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't!:-U Hf'lLfl COVER STORY

Cries across the Centuries

Paula Margulies New York

PTIENCE ROJAS-TAYLOR ad always felt instinctively that omething was different about her amily, When she was a child, growing up in New York City, her family rarely went to church, unlike most other Puerto Rican immigrants.

"We're Catholic," her grandmother once told her, "but we don't participate."

Every Friday night, her grandmother recited Psalms and lit candles. Even more peculiar, Rojas-Taylor noticed, was her refusal to eat pork or shellfish - staples of the Puerto Rican diet. "We don't eat these things," she would say, simply.

It was only years later, after her grandmother's death, when Rojas-Tayler was in her early 20s, that she began to reflect upon her family's customs - partially driven, she says, by a broader attempt to understand her persistent feelings of alienation from Catholicism.

Through diligent research on genealogy websites, Rojas- Tay lor, a mocha-skinned brunette with expressive eyes and a warm smile, uncovered. a pattern of Sephardic names in her family that stretched back hundreds of

4

Across the globe, descendants of the conversos are rediscovering and embracing their Jewish identities

years to Spain's Canary Islands. Her ancestors, she believes, were bnei anousim (literally, the "sons of those who were forced [to convert]"), descendants of Jews forced to convert to Catholicism during the Spanish and Portuguese inquisitions.

Suddenly, her grandmother's mysterious behavior made sense: Whether knowingly or unknowingly, her grandmother had been maintaining the Jewish rituals of her ancestors, almost SOO years after they had been forced to hide it, and had passed these remnants on to her granddaughter.

The process of researching her family's history was tremendously powerful for RojasTaylor: She fell in love with Judaism. "I was never completely fulfilled by Catholicism, and the more I learned about Judaism, the more it just felt right, like I'd come home," she tells The Report,

Three years ago, Rojas-Tayler, then 23, was converted to Judaism under Orthodox auspices

THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12. 2009

near her home in New York. Today, she is an observant Jew who attends synagogue, keeps kosher and participates in community events. She now uses the name Avigail.

Rojas-Tayler is not alone. Across the globe, descendants of the anousim are rediscovering their Jewish identities in record numbers. Researching their genealogies, sharing stories of long-preserved Jewish traditions on Internet message boards and approaching local rabbis with requests for information and conversion, they are reclaiming their place in the community of Judaism. From the Iberian Peninsula to remote comers of the American Southwest, bnei anousim are venturing out of the metaphorical closet

"R!LATIVES ON MY GRANDfather's side don't eat pork, octo-.

us, shrimp - only fish with scales," a woman named JoAnne writes on a message board (www.sephardim.corn.) "I would like someone to help me investigate my origins," writes Johann, a member of Facebook's "Centro Bnei Anusim" group. "I want to return to Judaism."

"Something's happening," says Rabbi Rigoberto Emmanuel Villas, the head of

Lincoln Park Jewish Center and of anousi origin himself. "Suddenly, there's a desire to come home. The ghosts of 500 years are crying."

But after 500 years, those ghosts are not easily exorcised. In 1478, King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella I of Castile established an Inquisition tribunal in Spain in order to root out and punish heretics. The Marranos (a term meaning "swine," used by antiSemites) accused of secretly practicing Judaism were interrogated, brutally tortured and burned alive in public auto-da-fe ceremonies. Between 1480 and 1530 - the height of the Inquisition - scholars estimate that anywhere between 2,000 to 5,000 people were killed, and tens of thousands more tortured. Women, children and the elderly were among the victims. Hundreds of thousands of Jews fled and were expelled from Spain, and then Portugal.

The passage of time, along with the combined forces of migration, imposed secrecy and intermarriage, have left many bnei anousim with little more than vague wisps of memories: a grandmother lighting candles, an uncle's aversion to pork, a veiled reference to Jewish ancestry at a family dinner.

And when they attempt to "return," the bnei anousim often face intimidating challenges: lack of resources, lingering, deep-seated fears of persecution and marginalization, and the skepticism, distrust and hostility that they say they encounter from the mainstream Jewish community. Indeed, some activists warn, if urgent measures are not taken to embrace and educate the bnei anousim, the last remnants of their centuries-old tenacity and faith may soon be lost forever.

"The story of the anousim is the absolute triumph of conscience," says Juan Mejia, 32, a rabbinical student at Manhattan's Jewish Theological Seminary and the descendant of anousim. "You can control me on the outside, but you can't control what I eat, what r believe. The idea is so profoundly Jewish, so profoundly human."

Other than his unusual name and an occasional softness to his s's, Mejia, whose curly hair, beard and round face give him an affable, slightly disheveled appearance, gives no hint that he is anything other than a fairly typical American rabbinical student, raised in day schools and summer camps.

Yet until he wasl5 years old, Mejia was a devout Catholic. Born in Bogota to an uppermiddle class family, he attended elite Jesuit schools and was a regular churchgoer. His was a comfortable, unremarkable identity, unchal-

Ienged until a family member told an antiSemitic joke at Christmas dinner. Mejia's grandfather suddenly became enraged. "We're Jews!" he told his stunned family.

His grandfather didn't know much but, when pressed, recounted that as a child, the men in his family would retreat to a room in their. remote hacienda twice a day and "pray with towels over their heads, reading from tiny books in a strange language." Later in life, when Mejia confronted his relatives, they confessed to him that they were, in fact, Jews - but they made him promise not to tell anyone. Mejia attempted to make sense of this revelation, but his grandfather had no more to tell him

'The bottom line is racism. Incredible, disgusting racism. Everything is done to preserve the status

quo - religiously, socially and racially.'

-Juan Mejia

- like so much family lore, it had been lost across time,

Still, the newfound information catalyzed a period of deep soul-searching for Mejia. "Catholicism was making less and less sense intellectually," he says. "While r still had an emotional connection to the church - the rituals, the pageantry - the theology itself began to fall flat." At university, where he was studying philosophy, Mejia began reading the works of Maimonides, as well as books on the Golden Age of Spain. While on a backpacking trip across Europe, he decided to take a detour and visit Israel with his then-girlfriend, whose stepfather was Israeli.

In Jerusalem, Mejia first visited Christianity's holiest sites. "I didn't really feel anything spiritually," he says. Then he walked to the Western Wall. Laying his head against the cool stones, he says, he was suddenly and unexpectedly struck by a profound sense of loss. "This could have been mytradition," he recalls thinking. "I had this sense of an incredible injustice that had been per-

THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12, 2009

petrated against my people."

By the time Mejia returned to Bogota, he knew that he wanted to convert - but it would take years, and many obstacles, before he was able to realize that dream.

T:ROUGHOUT ffiSTORY, BNE! anousim have been referred to by differnt names. The Catholic Church originally called them conversos; historians often use the expression "crypto-Jews;" and even Jews picked up the term Marranos, used by the anti-Semites, to the dismay of activists.

"It's a terrible term," says Villas. "People often use it without realizing what it means."

Why didn't the bnei anousim reclaim their identity earlier? Why has it taken more than 500 centuries and countless generations for them to rediscover themselves?

The answers are complex - but experts agree that fear is the key to understanding the deep secrecy that has characterized anousi culture.

The Inquisition continued for 350 years, following suspected Jews into the most remote comers of the Americas - wherever Spanish and Portuguese influence could be found. And even after the Inquisition ended, anti-Semitism was never too far from home: In addition to the intolerance preached by the Catholic church, which wielded enormous social and political power throughout the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking worlds, news of persecution in Eastern Europe reinforced the belief that being Jewish meant one thing: danger.

For this reason, experts say, anousi culture is fundamentally characterized by fear and secrecy. "The Inquisition is still alive and well in their minds," says Schulamith Halevy, a scholar at the Hebrew University, who studies the bnei anousim. "Fear is embedded and transmitted from generation to generation." In a world where practicing Judaism could literally get you killed, Vinas adds, transmitting fear is the ultimate form of security, "[like] a mother protecting her child."

Reflecting on his own family's eventual loss of Jewish customs, Mejia says that although he wishes "they could have pushed it just a bit farther after holding on for 400 years," he understands why that didn't happen. "First, it was too dangerous, and then they were too far removed; they didn't recognize themselves as people who could return," he says.

"If you ask most anousim who are not in the state of hunting down their roots, they will identify as Catholics," says Vinas. "For the most part, they believe that their customs are

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COVEIR S110RV

simply family customs." The understanding that these customs are Jewish customs may be gone, swept away by time or the fear of passing along an identity that can only mean danger.

"My grandparents used to say that our family customs are always suspected of witchcraft and the priests had a vendetta against 'people like us," Vinas says. "They would say, 'there are certain things we do in our family, that's our family law, and if you're ever in a situation where someone asks you about them, don't tell them the truth. ",

It is therefore remarkable, bnei anousim say, that their ancestors did maintain Jewish traditions for so long. While traditions vary from family to family, experts say that the ones that could be hidden easiest were most likely to be transmitted. Like Avigayil Rojas-Taylor, many bnei anousim have memories of their grandmothers and mothers lighting Sabbath candles in a private spot.

"Every Friday night at sundown, my grandmother lit candles in a cabinet," Villas says. "She would gather the family, huddle them together and bless them in Spanish, telling them that this was part of family tradition." Some bnei anousim, like Mexican-American Joel Sanchez, remember their mothers and grandmothers lighting candles on Friday nights under the guise of honoring Catholic saints or "Saint Estber."

Others maintained Jewish mourning rituals like covering mirrors, celebrated Jewish holidays and peppered their speech with Ladino, the Spanish-Hebreo language of the Sephardi Jews. "In our family, God was always called' el Dio, like in Ladino, instead of the Spanish 'el Dios' or 'Dios,"By saying 'el Dio,' you stress the fact that God is singular," Vinas says. Sancbez also recalls bearing his grandmother speak in a strange language; later in life he would learn that it was Ladino.

Bnei anousim also corrimonly adhere to certain of tbe kosher dietary laws, including prohibitions against eating shellfish and nuxing milk and meat. In some families, meat was salted before it was cooked to remove the blood. "There were certain animals, like pork, that we didn't eat. Now, for a Cuban family not to eat pork-tbat's just crazy," says Vinas. "My grandfather used to kill his own animals and it was just like shehita" - Jewisb ritual slaughtering. "He once took me on a walk along a pond, and he showed me which ducks we were allowed to eat, and which we weren't - there was an oral history within the family."

HALEVY POINTS OUT THAT anousim have largely managed to preerve their traditions by entrusting religious know ledge, transmission and observance to women, both because of their traditional roles in the home and Judaism's belief in matrilineal descent.

Vinas recalls that as a child in his Cubanemigre community in Miami, he would spend Sunday mornings at his great-aunt's home, surrounded by elderly women and other children. There, he says, they would tell him stories and then ask him to repeal those stories, correcting the details he got wrong. "There is a natural process of transmitting information from generation to generation, which happens in what J would describe as the most powerful classroom in the world - on your grandmother's lap," he

'The ghosts of 500 years are crying'

- Rabbi Rigoberto Emmanuel Vinas

says. "There is a generational dilution, but there are always people in the family who embrace the heritage, who become the keepers of it."

In many cases, experts say, continuity was also maintained through endogamy, or the practice of cousins marrying cousins. "My family tree doesn't branch on my father's side," Mejia says, with a laugh.

According to Vinas, "everywhere you go, you'll find pockets within communities who will only many certain families. Many of the older ladies become the keepers of who you can and can't marry."

Bnei anousim also managed to preserve their traditions througb isolation. Vinas's father's family, who came to Cuba from the Canary Islands and referred to their community as the is/enos, or islanders, lived in a rural village deep within Cuba's interior. "The village had a lot of hills, and each hill belonged to a different family," he said. "Anousim are usually not city dwellers. There are a lot of people who live out really far in the jungle or rural areas; towns small enough tbat you bave a reason not to build a church."

After generations of isolation, secrecy and fear, what explains the increasing number of

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THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12. 2009

I

bnei anousim who are coming forward, eager to explore their Jewish heritage?

"A number of things are converging," says Villas. "There's the proliferation of the Internet Then there's the fact that the Catbolic Church is losing some of its power in Latin America, and as it's broken Clown, people's fears of per~ secution are being diminished. Also, there's a renewed interest in genealogy in the Spanish culture."

On the website, www.ancestry.corn, visitors with common Hispanic surnames like Lopez, Hernandez and Gomez discuss the possibility of their Sephardi roots. Indeed, a recent study at the University of Leicester, in England, concluded that 20 percent of the population of the Iberian Peninsula has Sephardi ancestry. Bennett Greenspan, the founder and CEO of Family Tree DNA, a company that does genetic testing, says that he receives anywhere between 30 to 100 requests each month from Latinos who believe they have Jewish blood. "And a lot of the time, they do," he says.

While estimates of the bnei anousim vary widely, scholars agree that they can be found in almost every part of the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking world, with anywhere from 2 to 50 million in Brazil alone. The very nature of keeping one's identity secret makes it extraordinarily difficult to take a demographic snapshot; intermarriage and the generational dilution of tradition only compound tbat difficulty.

In any case, how should the bnei anousim be defined, so many generations later? Is it a question of genealogy, or of some vestige of memory and identity? "The question is not how many there are genetically," says Halevy, "but how many have preserved a connection."

LINCOLN PARK JEWISH CENTER sits, like an afterthought, on a road jutting over a noisy highway. It is not easily accessible in the physical sense, but it is accessible in other, more intangible ways.

Walking through the synagogue's main sanctuary, Vinas, the congregation's rabbi, points out the names embroidered on the covers of ritual objects. "See," he says. "This one's Ashkenazi. And this one - Rodriguez - is of the bnei anousim"

When Vinas joined tbe declining congregation in 2003, the majority of its congregants had never heard of the bnei anousim, let alone prayed with them. Today, the congregation is a mix of Ashkenazi and Sephardi Jews, including many of anousi descent "We've created a model for how the inclusion of Jews from

diverse backgrounds can make a synagogue thrive," Vinas says.

Cuban-American Lincoln Park member Esther Rodriguez, who converted to Judaism under Villas's auspices after discovering her own anousi roots, says that she finds the community to be accepting and warm. "Everyone reaches out with open anns - the message is, 'What took you so long? Come join us. '"

Rodriguez, an international journalist who tells her story with the emotion of someone who is sharing it for the first time, says that her attraction to Judaism is connected to the value of tikkun olam, or repairing the world. "When I light Shabbat candles, it elevates me, and I know that I'm helping to bring peace to the world," she tells The Report. According to Vinas, this is a common feeling among bnei anousim. "There's a desire to feel as though all their suffering was not in vain; that it was for a purpose."

Every Sunday, a diverse group of Spani hspeakers gather in the synagogue's central hall, where Vinas leads a Torah class. The program is part of El Centro de Estudios Judios Torat Emet, an initiative he created to provide a center of learning and engagement for Spanishspeaking Jews and bnei anousim. El Centro, which receives funding from the UJA Federation's Commission on Jewish Identity and Renewal, also publishes Toni Tropical, a quarterly Spanish-language newspaper with a circulation of 15,000 that is distributed throughout the U.S. and Latin America.

A colorful painting of the Tabernacle with a robed, mocha-skinned priestly figure standing outside decorates the wall behind the table where Villas teaches. "An Ecuadorian member of the congregation painted this," Vinas says. "At first, the priest's hair was blonde and his skin was fair, but I asked him to change it. If you look closely, you can still see a bit of blonde undemeath."

While some of the students at EI Centro are simply Spanish-speakers who are interested in learning about Judaism, others are bnei anousim who have converted or are in the process of converting. And while they have an ally in Villas, bnei anousim elsewhere are often not as lucky when seeking to formalize their 1ewishness.

While a handful have proof of unbroken matrilineal descent - and are therefore halakhu:

Jews who do not require conversion - the majority of Latinos who believe they are bnei anousim do not.

Rabbis are often tom between the desire to recognize the unique circumstances of the

ROOTS TRIP: A delegation of bnei anousim visit Barcelona during a conference organized earlier this year by the Shavei Israel organization

anousim and their need to uphold interpretation of Jewish law. Some agree to perform ceremonies of "return" - strikingly similar to formal conversion, albeit with the acknowledgement that a historical Iink to Judaism already exists. For bnei anousim who already feel marginalized by the Jewish community, a return ceremony CM be a powerfully symbolic affirmation of their ancestry.

A major issue, Vinas says, is that "the process of the return of the anousim has become 0 mixed up with the process of conversion that people think they should be dissuaded and rejected." (Under some interpretations of Jewish law, rabbis are technically required to reject potential converts three times). "The reality is, according to halakha it's the exact opposite - anousim should be encouraged, welcomed. Halakha states that if there's a doubt, you have to go with a trier interpretation. So if you had reason to believe that somebody might be halakhicaUy Jewi h - even the smallest possibility - you have to encourage them to observe because we're supposed to encourage all Jews to observe."

"Many Orthodox rabbis don't feel any particular sympathy towards the anousim,' says Rabbi Marc Angel, author of "Choosing to Be Jewish: The Orthodox Road to Conversion" (Ktav, 2005) and rabbi emeritus of ew York's Congregation Shearith Israel in New York City. a synagogue founded by the descendents of

THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12. 2009

anousim in 1654. Angel, who believes that the return of the anousim is a "wonderful, historic thing," says that rabbis are also understandably wary of bnei anousim who may still cling to Catholic beliefs even as tbey embrace Judaism.

David Dangle, a spokesman for the New York-based American. Sephardi Federation (ASF), says, "Depending on the institution you go to, there are different ways of being recei ved. Some people may be disappointed because you can't wave a magic wand and make them Jewish. It's a process. But most institutions are welcoming. I would strongly recommend that they seek out a Sephardi rabbi, since they're more equipped to deal with the issue."

Villas - whose parents formally converted to Judaism after they immigrated to Miami during Castro's revolution in Cuba - says that it was a Sephardi rabbi who ultimately guided them on their journey. "It was the first time my parents actually met someone who knew Sephardi Jewish history. He explained the story of the anousim to them - until then, they had no idea. They tbought it was just family customs that they'd been practicing all this time.

E LATIN AMERICA, WHERE SYNAogue doors have traditionally been closed o outsiders, returning to Judaism is even more challenging for bnei anousim, activists say. Mejia, for one, is deeply resentful of the

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COVER STORY

obstacles he encountered on his path back to judaism.

Once he decided that he wanted to convert, Mejia approached several synagogues in Bogota. He was met, he says, "by the sound of the synagogue door slamming in my face." Rabbi after rabbi refused to teach him, he says, and would not so much as allow him to attend Sabbath services. At first, he attributed this to serious concerns over security in a country where kidnappings are a constant threat. He was also aware of Judaism's tradition of rejecting converts three times. "I said, 'Oh, I know about this custom. When can I come back?' But they responded, 'No, you don't understand, we just don't do conversions."

And after corresponding with other Latin American bnei anousim on the Internet who had similar experiences of rejection, Mejia reached an unsettling conclusion. "The bottom line is racism," he says. "Incredible, disgusting racism. Everything is done to preserve the status quo - religiously, socially and racially." Even when rabbis are sympathetic to the anousi cause, he says, they are essentially powerless in the face ofthe pressures exerted by their congregations.

Villas, too, is frustrated. "A potential convert in Latin America can't go to services, can't take classes, and often can't buy kosher food, since markets are typically controlled by the synagogue complex. There is a tremendous amount of xenophobia, in addition to all the security issues. On occasion, though, the rabbinate will send potential converts - usually those who are wealthy or are marrying into the community - to the U.S."

Repeated calls to the rabbis of Bogota's four synagogues were not returned.

"It's unfortunate that the doors are closed," says Steven Bayme, director of Contemporary Jewish Life at the American Jewish Committee (AJC). "The overriding principle should be one of inclusion - but you can't expect that Christians of Jewish origins are going to become Jews ovemight. We're trying to establish that in order to be meaningful, Jewish identity must be clear and unambiguous. Pluralism is a distinctly American and distinctly modem value."

Mejia eventually began to teach himself Hebrew, observe the Sabbath and keep kosher. After completing his undergraduate degree, he applied for - and received - a scholarship to pursue a master's degree in Jewish Philosophy at the Hebrew University. Once in Israel, he threw himself into Jewish study, going to every yeshiva he could find,

8

I

While the Orthodox rabbinate in Jerusalem was willing to convert him after a year, Mejia says that he was not satisfied by the answers that the rabbis provided to his many questions. "I'm a philosopher by trade and 1 like my theology sophisticated," he says. In addition, he adds, he became increasingly disenchanted with what he saw as the Orthodox rabbinate's political and religious monopoly on Judaism. Well-meaning Orthodox rabbis told him that it was in his best interest to convert under their supervision, since conversion under that of any other denomination within Israel would not be accepted by the Chief Rabbinate and he would therefore not be able to marry or declare aliyah.

lA DECIDED TO ALIGN HIMlf with the Conservative moveent. "1 didn't escape one Inquisition to fall into the hands of another," he says. "The Orthodox can't buy me; they don't have anything that I want. I saw Conservative Judaism welcoming me with no strings attached, and that's what drew me in."

A Conservative rabbi, however, recommended that he convert abroad, since Israel does recognize non-Orthodox conversion when it takes place outside the country. Mejia flew to New York, where he converted with a Conservative rabbinic court, and then returned to Israel. While taking classes at the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem, he met his wife, Abby, an American Jew from Florida, who planned on becoming a rabbi.

"She helped me to realize that the bnei anousim across the world needed me; that I had something to give. I decided that the best way to do this was to become a rabbi." Mejia decided to apply to the rabbinical program at New York's Jewish Theological Seminary and was delighted when he was accepted. Today, while still a student, he also is the resident rabbi at New York's Temple Emmanuel of Park chester, and is in frequent contact with bnei anousim across Latin America via the Internet.

He is deeply saddened, he says, by the obstacles they face in returning to Judaism. Citing a lack of Spanish-language resources, xenophobia, and opportunistic missionaries who seek to lure them to Christianity by disguising themselves as Jews, Mejia says that "the bnei anousim face an uphill battle."

Michael Freund, the chairman of Shavei Israel, an organization that reaches out and assists "lost Jews," says that it sends emissaries to Spain, Portugal and Latin America and translates Jewish books into Spanish. In addition, the

THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12, 2009

organization runs Machon Miriam, a Spanishlanguage institute for conversion and return in Jerusalem that is under the auspices of the Chief Rabbinate. According to Freund, Machon Miriam teaches some 200 students a year, approximately half of whom are bnei anousim.

In addition, he says, Shavei Israel advocates on behalf of bnei anousim at both the levels of the rabbinic establishment and the Ministry of the Interior. "Our goal is to help people fulfill their dreams, and we work within the system," Freund says. "As people successfully go through the system, it sends a message."

However, not everyone is pleased with Shavei's work. Mejia, for one, takes umbrage with what he sees as its real agenda - bringing large numbers of Jews to Israel in an effort to maintain a demographic advantage. "I tell them not to go," he says. "I tell them, you're playing right into their hands. You're going to go there, and you'll be sent to the West Bank, and you'll be second-class citizens. Stay in your communities and build them up. Do it your own way."

Freund, though, maintains that aliya is not Shavei's agenda. "I see value in simply reaching out to these communities and helping them strengthen their connection to Israel and the Jewish people, as they understand it."

"They're doing very good work," Villas says, "but I do have difficulty in having a monopoly on outreach. I also think we should do it ourselves."

Villas says that he dreams of creating an organization that would bring together representativesfrom different anousi communities in an attempt to explore questions of identity, demographics and resources. "What are the things that each of these communities need? Can their leadership be trained to teach and empower others? I would imagine teaching them the songs and customs of the Spanish and Portuguese communities so that people would return to the ways of their ancestors, and then slowly but surely developing a group of rabbis from within anousi communities who could do outreach."

In the meantime, Mejia says that he is struck by the many e-mails he receives from bnei anousim. who are desperate for knowledge. In order to help them, he created a webpage, www.koltuvsefarad.com, with resources in Spanish. In addition to recordings of Jewish music and a video on how to light Sabbath candles (Tip No.1: Make sure you don't bum the house down), Mejia will soon be posting a transliterated Spanish-Hebrew prayer book with traditional Sephardi commentary. His

inspiration is a l7th-century siddur edited by Menasseh Ben Israel, an anousi who became a rabbi ·and wrote a book of Jewish law for anousim called "Otzar Hadayanim." Mejia's ultimate goal, he says, is to open a flagship yeshiva in the southwest part of the United States that will act as a hub oflearning for bnei anousim from across Latin America.

"I want to help these people fmd their voice as Jews," he says. "I want to help them embrace their Judaism ... but also to create a new type of Judaism that fits them, one that coexists with a hyphenated LatinAmerican identity." Mejia speaks of blending traditional Jewish liturgy with the music of the Carribean and starts drumming his fingers against the table to a samba rhythm. "Why can't we have tacos and empanadas at Kiddush?" he asks. "That's what I want to see."

Mejia has a supporter in Rabbi Stephen Leon of Congregation B'nei Zion in EI Paso, Texas, who says that he has been "inundated with people who are curious." In response, he began holding services in Spanish in an effort to welcome bnei anousim. Across the U.S.,

there are a handful of other rabbis with similar inclinations.

Avigayil Rojas-Taylor, for one, says that she feels most welcome in Sephardi synagogues, but that, in general, "it's a mixed bag in terms of acceptance - I've encountered everything from hostility, suspicion and tactlessness to curiosity and welcoming. It depends on the person; it's like with anything else."

"People think of the anousim only in history books," says Freund. "They don't realize that this is a living, breathing phenomenon." Despite the awakening that has taken place in recent years, he charges that the organized Jewish community has thus far failed to create a coordinated or communal response to the issue.

Anous! activists believe that there is a real urgency to their efforts. "As people are moving into cities and insular communities are being dispersed, there's a loss of the handing down of tradition," Vinas says. "We're at the edge of a precipice. We can't wait anymore. It's getting late. There's a sense of growing urgency among the anousim that if we don't get it together in this generation, we're not going to get it together."

"We have the opportunity to avenge the Inquisition, and we have to seize it," says Freund. "We have a moral, historical and religious responsibility to reach out to anousim and we can only stand to gain from doing so. If we don't act now, we're going to lose them and that would be a tragedy of historic proportions."

ASP's Dangle, however, contends, "It's already too late for most of them. It's not a question of going after them; it's a question of being welcoming when they come back to us."

Sitting in the lobby of his synagogue, Villas grows silent. "We should embrace the anousim because it's the right thing to do," he says, finally. "Not because it's going to benefit the Jewish community; not because it's going to become a testimony that we can overcome adversity; not because it's going to reinvigorate all synagogues; not because the anousim can serve as ambassadors of communication to populations all over Latin America that would support Israel and the Jewish community. All of these things are true, but they're not the reason. The reason is because it's the right

thing to do."

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THE JERUSALEM REPORT OCTOBER 12,2009

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