HEY, JOE
Burying Jerry Zuravsky
By Ted Lerner

MANILA - The life of Jerome A Zuravsky could hardly be described as one of notoriety. By all accounts, and frankly there is only one, he was the kind of guy to whom few paid any attention. This expatriate American lawyer-turned-businessman had lived in Manila f or 15 years. Although well educated and successful, he had no family, was not very sociable, was rarely seen in public and just about always kept to himself. He was, as Art Sokolow, the one man who knew him at all, said, "the kind of guy who just faded into the wall paper."

And so when Jerry Zuravsky died suddenly in 2001 at the age of 59 in Manila of Hodgkins disease, it's not surprising that wails of grief and gasps of shock from the local expat community completely failed to materialize. Since just about nobody knew the man, nobody had any inkling of his death. His passing caused neither a blip nor a mention on the social circuit.

But it was in death, alone and half a world away from his native land, where Jerry Zuravsky eventually stood out. Not for anything spectacular he left behind, or any unknown fact which was discovered about him. It was, rather, his very presence, or his nonpresence, and the very fact that nobody knew him, that led to a simple event, an event that showcased perfectly a timeless tradition and simple human values shared by people everywhere.

Jerry Zuravsky was born in 1941 in Columbus, Ohio, a descendant of Ukrainian Jewish immigrants. He went on to become a lawyer but in 1985 he retired from law and moved to Manila by himself. One of the first things he did upon setting himself up in Manila was to join the Elks Club. Lodge 761 is the only Elks lodge outside the United States. Many longtime US expats are also members of the Elks in Manila. This is where Zuravsky met Art Sokolow.

Sokolow befriended Zuravsky but remembers that the newly arrived American seemed to have few other acquaintances. He didn't have girlfriends, which was rare for a single foreign male in the Philippines, and he was rarely seen out in public. Except for a personal assistant, a driver and a maid, he lived alone. He ventured into various businesses and spent most of his time attending to them.

Then in 1999, Sokolow recalled, Zuravsky began having heart problems. He checked into the Makati Medical Center and had open-heart surgery, which was successful. While he was recovering from the surgery, however, he found out he had Hodgkins disease. Just a few months later, Jerry Zuravsky was dead.

Art Sokolow remembers hearing the news when he got a call from Zuravsky's personal assistant.

"He says, 'Jerry died.' So I said, 'How can I help?'" Sokolow recalls that Zuravsky's assistant told him he had called Jerry's brother in Arizona. The brother told him there was no family plot in the US and they didn't have the money to transport his brother's body, The brother brother suggested that since Jerry had spent a good part of his life in the Philippines, perhaps he could be buried here. The brother mentioned that Jerry was Jewish and asked if there was a Jewish cemetery in Manila. The assistant had no idea. Sokolow mentioned that there was one synagogue in Manila and told the assistant to call there.

There has been a Jewish synagogue in Manila since as far back as 1923. The Jewish community in Manila once consisted of several thousand people. Jews ended up in the Philippines for business, as part of the US establishment, beginning in the early part of the 20th century and through military service. A good many ended up in the Philippines fleeing persecution and murder in Europe during the 1930s and '40s.

The current synagogue, the orthodox Sephardic Beth Yaakov, was built in 1983 in the heart of the Makati financial district. As the business climate faltered and traditional Jewish trades such as textiles have moved to other locales, the Jewish community in Manila has dwindled to fewer than 50 families. There are, of course, other Jews living in the Philippines, but most live anonymously, non-practicing and never attending synagogue.

Zuravsky's assistant called the one and only synagogue in the Philippines and got on the line with Paul Rosenberg, the president. When Rosenberg heard the name "Jerry Zuravsky", he admitted to drawing a blank.

"We never met the guy," Rosenberg said, "never heard about him. We had no contact with him whatsoever."

What happens when you die overseas, far from home, and nobody claims your body? In the Philippines some dead bodies that go unclaimed end up being rented out to people who want to put on three-day gambling benders. If you have a dead body in a casket, the cops won't come and shut down the makeshift sidewalk casino. But a phony side-of-the-road funeral would not be the ignoble fate of Jerry Zuravsky, thanks to yet another call to Art Sokolow, this one from Rosenberg.

"Art, do you know a Jerry Zuravsky?" Rosenberg asked.

"Yes of course I do," Sokolow said. "He just died. Why are you calling?"

"We got this call from the people looking after him. I need to know, is he Jewish?"

"Of course Jerry Zuravsky is Jewish."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Jerry Zuravsky. I know he's Jewish. His grandparents come from the same area of Ukraine as mine."

And that was all it took. Based on the word of one man, the small Jewish community of Manila went into action, taking care of one its own, even though he was a complete unknown, all because he was Jewish, and because it is a high obligation in the Jewish religion to make sure a Jew, any Jew, gets a decent burial. Jerry Zuravsky, his body lying in a kind of necrological limbo, was about to exit this world in a proper and dignified manner.

It was early on a drizzly Sunday morning when the body of Jerry Zuravsky was taken in a funeral-parlor hearse to the synagogue, where it was first bathed according to ritual, then wrapped in a shroud. The call had gone out to some fellow Jews in the area, some of whom were not even regular attendees of the temple. Twenty-plus people showed up for the burial. Except for Sokolow and Zuravsky's hire staff, not one of the others had ever even heard of the deceased.

"It's not easy to get people to show up at any time," said Sokolow, "especially on a Sunday morning when they could have very easily been doing something else. Most Jews don't even show up on the high holidays. But they showed up for Jerry Zuravsky."

After some light refreshments, everyone got in their cars and drove with the body, which was inside the hearse, the 10 kilometers out to the North Cemetery, a sprawling 250-hectare tract filled to the brim mostly with the remains of Catholics. In a far-off corner of the North Cemetery sits a small Jewish cemetery that is run by the synagogue. The cemetery is surrounded by a wrought-iron fence adorned with several Stars of David and a sign that reads "Jewish Cemetery" and the year "1925", indicating the date when it first opened. Inside the gates several hundred bodies, some dating back to the early 20th century, are buried under headstones adorned with the Star of David and inscribed in English and Hebrew lettering.

The service, conducted by Rabbi Shlomo Atias, an Israeli born in Morocco, took all of five minutes. Sokolow was the only one who spoke. Everyone on hand picked up a handful of soil and dropped it in the grave. Jerry Zuravsky was finally laid to rest.

Today the grave of Jerome A Zuravsky is a raised pile of earth, grown over with grass and adorned with a simple wood-and-tin sign painted with a Star of David, Zuravsky's name and the name of another fellow with whom he shares the plot.

Some time after the burial, Zuravsky's brother made a donation to the synagogue in thanks for the burial and plot. The synagogue is currently putting the finishing touches on the design for the headstone, which will be completed in a few weeks. The inscription reads: "Beloved Brother and Uncle, Jerome A Zuravsky. October 19, 1941 - August 30, 2001."

"My regard for the Jewish community here has really increased," said Sokolow as he recalled the burial. "Word went out that there was a Jew who passed away. That's all they needed to hear. So they showed up."

For Paul Rosenberg, the burial of Jerry Zuravsky was a reminder of not only the rituals and traditions valued by his religion, but of the human values that are sometimes more prevalent inside very small, far-flung communities.

"I don't know what would happen in large Jewish communities," he said. "This was a similar situation that would happen in small Jewish communities around the world. It's an important thing to bury someone in the Jewish community. If you're a Jew, you are obligated to bury a fellow Jew, even if you don't know him. It's a great honor."

Ted Lerner is the author of a book of Asian travel tales, The Traveler and the Gate Checkers, as well as Hey, Joe: A Slice of the City, an American in Manila. Please visit www.hey-joe.net or e-mail directly at ted@hey-joe.net.

(Copyright 2003 Asia Times Online Co, Ltd. All rights reserved. Please contact content@atimes.com for information on our sales and syndication policies.)