Taiwan – an island wrapped in morning mist, where wet earth mingles with incense from temple courtyards. At dawn, tea plantations shine like jade; by night, neon paints the streets in bright colors. Scooters buzz past monks in saffron robes and teenagers sipping bubble tea. Once called “Ilha Formosa” (the Beautiful Island), today it is the heart of Asia, both mythical and hyper-modern.
Taipei, the capital, lives within a paradox. From a sleek mall, you step beneath red lanterns; in an alley, skyscrapers’ buzzing fades into temple chants. Opposites don’t clash here – they dance.
The skyline boasts “Taipei 101,” which held the title of the tallest building in the world for six years until Dubai’s Burj Khalifa surpassed it.
Religion in Taiwan
Every city and town in Taiwan has Buddhist temples, the most important and impressive being the Longshan Temple in Taipei. But somewhere between the smell of dumplings rising from night markets and the smoke curling above dragon-crowned shrines, there is another kind of temple. One that few expect.
Tucked among the pagodas and dragon-crowned temples, there is a sanctuary. One that surprises even the most seasoned traveler. In Taipei, there stands what locals sometimes call a “Jewish temple.” It is the Jewish Community Center, home to the Chabad House, but also far more: a shimmering landmark, a cultural space, and, oddly enough, a tourist destination on its own. In my view, this synagogue rightfully earns its place among the list of 10 most beautiful synagogues in the world.
Its facade is striking. A tall white wall wraps the entrance like a tallit turned into stone. Inside, the unexpected continues: a golden synagogue, a dazzling banquet hall, and a Jewish museum where Torah crowns and faded manuscripts whisper stories across centuries.
Jeffrey (Yitzhak) Schwartz, who donated $20 million of his personal fortune to build the center, gestures proudly.
“The hall was built according to Jewish feng shui. The banquet hall has 10 doorways representing the Ten Commandments. Each doorway is surrounded by 22 illuminated squares symbolizing the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The walls feature 12 pillars for the Twelve Tribes. The ceiling holds four chandeliers in the shape of the Star of David, representing the four encampments of the Tribes of Israel around the Mishkan (Tabernacle) during their desert journey. In addition, there are exactly 26 lights on the ceiling, since the number 26 in Jewish numerology expresses trust in God.”
Schwartz and his wife, Na-Tang, a convert to Judaism, thought through every detail in the design. Through these symbolic visual elements, visitors learn about Judaism. Here, theology hides in architecture. The very space itself becomes a stone, wood, and glass version of the Bible.
On the ground floor, a kosher gourmet restaurant draws in diners, Jews and non-Jews alike, who are as surprised by the food as by its very existence. Here, Shabbat meals are served for free, and take-away boxes are prepared for tourist groups heading deeper into Taiwan’s mountains and coastlines.
Above it, a banquet hall hosts Purim parties, Hanukkah concerts, bar mitzvahs, and weddings. Sometimes, even non-Jewish corporations rent it out, ending their events with kosher food.
On the fourth floor lies the synagogue. Before its doors, a courtyard spreads like a mosaic prayer, tiles crafted in Morocco forming Stars of David underfoot. Here, they build their sukkah.
Step inside, and gold swallows you whole. The walls gleam and the golden ceiling blazes. The ark doors were carved in Moroccan patterns, and the parochet (curtain) hangs inside the ark so as not to obscure the carved wooden doors.
It is grand but intimate. Only 47 men’s seats and 30 women’s. I counted. For Taipei’s small Jewish community, it is enough.
The building also houses one of the most beautiful ritual baths I have ever seen. They call it “The Golden Mikveh,” since the mosaic tiles of the stairs and basin are in gold, as is the ceiling above it.
HIDDEN WITHIN the Jewish Community Center of Taipei is a remarkable surprise: a Jewish museum. Hours can be spent wandering through its halls, guided by Schwartz, whose passion brings each item to life. Most visitors are non-Jews – students, teachers, and curious travelers who come to learn about Judaism in a setting they never expected.
The collection is Schwartz’s own, filling the building from the ground floor to the top. At the entrance, shelves display menorahs and Torah crowns from around the world, while the stairwell is lined with kame’ot (protective amulets).
As you go up the floors, the exhibits also increase in importance. Upstairs, manuscripts trace Jewish history. One gallery recalls the Jewish community of Harbin, China. Another room is devoted to Holocaust remembrance. A wall is devoted to Shiviti plaques once hung before cantors’ stands. In one corridor, Schwartz created a Hall of Fame, displaying portraits of influential Jews such as Nobel Prize winners.
The journey ends on the fourth floor, opposite the synagogue itself. Here, a 16th-century Torah scroll rests in a glass cabinet, surrounded by ornate cases. Small in scale yet immense in meaning, the museum offers Taipei’s visitors a vivid window into Jewish tradition, resilience, and creativity.
The demographic makeup of Taipei’s Jewish community is unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere. At the Kabbalat Shabbat service I attended, around 20 people prayed together. Half are local residents, half visitors. Among them were young Israelis working in mall kiosks selling cosmetics.
On Shabbat, I saw small children wearing knitted kippot and fringed tzitzit over their pants, chatting in Mandarin. So sweet. Then they joined us in singing “Lecha Dodi” or “Shalom Aleichem” in our melodies, but with a Chinese accent. It sounds a bit odd, but really sweet too. These children are the offspring of Israeli fathers who married local women. The Taiwanese women in the synagogue are a story of their own – either converts or in the process of conversion. Chabad emissary Rabbi Shlomi Tabib says that these converts often keep mitzvot more strictly than their Israeli husbands.
Judaism here bends like bamboo – supple, resilient, rooted. It looks different, sounds different – but it remains.
Taiwan is blessed with lush mountain national parks and narrow gorges. On a trip to the Chin Pao San mountain, I was astonished to find a Jewish structure adorned with golden Stars of David on its outer walls and an iron gate.
Stone lions stood guard at its gates. It turned out to be Schwartz’s private family mausoleum for his wife, himself, and his descendants – his insistence that Jewish life – and death – belong here, too.
Recently, he purchased another plot closer to Taipei to dedicate as a Jewish cemetery, the first of its kind here.
I left the synagogue and stepped into Taipei’s frenzy. Scooters buzzed like hornets, vendors shouted over sizzling woks, soy and ginger perfumed the night air, and eon spilled across faces as families slurped noodles at plastic tables. And yet inside me lingered something softer: the echo of Shabbat songs sung by children whose eyes were almond-shaped, whose accents bent Hebrew into new shapes, but whose yearning was the same as in Jerusalem.
Taiwan may be thousands of kilometers from Jerusalem. Yet within its stones, its Hebrew letters etched in glass, and its voices raised in prayer, a fragile thread of continuity stretches across oceans. It ties this island, improbably, to an ancient root.
In that thread lies identity. In that thread lies comfort. That even at the farthest edge of the world you can find, unexpectedly, the reflection of yourself, wrapped in green tea steam and the glow of night markets. Even here, at the edge of the Pacific, you can glimpse your reflection.