Soon after the United Nations resolution of 1947 in favor of a Jewish state, antisemitic riots broke out in Aleppo. Synagogues were set afire, Jewish shops and houses were pillaged, and thousands of Aleppo’s Jews were forced to flee the country.

Under the persistent repression of Syrian authorities, from 1947 to the 1990s, many members of the Jewish community sustained the risk of fleeing to escape persecution. Many attempts at escape ended in tragedy, with innocent Jews tortured and murdered. In the 1990s, after the community had endured almost 50 years of imprisonment, then-President Hafez al-Assad (Bashar’s father) allowed them to leave in exchange for millions of dollars in cash. From a Jewish community of about 30,000 in 1948, Syria today has three Jews living in the country, all in Damascus.

My own parents fled after the mobs, aided by the police, began burning synagogues and Torah scrolls in what became known as the Harayek. On that day in 1947, Syrian rioters entered the building where my parents lived, which was right next to the synagogue. My mother heard screams. They beat Jews, destroyed their property, looted stores, ruined businesses. Escape was risky: The authorities were intent on keeping the Jews imprisoned. My parents hid at my grandparents’ home, and then each made a separate run for the border.

My mother, traveling with my sick brother, needed a doctor’s permit to leave and took my older siblings to the Lebanese mountains. My father’s escape followed a different path. He was caught several times, but he never gave up the quest to join his family. Just when he thought he had failed definitively, a Syrian police officer who had been sent to arrest him but whom he happened to know, gave him a lifeline. “Look,” the officer said, “you’re being pursued by the authorities because you’ve tried to escape a few times, and I have orders to arrest you. I’m coming back to arrest you tomorrow.”

My father didn’t need a stronger hint. With the help of friends, he boarded a train to Lebanon that night and enlisted the assistance of the train conductor, with whom he was also acquainted. The conductor hid him in the cattle car, telling him he couldn’t breathe, sneeze or move a muscle or they’d both be caught and killed. As soon as they reached the border, my father jumped off of the moving train and into a ravine. He traveled by night to avoid being seen and eventually reunited with my mother and siblings. He left everything behind—home, furniture, business, clothing and property. All he had was a small bag and the clothes on his back.

Had my father been caught, I wouldn’t be here to tell the story. I wouldn’t have been born.

Although Lebanon was relatively peaceful, our status always remained as refugees. We couldn’t move about the country without refugee identity cards. We were allowed to live in Lebanon, but not as free citizens.

During the next 22 years, we endured harassment, discrimination and fear of persecution, and we hid our identity most of the time. After Black September in 1970, when Palestinians were expelled from Jordan and the Palestine Liberation Organization’s leadership was later transferred to Lebanon, the Jewish community felt threatened and began to flee.

Like many other Jewish families, we finally left Lebanon. We were able to immigrate to Mexico in 1971, leaving behind a life and history of thousands of years in the Levant.

Will Syria ever become home again for the Jews? And what of other ethnic minorities? The trauma, persecution and discrimination that the Jewish community suffered there continues to play in our mind and psyche. I asked my mother and other elderly people if they will go back. A few said they will go to visit; most said they will never set foot in Syria again. All, however, pray that the people of the region—especially vulnerable minority populations—will find tranquility, stability and peace.

Rabbi Abadie is a co-president of Justice for Jews from Arab Countries and senior rabbi emeritus of the Jewish Council of the U.A.E. and the Association of Gulf Jewish Communities.