press Club and specifically asked if they could connect me with Afghan Jews. Its staff introduced me to an 84-year-old Israeli woman of Afghan heritage, Miriam Vidal. The morning before we were due to visit Ramallah, Miriam came to our hotel for breakfast – walking through Jerusalem with incredible energy!
We bonded instantly. Like me, she had left Afghanistan at the age of three; her family had migrated to Israel, mine to the UK. Her father had become the head rabbi of the Afghan synagogue in Ra’anana, where one of Israel’s largest Afghan Jewish communities still resides. She showed me a photo of her grandfather and told me how he had met Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, who encouraged him to bring his family to Israel.
Miriam had gone on to become a teacher, had spent time in the UK, and still spoke fluent Dari, my mother tongue. She joked with Michael Rubin, LFI’s director, when I asked him to take a picture of us: “You know, we can speak a language you don’t understand.” It warmed my heart to see how much she cherished our shared heritage. Despite our differences – she was an Israeli Jewish woman, I was a British Muslim woman – our stories mirrored those of each other in so many ways. We still keep in touch. She’s the only person with Hebrew in her name who leaves me loving comments on Facebook.
Miriam spoke about how the Afghan Jewish community in Ra’anana still meets up, speaks Dari, cooks Afghan food, and holds onto cultural heirlooms from their parents. They’re now looking for a museum to preserve their history. During my visit, I was even asked to take a DNA test as part of efforts to explore potential connections between Afghans and Israelis. I never got the chance, but I hope to do so in the future.
As I travelled across Israel and Palestine, meeting people – young and old – who were working for peace, it struck me that this is the only way forward: by finding the human connections that tie us together.
On 7 October, as the horrors of that day unfolded, I sent Miriam a message: “Are you okay? Is your family safe?” It was a simple message, but one that carried the weight of our bond.
This International Women’s Day, I think of Miriam and all the women striving to bridge the divide and break down old narratives. In a region where politics so often overshadows humanity, it’s their quiet acts of connection that remind us that peace isn’t just about diplomacy – it’s about seeing each other’s humanity.
Councillor Peymana Assad is co-founder and co-chair of the Labour Foreign Policy Group and is the shadow cabinet member for community safety and environment on the London Borough of Harrow
