It would be the punchline to a groan-inducing joke if it weren’t so tragic. Recently, a rival claimant to the title of “last Jew of Afghanistan” emerged — a woman called Tova Moradi, now airlifted out — who apparently remained there longer than the erstwhile holder of the title, Zebulon Simentov. Even when it comes to an annihilated community, Jews will always find something to squabble about.

Of course, it’s not at all funny; it’s the death knell of a community dating back thousands of years. Its termination is just one tragic episode in a bleak, horrifying reality. But reading that Afghan Jews once numbered 50,000, it made me consider how we rarely focus on small, distinct diaspora communities other than when they are on the brink of disappearance.

Naturally, “last Jew of” is a better headline that “last 10,000 or even last 1,000”. But it speaks to a characteristic of Jewish life; we are good at dwelling on the stories of disaster and perhaps less so at sharing those that speak of hope and joy.

On childhood travels, it was common to visit places where Jewish life had died out — ghostly Jewish quarters, dilapidated cemeteries, abandoned synagogues. Trudging through centuries of persecution and placing stones on medieval graves? That’s just what Jews did when we were on holiday.

What we did less — at least in my experience — was to visit current, active congregations, where we might have met locals and learned their customs. Chabad, maybe, somewhere like Thailand, but rarely living, breathing diaspora Jewish life with its specific culinary and festive traditions. Instead, we were drawn to those that were gone or barely there; the ones that represented a wretched past.

Is it any wonder I recall as a child being surprised to learn there were so many places across the globe where Jews were alive and well? I knew about the Holocaust, pogroms and the rise of Zionism long before I was really aware that there were Jews living en masse outside of Britain, Israel and America.

Perhaps I was just incurious. But the deeply Jewish figures I encountered on screen (as opposed to nominally Jewish characters, or indeed Israelis) were most commonly those facing persecution, rather than those coexisting or even thriving in the diaspora.

Holocaust stories, or Jews fleeing Cossacks to a dramatic soundtrack. In books, too: When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, or Bernice Rubens’ Brothers. Things have changed, but not totally; the recent (gripping) Ridley Road suggested that Anglo-Jewish life in the 1960s basically consisted of Nazis, rallies in the street and shuls being bombed.

Obviously, those writers and filmmakers were recounting real experiences, real history. Bad things happening to us has sadly been a mainstay of the Jewish story, and makes for a more compelling drama or literature. Newspapers necessarily report turmoil rather than sustained plain sailing. Plus, it’s not all in the past tense, as last week’s shameful episode at the LSE denonstrates.

Bad things continue to happen to Jews everywhere; that’s why we read about “last Jews” with distressing regularity and why when we encounter far flung communities, it’s usually in the wake of an antisemitic attack.

Still, I refuse to accept that this is the only diaspora narrative. And when my son’s attention swerves beyond Gruffalos, I don’t want it to be the primary Jewish story I pass on to him. I’m sure I will take him to heritage sites so that he learns about our past, but not without making clear that there is far more to being a Jew in the world, and much of it is cause for celebration and pride.

Across the diaspora, our story is not about merely surviving. It is about thriving, and of shaping the places we have lived in. This weekend’s Ajex commemoration will honour the Jewish servicemen who fought for Britain. That’s an historic contribution that we can be proud of — and surely a more positive image to impart to our children.

It’s about looking forwards, too. In recent decades, there have been renaissances in places like Germany and Hungary. There are tiny but vibrant communities in Hong Kong and Seoul. These are countries outside Israel where Jews continue to be openly, confidently Jewish, and most of their countrymen are OK with it.

The diaspora is more than just a dark, violent history. I think we don’t always remember that, and we don’t always seek it out, in books, on our travels, and in the conversations we have, until it’s too late. But for the communities that are on the brink of being lost, and for the ones that are still going strong, let’s celebrate its survival and the many different stories that shape the Jewish world.