WITHIN a month of my arrival in Yangon, I set out to find the Jews of Myanmar. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year and one of the religion’s High Holy Days, was approaching, and I wanted to find a synagogue where I could pray.

The inside of Musmeah Yeshua synagogue in downtown Yangon

I had no idea that I would soon participate in the first Jewish service in Myanmar in over 30 years. A Lubovitch rabbi and rebbetzin, Jews authorized by Jewish law to lead prayer, flew in from Bangkok. Jews living in Hong Kong, Singa-pore, Switzerland, Holland, the US, Israel and Australia gathered at Musmeah Yeshua synagogue to bring Rosh Hasha-na to Myanmar.

I had no idea that Jews have a legacy here, from the time of merchants and teakwood traders of the 1840s. There was once a vibrant Jewish community, complete with charitable organisa-tions, a Boy Scout troop, a Zionist lodge, school and a cemetery.

Before the Japanese invasion in 1942, the Myanmar Jewish community numbered about 2,500 people.

I had no idea that Myanmar has especially close relations with Israel. Myanmar was the first Asian country to establish diplomatic relations with the newly independent Israel.

All I was looking for was a place to celebrate my holiday.

A few days before Rosh Hashana began, my friend and I set out to meet the trustee of the synagogue, Moses Samuels. I was expecting a significant building, dominating the streets with its high walls and ornate windows.

I walked through downtown Yangon, zigzagging around taxis, passing by fresh vegetable stalls and fish markets and women selling chickens. Any moment, I knew my synagogue would appear, slapping me in the face with its beauty.

Instead, we got to 85 26th Street and found a cement wall and a locked iron gate.

“Well,” I thought, “nothing in Yangon is ever how I expect it.”

A Myanmar man in a cotton longyi and white T-shirt let us inside to wait for Moses. I began exploring, examining the plaques and photo collages.

And then, I turned around and was slapped in the face by beauty – painted in light blue on the inside of the cement wall was a simple Star of David and Hebrew letters spelling “Shalom” (Peace).

I stood for a few minutes, looking up at those letters, and a sense of calm settled over my body.

“Shalom,” I read aloud to my friend.

It was the first time in the month that I had been living in Myanmar that I felt truly comfortable. The first time that I felt like part of my life back in New York was with me in Asia.

“Jewish identity can be conceived as a refuge, a home, a place of security in an alien world,” wrote Ruth Fredman Cernea in her essay Promised Lands and Domestic Arguments: The Conditions of Jewish Identity in Burma.

I sat down in the trustee’s office and recognised all of his Jewish ceremonial objects – the silver candle holders, the mezuzah on the door, the seven-branched candelabra sitting on the windowsill, the framed posters of Israel, our Holy Land.

It could have been the office of any Jewish trustee or rabbi in any city, in any time.

I sat there, taking it all in, not minding that he was 15 minutes late, not remembering the work I had not finished or the errands I needed to run.

When Moses arrived, he chatted with me and my friend for almost an hour, telling us the history of the synagogue, answering our questions, showing me the boxes of matzah he keeps in his cabinet for the Passover holiday.

He told me about the Yangon Jewish cemetery.

“Of course,” I thought. “The cemetery!”

According to Jewish law, it is the first structure that every Jewish community must construct. I have visited Jewish cemeteries all over the world.

Moses offered to give me a tour of it whenever I liked. He invited me to come down to the synagogue whenever I had time, to listen in and be a part of the community here. I smiled and thanked him for his hospitality.

But I wasn’t surprised. Of course he looked at me with warm and welcoming eyes.

“Anything you need,” he said, “just let me know.”

Of course he offered me his time and help.

He is a Jew, and I am a Jew. We are a community. There is nothing else to it.

Later in the week, I attended the Rosh Hashana services. I lit the Shabbat candles and ate the apples dipped in honey for a sweet New Year.

But throughout the service itself I felt like there was something off. Perhaps because it made me miss my family praying together in New York even more.

But I suppose I wasn’t there for the praying. I had already found my home, my refuge in this alien world.