Portugal
In front of me was one of twenty white brick apartments lining the desolate block that was a thirty minute walk away from the center of the city. Behind me was an empty sidewalk bordered by park cars and vacant of any pedestrians strolling. And beyond me was the highway and ramp that Google maps led me down to find my Shabbat experience in Lisbon, Portugal.
Referring to my notes, I cautiously rang the bell for the third floor in the apartment and was buzzed in moments later. Stepping into the entryway of the apartment building, I was first met with utter darkness. Once alit after my frantic search for a light switch, the entryway displayed a narrow, rickety staircase and scuffed, once-white walls with some wooden frame peeking out in certain areas.
Climbing up the steps, I would be lying if I said that for a glimpse of a second I was not scared and no bad thoughts quickly passed through my mind. This was Jewish, I thought, as my first rationale for justification. And this was a woman I was e-connected to through a dear friend in Madrid, as my second rationale for justification.
Making my way up to the third floor, Adriana, the woman who had been so kind to invite me to Shabbat and graciously answered my many back-and-fourth questions over email, welcomed me into her Jewish community. Stepping inside the doorway, I entered a small brightly-lit and well-decorated hallway where I was then introduced to the various community members, mostly middle-aged adults, of La Comunidade Judaica Hehaver. Adriana explained that we would wait for an additional visitor, a man from Budapest, Hungary, before she would give us both a tour of the apartment building and then begin the service.
As we waited, I took everything in around me. The family of wooden mezuzahs proudly lining every doorway, each boasting a different Hebrew word. The magnets on the short, white refrigerator in the kitchen sharing the different places visitors had come from. The large bulletin board in the hallway informing community members of upcoming events. Exploring the length of the hallway and sneaking quick previews of each room in the apartment, I became curious of the stories behind the different pieces of Judaica artwork and religious pieces found in every room.
Once Andras arrived, the Hungarian student now pursuing his PhD in Lisbon, Adriana warmly led us through a tour around the five or-so room-apartment. We began in the room that lied at the center of the hallway, which was made into a unique memorial space. This congregation’s deep history defined this square-shaped room with its Judaica courageously decorating the walls and filling the room: there were frames of elegantly written Hebrew, old siddurim, and Judaica from the original sanctuary. Adriana began to share the history of this congregation, and I found myself hanging on to every word, wanting to internalize the special story of how the congregation formed almost a hundred years ago before and transformed into the community it is today.
The congregation began by Polish immigrants to Lisbon in the early 1900s, wanting to continue their Jewish traditions and maintain their Jewish identity in their new home. The congregation was found in an apartment, similar to the one I found myself in, and Adriana explained that they moved a few years ago due to security and safety issues. In time, the congregation would evolve to include other types of Jews beyond that of just Polish immigrants—marranos who discovered their Jewish heritage and converted back to Judaism. These individuals, the individuals who I would pray with following the tour, were at-first rejected from the more traditional congregation that was part of the same association of Jewish life in Lisbon. Adriana explained that this more progressive community proudly and graciously welcomed these individuals.
After wandering through a few rooms and feeling mesmerized by the history before my eyes, we entered the room that was converted into their sanctuary, La Sinagoga Ohel Jacob . Two rows of dark wooden benches lined two opposite walls, where a large bimah covered in a dark purple velvet cloth with gold fringes lied in the center of the room. In the far corner stood a large ornate menorah with golden leaves intertwining the dark iron curves. In front of the bimah stood the Aron Kodesh, the torah ark. This beautiful structure was draped in a heavy red velvet cloth that had a beautiful golden embroidery of lions and stars of david. Hanging on the wall facing where I sat on the wooden bench was a frame of aged Hebrew scripture.
Opening the prayer book resting on my lap, I was genuinely surprised to see the right-hand pages composed of Hebrew and left-hand pages Portugese. Before Adriana led the eleven of us through the service, she asked Andras if he needed a siddur—he replied that he already had one, as a siddur written in Portugese or Hungarian or English or Spanish would all have the same Hebrew prayers, the backbone of the service.
One by one, we read the prayers, and because I could not read the Portugese transliteration, I did my best to follow along with the Hebrew. Some melodies were familiar, bringing me back home to a service at the Illini Hillel, while others were new, reminding me that I was an ocean away from home. A form of tranquility and peace defined the mood of the minyan throughout, as I exchanged smiles periodically with these new community members I just met. Twice we recited the kaddish, as their rabbi urges them to do so to remember the victims of the Shoah.
Approaching the end of the service, it was apparent that no one knew the parshah of the week. Some admitted that they received the weekly emails describing the parshah and major lessons (the same emails my mom sometimes forwards to my email), but no one actually knew the exact story. A group discussion began to form to collectively remember the topic of the torah that week, and Andras realized that in fact he remembered the parshah.
Capturing everyone’s attention in his immaculate English and gravitas, he shared with us the same wisdom and analysis he learned in yeshiva. Andras began by detailing the golden breastplate boasting 12 unique gems that was worn by the high priest of the Israelites and said to have different powers. In particular, one of these ultrapowerful gems was said to predict the future, allowing the priest to answer any yes-or-no question. The reason this ultrapowerful breastplate was possessed and used ocassionally by the priest was because at the time, Jews needed miracles to believe in G-d; otherwise, they would resort to idol worship. The lesson, Andras shared to all, was that Jews did not need miracles to believe in G-d—they believed just to believe. Just because. To this day, Andras explained, there is mystery surrounding where this original breastplate exists, as some believe it lies in a remote part of Ethiopia and others believe in the Vatican.
Making our way from the sanctuary to the kitchen, the eleven of us gathered around the table as brownies—specially made for Andras and my coincidental visit—tree nuts, and juices were brought out. Over this sweet oneg, I learned more about the people around me, many of whom just recently discovered their Jewish roots and converted back to Judaism. One man who was a marrano explained that growing up, his family always talked about Israel and its valores. As he became an adult, he was intrigued to learn more about his family’s roots, and in time, he found a seder plate in his family’s home. Pointing to his finger, he also showed me a gold ring with a large start of david engraved on it, something I noticed when I first shook his hand that evening. He explained that this too was something he discovered. Another woman who I stood next to in the kitchen explained that she learned of her roots because of the names passed down in each generation of her family—the very names we recited earlier in the service like Rachel, Leah, and Sarah. Soon, another collective group discussion unfolded around the history of the marranos as the individuals explained to Andras and me their history. Interestingly enough, the discussion turned towards the family names of these marrano families. Jewish families who converted changed their family name, but in doing so, all of the Jewish families took on the same new family names. Although meaningless names, these new family names still were connected to Judaism by shedding light on the family's Jewish and marrano roots.
Leaving Shabbat that evening, I was overcome with inspiration; the ruach I discovered in a small, unmarked apartment was deeply touching. This ruach was seen through the Judaica decorating the walls and filling the rooms, reminding the community of their rich history. This ruach was felt in the love, kindness, and warmth that the community members shared for one another when greeting one another and praying together. This ruach was heard in the stories shared by the community members as they detailed their deeply entangled family roots. Courage characterized these individuals because they proactively sought to discover their Jewish roots. Not only did they discover these roots but they embodied these roots into their modern daily life by converting back to Judaism. Their siblings and other family members did not partake in this discovery—it was solely their doing. It is this courage, found in a small corner of Lisbon, Portugal, that embodies the power of what it means to be part of the Jewish people.