The Heart of the Matter

Rather than worry about what he has lost, the wise man should safeguard what is left to him. Jafuda Bonsenyor, 13th C

When in August 1492, groups of Jewish men, women, and children left Catalonia and all of Spain on their way to exile, an important chapter in the history of Spain left with them.

I am Sefarad. I am part of what was lost. I am here to find out what
of Spain remains in me.

It has been 526 years since King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella ordered all of the remaining Jews of Spain to leave forever. The year was 1492. According to folklore, the monarchy financed Christopher Columbus' voyage to America by selling all of the worldly possessions of the Jewish community as they left. I don't know if this is true. But it is a good story.

Mi Madre is here. She has reserved us a spot in one of the four Jewish synagogues in Barcelona. To give you an idea of how sad this is, consider the Jewish community in a comparable metropolitan city in the United States. Barcelona and Philadelphia both have about 1.6 million people. Philadelphia has 31 synagogues. Barcelona has four. This is what it looks like to exile a community that is now only slowly returning.

The synagogue service is small. Security is tight. There are no signs on the door. No way to know this is a synagogue at all. Plainclothes policemen come up to us as we approach the door. We show them our tickets. Where are we from? Why are we here? Are we Jewish? These policemen are here every Friday night to keep an eye out for us. Practicing Judaism in Barcelona is still something done in secret.

The Boy has gone to services "probably, a katrillion times" but never like this. Not with police questioning. Not without any signs announcing this as a Jewish space. The service is in Spanish, Hebrew, and Ladino. The tunes are reassuringly familiar. He is entranced -- his eyes open to the secret life of his own people. As we leave the service and walk outside again, Barcelona looks different somehow. A little colder. Less friendly. Hopefully, we'll get past it.

Up early the next day, the Boy, Mi Madre, and I travel 35 km to Sitges. Sitges is a gorgeous old village hanging on to the edge of the Mediterranean. It is famous for its arts scene and film festival, gay community, and its 17 gorgeous beaches. And Sitges is old. Its recorded history goes back to at least to 1041.

After winding through the tiny streets for a spell, on a whim, we duck into Museu de Maricel. It's an eclectic art museum showcasing works across 10 centuries in a former seaside residence. Amid the medieval wares and Jesus statutes, our eyes are now alert to Jewish symbols. We begin to see them all around us.

Here, tucked in with classic Christian artworks, swords, door knockers, key plates, china, and other household decorations, we see the Lions of Judah. There were Jews living in Sitges back in the day. Not all of their stuff was sold off by the Queen. In the bonus round: we find our first antisemitic art.

Jewish Medieval life in Spain goes back even further but is first mentioned in documents in the 10th century. Jews lived among Christians and Muslims for thousands of years. You cannot erase us.

But it is not all medieval history. We also eat some great gelato. The Boy buys some shoes. Way to use that new Spanish vocabulary son! Me gustan estos zapatos!

At 8:30 pm we sit down for another absolutely phenomenal meal. This time at El Caustell, a cavelike restaurant down a narrow back street. The Boy eats gambas. (He is in heaven with all the fishy delights of Catalunya). There is even a gin and tonica in it for me.

So have a happy, happy, happy, happy Hannukkah! - Adam Sandler, 21st C