Imagine walking into a post-apocalyptic bunker to find books written in a language you don’t know. Maybe you understand the letters from an ancient religion, but the sounds and words they make are not the same as the ones you are familiar with. From this haven of musty books and a stale smoke smell that has somehow lasted years, you can assume that in this maze of concrete, the people all spoke this language. This is Mendy Cahan’s ideal result from the preservation of books at Yung Yidish.

Located in the Tel Aviv central bus station, Yung Yidish is an archive in the same way that a packed school lunch is a meal: while it functionally is, it holds none of the same familiar characteristics that constitute an actual archive. It is hot, and humid, not temperature controlled at all. There is no air conditioning, only two or three fans that are severely overworked. While there, you can smell tobacco smoke and hear yelling in any number of languages at any given time, that is, until the event begins and it is comprised almost entirely of Yiddish. I went to this odd island twice, once to hear Zisl Slepovitch and once to hear Vanya Zhuk. Both times there was dancing, there was joy and laughter and communing with our histories through music and words and being surrounded by their language. It was weird and wonderful.

It is by no means a comfortable room to sit in, sitting there feels like you should be anywhere else, but when I was there I felt like there was nowhere else I should be.