I
was told to take off my Star of David before traveling
to Spain. Not because Spain is unsafe, necessarily, but
because you just don’t know. It was a small detail on my
extensive “To Do” list and the impact didn’t really hit me
until I landed in Madrid, went to feel the points of the star
for comfort and found it missing.
I’m not deeply religious. I’m more Jew*ish*, if you get
what I’m saying. I don’t attend temple regularly and I’m def-
initely iffy on who or what presides over us. But I identify
as a Jew. I identify because I would feel guilty if I didn’t,
because being Jewish is what my family was. It’s in my heri-
tage, it’s what for centuries my ancestors fought to be. And
I’ll be damned if I’m the one, in my cushy life in suburban
America, to turn my back on the plight of my people.
I like to say I “chose” to be Jewish. We always celebrated
Hanukkah in our house, and I always knew that my dad and
mom, by blood, were Jewish. Passover was, and is, my favor-
ite holiday. But because neither of my parents felt strongly
about a proper Hebrew school training, it was up to me to
ask to join a temple. And we did, and I was Bat Mitzvah’d
and so was my sister, and I even went through 12th grade at
Temple Beth Haverim Shir Shalom.
In Spain, it is just an expectation that you are Catho-
lic. It’s not rude, it’s just the norm.
Muslims are (typically) identified by
their clothing choices and their lan-
guage, but reform Jews hide within
plain sight in the folds of normal
life. When I first met my host mom,
Maria, she told me which churches
I could attend if I needed to. I didn’t
correct her. Not because I thought
that she would have thought less of
me, but because it didn’t bother me.
So what? I was excited to go to a
Mass in one of the ancient cathedrals
one day; I was sure the slight dis-
comfort of not knowing what to do
would be masked by my enjoyment
in another culture.
Then time flew by, and being Jew-
ish never truly surfaced to the fore-
front of my experience in Spain. It’s
not that I didn’t miss it, it’s just that
I pushed it aside to make room for
new experiences and new cultural
boundaries. It wasn’t until an excur-
sion to Toledo halfway through the
program that it hit me how much I
missed my community.
After a day of looking at cathe-
drals and monasteries and a lunch at
a decent restaurant, the tour guide took us to a synagogue.
A sinagoga. We entered into the Jewish quarter, and on the
ground there were three bronze plaques, all reading “The
Jewish Quarter.” One each in Spanish, Hebrew and English.
Like a Easter egg hunt, there were small markers of Meno-
rahs to identify which buildings and streets belonged to the
quarter.
Toledo is known for a lot of things: its beauty, its metal-
working, El Greco, having existed since the Bronze Age. But
it’s also known for the conservation of the Barrio del Judeos
(Jewish neighborhood). It was a city with an even mixture
of Muslims, Catholics and Jews, and the city represents,
even today, that beautiful harmony. But, of course, despite
the “tolerance” of the Jews, there were some measures
taken to “identify” us.
A plaque read: “The clothes Jews wore were no different
from their neighbors. However, there were laws imposed on
them which required that they wear a little red wheel, a tar-
get, as a distinctive sign that they were Jews.”
Harmless. Jews occupied three sections of daily life. The
most elite were translators, treasurers, trusted advisors to
city officials. They were wealthy Sephardic Spaniards who
garnered respect. The second tier was the merchants and
the loaners, and the third was the artisans.
But they all had to wear a red wheel because they were
different, because they prayed to one G-d and didn’t hold
Jesus Christ in the same light as others. They were differ-
ent because they had stricter regulations on their food and
clothing. They were different because intolerance of differ-
ing opinions and faiths was, and still is, rampant in society.
My Jewish identity in Spain was cemented with the tour
of Toledo. I felt comfortable in the folds of my own com-
munity and it reaffirmed my decision to practice Judaism.
Visiting La Sinagoga del Transito was interesting and
humbling. We had visited cathedral after cathedral, and by
no means am I complaining about that. They were gorgeous
and they represent the paramount strength of human intel-
lect in design. They are filled with a fantastic history and
depict the wonder of the human will. But, at the same time,
they are not mine to claim. They are there for me to visit,
but not to feel at home. So when I visited the temple, I was
delighted.
As I understand it — and don’t cite me as your main source
— the temple is supposed to be bare of saints and depictions
of G-d. There is no iconography and the windows are to be
set high up (traditionally) for the fear that people will look
in and see us praying. The Jewish people have adapted and
recognized the tendency for hate, and thus wish for private
prayer and opt for a more confined space by placing the win-
dows that high. Temples are typically not old. They don’t
tend to last through the ages. That’s why Toledo was named
as a Unesco World Heritage site (or part of it) because of
their conservation of the temples and other religious monu-
ments.
So, I’ve never been in a temple that was more than about
60 years old. And all of them that I’ve seen have been very
plain with limited decoration. So when I walked (more
like pushed my way inside past a wall of people who were
inexplicably dawdling in the reception room) into this
synagogue, I’m pretty sure I audibly gasped. It’s a differ-
ent experience than the tall vaults of a cathedral coupled
with beautiful rose windows and precious artwork. The
synagogue was plain as it was beautiful, as detailed as it
was sparse, as empty as it was full. The absence of more was
noticeable. The point of the building, unlike the explosion
of meaning in a cathedral, was for prayer. It was for com-
munity.
So when I stood there, gazing up, it felt right. I felt in
a home, I felt in the community. And it wasn’t until that
moment that I realized I miss the community that I have at
home. To stray a little more into the philosophical: People
crave feeling like they belong. Everyone. Everyone, on some
level, has a need to feel like they belong to something and to
feel order and to feel like they occupy the same niche of the
world with other people. For many of us, we all have different
niches and different needs, but when we feel at home and at
peace is when we find
a space that makes us
feel welcome. And I
had many spaces like
that in Spain, but I
realized I had been
missing my religious
niche. I had been
missing that connec-
tion with others, that
same
understanding
of our background.
And I’m not just talk-
ing about my temple
community,
because
it’s not like I’m there
all the time, but just
being around others
of the same faith. Half
my friends are Jew-
ish, most of my family
is Jewish and, more
importantly,
every-
body recognizes that
I am Jewish. There
was no recognition in
Salamanca. And there
wasn’t any malicious
intent behind it; it is
just what it is. But there, in Toledo, I felt that connection.
It was a small connection, but it meant so much.
I asked my friend to take a picture of me outside the walls
of the temple. I said, “Can you take this picture of me for my
Grandma?” As in, in my Jewish family my grandmother is
the matriarch of my religious identity. As in, she is the rea-
son why I feel connected to my religion. As in, I feel beauti-
ful because I am in a space I connect with.
My Jewish identity abroad was by no means a struggle.
I recognize my own privileges and know that I do not get
to complain when I had this amazing chance to live and
breathe Salamanca, Spain. But my Jewish identity is a
constant in my life that I had been missing, and I felt like
I needed to write a long-winded article about it. I needed
to kvetch.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016 // The Statement
6B
Finding My Jewish Roots Abroad
by Sylvanna Gross, Daily Sports Writer
ILLUSTRATION BY ELISE HAADSMA