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

