In 1906, as the long twilight of a northern summer settled over Helsinki, a newly built synagogue opened its doors to a small but determined Jewish community. There were no ancient Jewish quarters in the area, no inherited sense of belonging stretching back centuries. Everything—institutions, identity, even the sense of permanence—had to be built from the ground up.
And yet, against the odds, it was.
The story of the Jews of Finland is not one of centuries-old roots, but of unlikely beginnings and deliberate effort. Unlike most of Europe, Finland had only a faint Jewish presence before the 19th century, and its Jewish community emerged not organically, but as a byproduct of empire.
The first Jews to settle in Finland included many former soldiers in the army of Tsar Nicholas I. Many had been forcibly conscripted as children under the Cantonist system for periods of up to 25 years. When their service ended, some were permitted to remain in Finland, then under Russian rule. From these men—isolated, uprooted, yet deeply committed—a community slowly took shape.
But it did so under a variety of restrictions. For decades, Jews were subject to regulations limiting where they could live and how they could earn a livelihood. They were tolerated but not embraced.
Only after Finland declared independence, with legislation enacted in 1917-1918 granting Jews full civil rights, were they recognized as equal citizens, placing the country somewhat paradoxically ahead of much of Europe in recognizing Jewish equality.
From that moment, a distinctly Finnish Jewish identity began to emerge.
Small in number but cohesive in spirit, the community established synagogues in Helsinki, Turku and Viipuri. It developed schools, communal institutions and a vibrant internal life. Finnish Jews spoke a mix of languages—Finnish, Swedish, Yiddish and Hebrew, among others—and carved out niches in commerce, particularly in textiles and trade.
Zionism also took hold early and with particular intensity. Before World War II, the Finnish Jewish community was strongly Zionist, with most children and young adults active in various Zionist organizations, including the Betar movement, youth groups, study circles, and summer activities, all of which became part of communal life. This ideological commitment ran deep, blending seamlessly with their emerging Finnish patriotism, a fusion that would be tested in the crucible of war.
By 1939, Finland’s Jewish population stood at roughly 2,000, including refugees from Central Europe. When war broke out, these Jews did not stand apart. They fought. As citizens, they joined the Finnish army in defense of their country against the Soviet Union. Roughly 300 Jewish soldiers served in uniform across the 1939 Winter War and the 1941-1944 Continuation War against the Soviets, and more than 20 were killed in action. That sacrifice alone would mark the Finnish Jewish story as exceptional.
Then came one of the most unusual chapters in modern Jewish history.
As Finland fought alongside Nazi Germany against the Soviet Union, Jewish soldiers continued to serve in the Finnish ranks, participating in the national struggle like any other Finn. Jewish troops thus found themselves in the improbable position of fighting alongside Nazi German forces, even as the Holocaust raged across Europe.
Incredibly, Jewish soldiers prayed, observed holidays and maintained their identity even at the front. A field synagogue operated near the battle lines, sometimes just a few miles from German troops, where Jewish soldiers gathered for prayer, at times within sight of those who served a regime bent on their destruction. Some skied or rode on horseback long distances to attend Shabbat services—symbolizing not only resilience but a quiet insistence on continuity. In some cases, Jewish soldiers interacted directly with German troops, navigating a reality filled with tension, ambiguity and unspoken awareness.
There were even instances in which Finnish Jewish soldiers were offered German decorations, such as the Iron Cross and refused them. Among them was Leo Skurnik, a medical officer who, under heavy Soviet shelling, organized the evacuation of a field hospital and saved the lives of some 600 wounded soldiers, including Germans. When recommended for the Iron Cross, he declined, reportedly saying, “I am a Jew and cannot accept this.” Dina Poljakoff, a nursing assistant serving near the front lines, was likewise nominated for the award after tending to German wounded and earning their admiration. She, too, demurred.
These refusals were more than symbolic gestures. They were quiet assertions of identity in the face of profound moral contradiction—men and women serving their country while refusing recognition from the German regime.
Remarkably, Finland refused to implement Nazi-style racial laws or to deport its Jewish citizens. Despite repeated pressure, it did not hand over its Jewish nationals. Finnish leadership made clear that the country’s Jews were full citizens who served in the army like everyone else, and that settled the matter. Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim himself reportedly rejected German pressure to act against Finland’s Jews, reinforcing the principle that those who fought for Finland would be treated as full citizens.
This did not mean that everything in Finland’s wartime record is beyond reproach. The deportation of eight Jewish refugees in 1942 and the transfer of thousands of Soviet prisoners of war, including Jews, into German hands were moral failures. But the broader reality remains striking: Nearly all of Finland’s Jewish citizens survived the war, and Jewish communal life was never dismantled.
What emerges from the historical record and personal testimonies is a deeper insight: Finnish Jews did not see themselves as outsiders caught in someone else’s war. They saw themselves as Finns—loyal citizens, defending their homeland—but also as proud Jews. That dual identity was not a contradiction. Rather, it was a defining feature.
Their Zionism further illustrated this harmony. The strong pre-war Zionist sentiment translated into concrete action after 1945. In Israel’s 1948 War of Independence, about 29 Finnish Jews, mostly veterans of the Finnish army, volunteered to fight for the reborn Jewish state—representing the highest per-capita participation of any Diaspora Jewish community.
Finland was among the early countries to establish relations with Israel, granting de facto recognition in 1948, followed by full diplomatic ties in 1949. In the years that followed, hundreds more made aliyah, reinforcing the deep emotional and practical bonds between Finnish Jewry and Israel.
In the decades after the war, the community remained small but enduring. Later, modest waves of Jewish immigration from the former Soviet Union added new accents and backgrounds, helping to replenish a community that had been shrinking through emigration and assimilation.
Today, Finland is home to between 1,500 and 1,800 Jews. The vast majority live in Helsinki, with a smaller organized community in Turku. Only a handful in Tampere, where the formal community was dissolved in 1981. Synagogues in Helsinki and Turku continue to function, Jewish education persists, and communal life remains active, even in a highly secular society. There is also a steady connection to Israel through cultural exchange, business and personal ties.
What, then, is the significance of Finland’s Jewish story?
It is not one of numbers or of ancient pedigree. It is a story of how a community can be built, almost from nothing, and sustained through adversity. It is a story of citizenship, and what happens when a country chooses, at critical moments, to treat its Jewish population as equal members of society. And it is a story of identity—of Jews who refused to relinquish who they were, even under the most improbable of circumstances, while embracing both their Finnish homeland and the Zionist dream.
The same Helsinki synagogue that opened in 1906 still stands, its ark facing Jerusalem. At the edge of Europe, far from the traditional centers of Jewish life, a small community took root and endured. And in doing so, it left behind a legacy as instructive as it is extraordinary.
