The feeling of being a cultural and social outsider is not a foreign one to me. I grew up surrounded by ignorance regarding my family’s culture and history, which led to years of isolation and feeling like I don’t belong in any community.

My parents come from Nalchik, Kavkaz, a region in Chechnya located near the Caspian sea, a sort of multicultural haven for the Jews and Muslims who lived there in the mid-20th century. Many languages were spoken aside from Russian, and my parents and their ancestors spoke an old dialect of Hebrew and Farsi called Juhuru, translated to “Jewish.” The Jews of Kavkaz, also known as the Mountain Jews, had adopted many of the customs and practices of their Muslim neighbors—marriage at a young age, holding family and gender roles in high regard, and a close, tight-knit community—though they made sure to keep Jewish law as best as they could.

Kavkazi Jews originated from Persia, which is why Juhuro retains so much of the Farsi language. The community took form after the Qajar Iranian dynasty relinquished control over the areas they populated to the Russian Empire in 1813 as a result of the Treaty of Gulistan. At present, Israel houses the largest Kavkazi population, ranging anywhere from 100,000-140,000 people. The United States is home to around 10,000-40,000 people, according to the People Group Info website. According to the Azerbaijani Census, there are around 22,000-50,000 Jews, both Kavkazi and Bucharian.

With the help of the Sohnut (the Jewish Agency), my parents were able to leave Russia. From there, HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) helped them secure their journey to the United States, and NYANA (the New York Association for New Americans) provided them with money and English classes. After immigrating to the U.S. in 1988, my parents and two brothers made their way to Brooklyn’s Midwood, a homogeneously yeshivish community of which they felt no part.

My parents were one of the first families to leave the Soviet Union following Reagan and Gorbachev’s Washington Summit meetings, which highlighted myriad issues including human rights and emigration policies. My parents did not speak English and came virtually penniless, spending years taking up all types of odd jobs to support themselves and their children.

I was born 14 years after my parents emigrated, and they felt it was necessary to teach me Russian for a couple of reasons. First, they believed that knowing more than one language is useful. But more importantly, speaking Russian ensured that I would be able to communicate fully with them and the rest of my family.

As a direct result, I had no English exposure until I was 5. My entire family spoke only Russian with me, and the cartoons I watched were in Russian, too—I even watched a Russian rendition of “Winnie the Pooh.” I came into Pre-1A not speaking a word of English.

Aside from that, my parents were baalei teshuva and were still grasping at some of the basic concepts of Jewish law, most of which they learned from my oldest brother, whom they sent to a Yeshiva Rabbi Chaim Berlin because resources and affordable options were truly limited at the time. My father felt that living in America, a land that promised freedom of religion, meant he had to take advantage of the opportunities he was not afforded while growing up.

This is not to say that Kavkaz was completely devoid of Jewish praxes. To avoid persecution from the Soviets, Kavkazi shul services were conducted surreptitiously, typically in private homes and at odd hours of the morning. Kosher meat was provided by local Jewish farmers, and contrary to popular belief, newlyweds had chuppot and ketubot at their weddings.

Given my parents’ baalei teshuva status, this came as a shock to my brother’s rebbe when he was in primary school. It was hard for him to believe that Jews living under the Soviet regime had access to “a Jewish way of life.” Even more so, he was shocked to discover that there was a whole world of Jewry beyond the scope of what he thought he knew.

For years, I struggled with accepting an identity of which so few had heard. It was similarly tiring to explain to those around me that I am not Ashkenazi and also not quite Russian. My family is Kavkazi, a term many people have never heard of.

When I was little, I was always called “the Russian girl.” My teachers barely understood me; I barely understood my classmates. The linguistic barriers made forging connections with other students difficult, as we could not communicate. My parents’ plan seemed to backfire for a while: My not speaking English did not make me as dynamic as they had hoped. It made me a social outcast.

The Kavkazi community in New York is lackluster and scattered; I hadn’t met a single Kavkazi person my age (barring my family) until I was about 7 or 8 years old, when my parents decided that I needed to learn the Kavkazi folk dance, Lezginka, a name derived from one of the indigenous Kavkazi groups. I had no interest in learning a dance that forever emboldened my status as “the Other.” I remember performing the dance once in school and getting laughed at by my classmates.

About five years ago, my family took a trip to Nalchik, the place where my parents had lived and grown up. This had been my mother’s and brothers’ first time visiting their birthplace after leaving. My parents pointed out the houses where they grew up, the roads they ran through with their friends, the park my parents went to for their first date. There were barely any Jews, maybe five or so, and they were all old, clinging to the memories of their childhoods. Nalchik is now predominantly populated by Muslims, and when my father explained that we were Jewish, most of them did not know what the word meant. It was a bittersweet moment, knowing that the place they once called home moved on without them.

For the longest time, and still now if I’m being completely honest, my Kavkazi identity bears a constant reminder that I will never be fully American or Kavkazi. I run from one identity to the next in an endless loop. Even now, all of my friends are Ashkenazi; I refer to my best friend’s grandmother as “Bubby,” but I dislike the taste of kugel and can only stomach gefilte fish if it’s salty.

A large part of understanding one’s culture is to live it, which is why I want to share some of my mother’s Kavkazi recipes that I grew up with. Maybe the language and the traditions are still a bit foreign to me, but the food is one thing I could never pass up.

Plov, a Rice and Beef Dish

8 servings

I used the recipe from Natasha’s Kitchen.

• 1½ lb beef sirloin
• ⅓ cup canola oil
• 2 onions, diced
• 3 carrots, grated
• 1 tsp salt, black pepper, paprika, cumin, coriander
• 3-4 bay leaves
• 4 cups water
• 3 cups long grain rice
• 1 head of garlic

1. Cut meat into cubes and add oil and spices.

2. Cook for seven minutes in a large pan and add chopped onions. Add carrots and pour 1½ cups of water.

3. Simmer for 45 minutes and add rice. Cook for 10 minutes and add garlic cloves. Cook for 15 minutes.

Dolma, Middle Eastern Stuffed Grape Leaves

6 servings

I used a recipe from Mission Food.

• 1 (1 lb) jar grape leaves grape leaves
• 2 lb meat of your choice
• 1 tsp salt, paprika, ground coriander and black pepper
• Half an onion, diced
• 1 cup rice
• Parsley, chopped
• Tomato paste

1. In a large mixing bowl, mix spices, meat, onion, uncooked rice, parsley and tomato paste.

2. On a work surface, lay down grape leaves and add a tablespoon of meat stuffing to the edge closest to the stem.

3. Roll slightly and fold over the sides of the leaf (like a burrito).

4. Line the dolma in a large pan and cover them in water. Then boil for 30 minutes.

Chudu, a Kavkazi Meat Pie

5-6 servings

I used my mother’s recipe.

• 2½ lb flour
• 1 cup water
• 1 tsp salt, black pepper and coriander
• 2 lb meat of your choice
• Half an onion, diced

1. Preheat oven to 150 degrees.

2. Mix onions with beef, spices and water.

3. For dough, add flour with water and salt; knead for 15 minutes.

4. Divide the dough into equal portions and roll each piece into a ball. Once the dough is thin add the meat and seal with an extra layer of dough. Press the two pieces firmly to avoid leaking.

5. Place the pies on a nonstick baking tray.

Rina Shamilov is an intern for The Jewish Link and a rising Junior at Stern College for Women.