Presentation by Aliza At the Third Annual Conference of the Society for Crypto-Judaic Studies Held November 7-9, 1993 in San Antonio, Texas I am not going to focus on historical information; I'm going to give you a glimpse of what it means to me. The story of the anusim (the Hebrew word for "the forced ones"), and whether it was force, or will, when it happened, how it happened, who did it, when did they return, did they return, did they not return... all this academic research, genealogical research, historical research... it is wonderful, it confirms, it validates, but it doesn't do anything for me. What's the difference? We're here! Alive! We are Israel! Throughout the past twenty years, I have been asked many questions: How did I find Judaism? How did I confirm that I was descended from Sephardim? What does it take to get reintegrated into the House of Israel? Frankly, folks, yesterday, and the day before, and today, I am reminded of the same (and I am sure the rest of my friends and colleagues were reminded). We're very sick and tired of having to justify our identity. If you only knew how much it hurts to hear: "Well, how do you know? How can you prove it? Was your mother Jewish? How can you..." It hurts. It hurts so deep, you can stop now. And to hear it from another Jew, it hurts even deeper. I am not a relic; we are not relics. I really feel what Native-Americans feel when they see the remains of their ancestors in the Smithsonian. I'm tired of being a Smithsonian piece, folks. I am simiente de Avraham; I am Aliza bat Avraham veSarah. My Hebrew name is Aliza--always happy, because I am always happy to say that I am the daughter of Abraham, and I am the daughter of Sarah. We have survived. Suffice it to say that I am a Jew by the grace of God. How did I find Judaism? By coincidence? No!--by divine guidance. Baruch hashem--thank God. We are the story of survival--this is the story we all talk about, the story of survival of a six hundred year holocaust. Think about it: The European Holocaust of several decades ago, which lasted six years, seven years, was a repeat of history. We have survived a six hundred year holocaust, a holocaust that resulted from and included centuries of isolation, persecution, censorship, secrecy, fear. And we have lost a lot of our community. Our Ashkenazi brethren are so overwhelmed by the Holocaust, and that all the books were burned, and there are no records. Your family may have perished; so did mine, so did ours. We are remnants as you are. And a Jew must never forget, because when we forget we destine the world to repeat the holocaust. This is a story of the strength of the Jewish spirit, in spite of all the suffering, persecution, isolation, all the hatred, all the anti-Semitism which is so ingrained in Christianity. (Those of us who have lived in Christian communities, who have lived both identities, can attest to how painful it is to be reminded that to be a Jew is to be in total perdition because we rejected the Messiah. You have to transcend what you hear in the churches, you have to transcend what you perceive and what everybody tells you.) It is a story of courage, the courage to go beyond the fragments of the oral culture, these little remnants that you hear: We wash our hands; we wash our hands between the foods we cook, when you get up, when you go to the table, after you leave the table. You change the linens on Friday, but you don't wash it on Saturday, and you don't do it on Sunday either (because the Christian neighbors are going to suspect you). You raise pigs in your backyard, but it is not for you (it is just so the people don't suspect you). You serve pork when you have guests, but never in the privacy of your home. I am a descendant of anusim from Northern Spain who came to Mexico in 1580, to the Nuevo Reino de Leon. We remained there, in that region, for four hundred years. I was born in the city of Tampico, the northeastern state of Tamaulipas, the fourth of ten children. My parents are both Protestant ministers. We immigrated to Texas in 1959. At the age of nineteen, I first suspected that we were descended from Jews, but it took me seven years to connect from that fragment to my complete spiritual return. In 1973, I officially returned to Judaism, and forgive me, rabbis, it was in spite of the rabbis, in spite of all of the prejudice I experienced in the Jewish community. From my Ashkenazi brethren I heard: "How can you claim to be a Jew, or a descendant from Jews, if you are Mexican; I thought all Mexicans are Catholics?" At the Morrocan community in Montreal, it was Cantor Salomon Amzallag who said to me: "Welcome home!" You don't have to apologize anymore. You don't have to justify your existence or your identity. When, in 1965, I learned for the first time that Jews are not the "ancient people of the Bible", as I had read all my life, that they live in my generation as Jews, that Israel is a nation--talk about revelation! When I heard for the first time in 1965, or saw accidentally, inadvertently, that I was somehow connected to the people of Israel, I had to transcend beyond these fragments to understand, to hear on a conscious level that I am connected. I had to translate it to myself; it had to connect to me. Then I had to resolve within myself what it meant to me. I had to take the steps, undergo the turmoil of who am I? what am I? where do I come from? why am I here? why is God speaking to me? why now?! That's the courage it demands. In May of this past year, I was blessed with the opportunity to be the first member of my family in many centuries to return to Eretz Israel as a Jew. My visit to Israel had a very profound impact on me, both spiritually and emotionally, for it marked my complete return to the House of Israel. And for the privilege granted me to see Yerushalayim [Jerusalem] with my own eyes, I promise Hashem [God] that I will tell this story of survival for as long as I have a breath in my body. It is my hope that this story will help you appreciate the blessing that you have been given if you are a Jew by birth or by choice, if your family gave you the opportunity to understand that you are a Jew. I hope you renew your commitment to serve Hashem and to support Israel; these are privileges denied my ancestors for six hundred years. No matter how many detours, and how many centuries have passed, there is a reason. It's been difficult to reconnect with Judaism, and had it not been for Hashem and His infinite mercy, it would not be a reality today. This is also the story of hope. When I see Schulamith Halevy, and I hear her talk about her family member who was a rabbi, who was a barber, because Sephardim did not receive payment for their spiritual work, that's my father! My father is a minister and he is a barber! He supported us by having a barber shop, riding his bicycle up the mountain to go minister to the people, their spiritual needs. My mother is a minister, because women and men don't pray together. She had to be a minister so she could be with the women, because the women, too, need spiritual guidance. Then I met this woman from Salonika, who said, "You are more Sephardi than I could ever imagine. Why is it that we go to Salonika and you go to Mexico?", and five hundred years later, we find each other. Schulamith, your family goes to Yerushalayim, and we find each other, and we're the same people, and nothing is changed. So there is hope that as long as a Jew acknowledges his or her connection to Israel, we will never perish. So how do I know? We don't exist in the history books. As a child growing up in a family of Protestant clergy, I always knew we were different from other Catholics, from other Protestants. To this day my family is what we call biblical-orthodox-Protestants, or lapsed Catholics, the nominal Catholics you talk about. Most of the men, and the very rebellious women are either non-religious, indifferent, or very anti-religion of any kind. But I remember them as being very spiritual, very well versed in Scripture, very ethical people. The ones who remain observant Christians are never quite sincere. I can never quite accept that my mother really prays to Jesus, that she prays to Jesus when she goes to her church. Outside the home they are observant, but at home--that's where you relax, as long as you don't have outsiders coming in. We were not baptized as children; instead we were dedicated at a ceremony on the eighth day (like a brit milah that did not include circumcision, since it was perceived as a promise to keep mitzvot, which was not possible). We only married los nuestros (our cousins, etc.). There are very specific rules of marriage and social interaction in our community: We marry under the huppah [canopy], called enramada, and it had to be outside. If it is inside the building, there have to be flowers, and there has to be an archway--otherwise it is not a wedding. We buried the deceased within twenty-four hours (if you read Scripture that is exactly right). My grandparents, aunts and uncles will tell you that we're not Mexicans, we are from Spain. We are told that we should be proud to be the descendants of very distinguished, aristocratic families. We are told which families belong to aristocracy, which come from middle class, who are the ones whose social class we don't really know, because they don't talk about it. Is that enough for me to say I am Jewish? Oh, who cares--I am Jewish! Genealogy and history are transmitted from generation to generation, just as I am doing today, just as C. is doing today, because one heard it from somebody, somebody just kind of gave you a tip, just a little tip. In our family, the elders select one child per generation; to that child they pass on the genealogy, the oral history. And it is not what they tell you--it is what they don't tell you; then you are supposed to figure it out. As my grandmother would say, "If I tell you everything it will go in one ear, and out the other, so go and research it." I am the only person in my family who has returned to Judaism. Will other members of my family return? I don't know, only God knows. It is my duty to be sincere, a sincere Jew, to continue to tell my story, to guide my children and future generations and to assist them to return to Hashem. It is the responsibility of all of us members of the house of Israel, whichever position we are at in our journey, to return, to never forget, because the survival of Judaism and the survival of the State of Israel depends on us. Personally, it has been very painful to return; it is a very lonely life. Yet again we are reminded that we are separated from our families; as conversions did, as massacres did, as forced emigration did, it is separation one more time. I have no one in my family with whom to share my Jewish holidays, and, believe me, it hurts. I am staying with my sister N. and I tell her I am going to the conference, but I can't share it with her. I wish she were here, but maybe it's not meant for her to be. It is lonely, so please remember that as you ask us your questions. Please remember that we have a lot of pain inside us which we have to deal with. It's wonderful to have talks about history and all these things here, but remember, this one soul still feels the pain, the burden of apostasy of our ancestors over a six-hundred year period. It is such a wonderful reunion to be able to be here with Ms. B. who reminds me: "Twenty years ago, here in San Antonio, you said to me, `I think you are one of us'". You see, we always say, "I think you are one of us", and that triggers something and you just go and look, go and search, and you start your journey; because it is meant for you to come back. These little coincidences, these little accidents--there are no coincidences, when you meet certain people in certain places, when you run into all these things, it is God saying, "Child, it is time for you to return". And all it takes is to say, "Here I am!" Thank you.