By Erin Levi
Each spring, when the fruit trees burst into bloom, a quiet rite unfolds in a backyard in Rego Park, Queens. It’s here, among the cherry blossoms and grapevines planted by Aron Aronov, that students from the nearby Queens Gymnasia yeshiva gather to recite a special mitzvah—one that thanks God for the return of flowering fruit trees.
According to Jewish tradition, this blessing is said during the Hebrew month of Nissan, upon seeing blossoming fruit trees for the first time that year. And for many yeshiva students in Queens, that moment comes in the backyard of Aron Aronov.
“Papa put all the trees like we had in Uzbekistan,” says his daughter, Alla Aronova.
There was no garden when Aronov first purchased the house nearly 25 years ago. Just a garage. “I demolished the garage and planted the trees,” he told the visiting students this spring. “Now I have a real, typical Bukharian Jewish backyard.”
A sign at the entrance reads “Baruchim Habaim!”—“Welcome!” The gate is left open.
Behind the gate: sweet and sour cherry, apricot, and pear trees. Vines climb overhead. Roses, lilacs, tulips, and lilies of the valley bloom in clusters, re-creating the scent and spirit of Aronov’s family home in Tashkent.
The students gather around him as he gestures proudly to the tandoor oven tucked into the corner of the yard. “Do you know what that is? It’s a tandoor—we bake bread there,” he says, wearing his trademark cowboy hat. He points next to a traditional raised platform. “Some people want to sit European-style, on chairs. But those with oriental traditions? They sit here.” The platform is a tapchan, common in Uzbek homes and teahouses.
Aronov describes how life was lived outside from April to November. “We spent most of our time in the open air.”
When he turns the conversation to how they used to wash their hands—without running water—he leads the kids to a bucket hanging by the fence. “That’s rainwater,” explains Alla. “That’s what we used.”
He switches languages—effortlessly. Hebrew to address the yeshiva teacher. French when prompted. Even German, which he picked up in Uzbekistan. “I speak ten languages!” he says, grinning. When one student shares that he’s the only one in his class who speaks Bukhari, Aronov leans down and reminds him: “You are as many times a person as many languages as you speak.”
The teacher, moved, says goodbye with a warm “Merci beaucoup,” and promises to return with next year’s class.
Later, over the phone with me, Alla reflects on the enduring power of this backyard. “When people enter my father’s house, they say, ‘This reminds me of our homes in Central Asia.’” She said it is Rafael Nektalov’s favorite place, and that he’s spent many of an evening there.
Indeed, it’s a place of memory, community, and sacred renewal—where a sour cherry tree blooms in Queens, and with it, a generation remembers.
As for myself? I can’t wait to visit.
The photos and material were all provided by Alla Aronova