It was a breezy June evening in Madrid's Plaza de Oriente, the public garden area in front of the Spanish Royal Palace. The crowd, a densely-packed group of three-hundred people, clapped their hands to the sinuous rhythm of the Ladino melody. Cheering began and a group of women formed a dancing circle, a whirlpool of bodies pulling the crowd inside to spin and twirl in Jewish folk dancing—a spectacle loaded with sadness, defiance, and forgiveness, epitomizing so much change.
Sefarad, Hebrew for Spain, is the birthplace of Sephardic culture. The grand Jewish history of Spain includes Maimonides, Kabbalah, Yehuda Ben Levi, and a peaceful coexistence under Muslim rule. Yet Spain is also the site of infamous Jewish tragedy. The Inquisition and later expulsion of Iberian Jews in 1492 is a universal symbol of genocide, and an event that forever changed the demographics of Mediterranean civilization.
In light of this ambivalent history, it is fascinating that the modern Spanish Jewish community, based primarily in Spain's two biggest cities, Madrid and Barcelona, has doubled in size in the past twenty years and continues to grow. While the numbers are dwarfed in comparison to the American Jewish community (48,000 people nationwide, maintains the Federación de Comunidades Judías de Espaňa) the renewal of Spanish Jewish culture, in a land known for religious repression, is a remarkable event. The modern Spanish Jewish experience is something altogether new, a hybrid of Sephardic past with a multicultural Jewish future.
Jewish renewal in Spain began in the late 1950s with an influx of Moroccan Jews escaping the violence of the Moroccan War of Independence, followed by Jewish immigrants, primarily fromArgentina, settling in Spain throughout the 1970s and 1980s. The most recent wave of Jewish immigrants have come in the last ten years from both South America and Israel, fleeing financial collapse or political instability.
“First the Moroccans came, then the Argentineans, and now it's the Venezuelans and the Israelis,” explained Rabbi Ruben Sternschein. “Spain has turned into this Jewish melting pot, and we're continuing to diversify.”
Isaac Querub embodies the modern Spanish Jew. Clad in white leather Adidas sneakers, a colorful t-shirt, and European-tight jeans, he is the Spanish playboy. A Madrid native, he lives up late-night street parties and revels in an afternoon siesta nap.
Isaac is also an active member of Madrid's Jewish community. His parents are among the “originals,” Moroccan immigrants who laid the foundation for Madrid's Jewish institutions. Tall and slender with light, curly brown hair and blue eyes, he claims that his blondish coloring (rubio in Spanish) was a gift from his Ashkenazi mother. His Moroccan father was responsible for his surname—Querub, a word related to querubim, Ladino for small angels.
The Querubs are considered tradicional by Madrid standards. They observe Shabbat, with occasional driving. (There are few synagogues located in the city residential areas, so it is common for many to drive to services). They keep kashrut, except for Papa Querub who has a penchant for chorizo. Still, everything Jewish in Madrid has a Spanish twist. Friday dinner begins with local olives, wine, and gazpacho. The Querub children—in their late twenties and early thirties—live at home and will do so until marriage, a super-Castilian custom.
While in many ways Isaac blends in perfectly with the colorful Madrid landscape, his support for Israel places him in a minority. Spain has historically aligned with Arab countries on political matters, and the Spanish press is notorious for Israel-bashing. Most Spaniards, separated for five centuries from contact with active Jewish culture, have never met Jews. Their ignorance can result in confusion about Jewish culture and Israeli politics, and often foments anti-Semitism.
Minority status aside, modern Spain has provided a good home for Jewish culture. The death of Francisco Franco, the suppressive fascist dictator, in 1975 coincided with increased Jewish immigration. What emerged was a democratic, religiously tolerant Spain interested in redefining its past. While the country provides room for the Jewish community—supporting educational initiatives and the restoration of historic sites—at times the Spanish Jewish community does not provide enough space for its own diversity. The merging of Latin Reform Ashkenazi, Sephardic Orthodox Moroccan, and secular Israeli traditions has created a Jewish culture shock, and significant internal tensions have emerged.
“It's a blessing that we have diversity because it shows we're sophisticated,” states Rabbi Sternschien, the founding rabbi of ATID, the first Reform Congregation of Barcelona. “However, it's also a curse. It divides us, and in a community [this small] that can be devastating.”
ATID, Hebrew for future, was formed in 1992 after a break with the CIB (Comunitat Israelita de Barcelona) the city's original Orthodox synagogue. “They [the CIB] consider us goys,” laughed Victor Sorrenson, ATID's youth program director, “but we're just from a different culture. Our parents' Judaism, from Argentina andLatin America, is pluralistic and much less observant. Many of those in the CIB are very insular. They maintain their Moroccan customs and don't try to open themselves to the rest of the community—even worse, to the rest of the world.”
What is consistent throughout the community is the effect of Barcelona on Jewish culture. Barcelona, the largest city in Catalonia, is an artistic, industrious city that maintains levels of political and economic autonomy from the Spanish nation. The CIB synagogue has various paintings that blend Catalonian and Jewish styles, including paintings of menorahs in the surrealistic style of Joan Miró. ATID congregants even have dreadlocks, play guitar and drums in their services, and hand-roll cigarettes at post-Shabbat parties, displaying the funkiness of Barcelona youth.
“We're a bit rebellious,” says Sorrenson. “We're doing our own thing here as a reform movement, and that is, in many ways, very Catalonian. Catalonia has its separation from Spain. I think, being a Jew in Barcelona, you can't help but want your own form of separation. Barcelonan identity seeps into your skin.”
Madrid, blessed with the excellent leadership of Jacob Israel Garzon, manages to keep things more unified than Barcelona does. Garzon organizes a community board with representatives of all the city's denominations to help navigate tensions and promote understanding. “We try to provide the minimum Jewish experience for all levels and types,” explains Garzon. “We have a few synagogues, a Jewish school, and a kosher butcher shop. But the interpretation of how to do things `right' will always vary. We just to try keep things adjustable, so that the community can move forward.”
Regardless of internal divisions, Spanish Jews come together to promote renewal and growth in the new Sefarad. Working with non-Jews in the Spanish community, Spanish Jews demonstrate their support forIsrael, educate about Jewish and Israeli culture, and commemorate their glorious Spanish past. While Sephardic Jews connect to the land of their roots, all types of Spanish Jews are proud of their emerging culture. ATID member Maaian Zelman explains, “Even though I'm Ashkenazi, I'm proud of the [Spanish Jewish] community. It's very young, but it's growing. It is an exciting time to be here.”
The re-growth of Spanish Judaism and the development of a neo-Sephardic culture exhibits how much national identity shapes Jewish expression. It demonstrates Jewish survival—and evolution.
Sign up for our newsletter:
