Journal from Spain #5 - Fast Day

Psychologists and philosophers occasionally debate amongst themselves whether unhappy people enjoy their misery, which, somewhere along the line, they chose to experience. Can a choice, no matter how painful, reflect anything but preference? It was with such thoughts in mind that I opted to eschew the comfort of bed and books and, instead, spend my Shiva Asar b'Tamuz in Toledo.

I understand that travel on fast days, especially of the sightseeing sort, falls into a shul rabbi's "generally shunned" category. At the same time, by focusing on the worst aspects of travel - making sure I missed my train, spending an hour and a half in line, bruising up the tender flesh where toe and sandal strap meet - I could no doubt achieve plenty of fast day unease.

Of course, the choice of Toledo was not without its religious motivations. The city reeks of history: it was a major - if not the major - Jewish city center during the confluence of political, social, scientific, philosophic, artistic, and Torah achievements we collectively refer to as the Golden Age of Spanish Jewry.* Yehuda HaLevi was born here, Shmuel HaNagid drew his war plans here, and here the course of Halakha changed forever with the arrival from Provance of the Rosh. The city boasted a sizeable Jewish quarter (today's "Juderia") which, at its peak, supported no less than twelve congregations. Thus, I knew what I was doing - I even looked up the bracha to be said when viewing a destroyed shul. Of the entire experience, I expected something akin to visiting the house of one's youth, or the tomb of one's grandparents, and I was curious to see which of the two the city more closely resembles.

In terms of offering protection from the elements, Toledo had nothing on the house of my youth, and I slugged through a day of throat-tightening weather, of three digit heat in the five o'clock hour. Actually, we slugged through it, for I shared the experience with D., the interreligious diplomat of a well-known Jewish organization. (In his line of work, a last minute invite to Madrid, on the letterhead of the King of Saud, is only memorable if the tickets are first-class.) While one is the loneliest number, two is certainly the worst for a Tzom, and I fasted like my mother: never hungry, but desperate for drink. On my own, I could ignore the misery, losing myself in the sights and sounds of a new city; with three or more, I imagine, the inertia of numbers and the distraction they provide would propel me to nightfall. Two, however, is like fasting in front of a mirror, bearing witness to the slow but steady parching of skin, whitenening of tongue, and losing of patience. Similarly, the mores of traveling with a semi-stranger activates a certain quasi-maternal responsibility that is fueled much more by politeness than any realistic concern. The other's enjoyment is verified, his current health confirmed, and - to an extent I now recognize as almost demented - all conversations eventually lead to our prospects of passing out.

Toledo's old city wall and narrow winding streets are convincing, transporting: it really feels medieval. The clash and synthesis of Moorish stylings and Gothic architecture testifies to the struggle between exotic and European I saw from above, while serving as a credible - no, picture perfect - setting for Sefardic Jewry. From the city walls one looks out upon yellowing fields and desert-colored hills - the nickname "Jerusalem of Spain" had its topographic merits - and is reminded of a time when an urban and agricultural lifestyle were not mutually exclusive. It would be both a cliche and an exaggeration to say the history felt "real", but it certainly felt appropriate. In my mind, already in a ripe state for hallucination, I saw little Jewess' transporting trays of bread (on their head, of course) up winding alleyways. For a moment, names in the back of my Gemara became majestically robed men, pacing to Mincha in deep contemplation. Others, both wrinkled and wisened by time, explained the day's lesson in a soft but penetrating Judeo-Arabic. There, between those two hills, the community leaders took their Shabbat afternoon stroll. Here, for much longer than history generally allows, the Jewish people thrived.

The imaginary time-travel was especially strong in the Synagogue, whose looming emptiness demanded filling in. I envisioned it on a Friday night, full and humming and familiar. I saw it on Rosh Hashana, complete with an elderly Rabbi raising a Shofar to his lips and the unnatural silence of mass anticipation. I heard the silent prayer, the reiterated hopes seeking His presence, His protection, His forgiveness. These intricately carved arches, these octagonal columns, these rows of open space pointing to high vaulted ceilings - I wanted to take them for granted, get used to them, know them as anything but curious and historical artifacts.

This assignment, feeling at home in the shul, was fairly difficult, mainly due to my constantly catching the eye of about a dozen statues of Jesus Christ. The building was converted into a church after 1492 (to this day, it is the Our Lady of Santa Maria La Blanca Synagogue) and it looks like they did little more than drape the Aron Kodesh in fancy Christmas lights and expensive icons. Looking at the Chrisian altar had the simultaneous effect of a punch to the gut and a slap in the face. Despite myself, I was pissed: this is my history, my people, my fucking building, so who the hell are you erecting blood sown idols with ridiculously well-defined abs, forbidding me from taking pictures, charging me for entry (!) when - whenever the hell I want - I could call a standard "mincha, mincha" and ten dudes would appear and start shuckling and the guard would be too embarrassed to ask us to stop and some Chinese tourists would reverently watch and even secretly take some video and we'd just own the place so much that the all the Jesus idols in the world would come crashing down and bring us all back together in Jerusalem.

I was frustrated and indignant and wanted very badly to spit.

The issue at hand was not the Church's right to annex spiritual territory, which is upsetting, but not in the existential sense. (For the record, the Muslims got it worse. The St. John of the King's Church, an immense and towering structure, maintained as its entranceway what appears to have been a Moorish mosque, with some Arab calligraphy still decorating the walls. It's a grand, gold embossed example of one-upping.) It was a mix of many thoughts that put anger in my heart.

I hate that Toledo markets itself as a symbol of La Convivencia, the period of relative tolerance and diversity between Muslims, Christians, and Jews. I don't know who makes these decisions, but in my mind, all potential candidates for international symbol of peaceful coexistence must pass the following test: did one ethnic group ever tell another to leave its country or die like pigs? A plaque celebrating the Spanish Expulsion still hangs in Toledo's Catedral and I sometimes wonder if the tourists buying those stupid T-shirts - "Toledo: Three Religions of Tolerance" - would appreciate the irony in "Germany: 2000 years of Jewish History."

I hate that this a tourist trap, for it only drives home that the Golden Age no longer exists. My visit didn't bring back the nostalgia of an old house, but the mourning of an ancestor's grave, a pain only magnified when touching and exploring the still visible skeleton. This great culture, which produced such powerful minds and ideas and influence, now produces postcards. This was a highlight of two thousand years, this was a temple! Now its in ruins and we visit it like Disnleyland. Turns out that the bracha upon seeing a ruined shul is reasonably well known: Baruch Dayan Emes.

Lastly, and most forcefully, I hate that this is all we got. The Catedral is overwhelming: in design, in detail, in the artifacts it contains, and the financial power it represents; in comparison, the synagogues are pathetic. Here I am at a pinnacle of Jewish history and all I can see is an asterisk in the Toledo guide book. That's us, the asterisks of world history. Spanish Jewry, when viewed in the context of Spain as a whole, is probably something like Jerusalem's Armenian Quarter: hmmm, we can wonder out loud, that's interesting. Now let's go look at the real stuff.

One of the details of Moshiach's arrival that often goes unexplained is just how quickly and silently Jews move from blip on the map to center of the world's attention. We just take it for granted, without recognizing how great the jump is. Granted, Jews have played a disproportionately large role in world history and we have earned more than our fair share of newspaper headlines, but, you know, there are days when we don't even make the front page. Thus, even in contemporary New York City - the most succesful, secure, and culturally influential Jewish community in world history (certainly safer than the Midbar!) - where Jews are a truly dominant force, they will never be the center of a NYC tour. We are an asterisk, and when we leave, tourists will purchase merchandise bearing the likeness of a bagel. Assuming that our religion exists in order to somehow effect or influence the universe and all humanity, this is a very troubling realization.

I mourned it all: the re-sweetened history, the loss of a community, the failings of a people. It worked - I was miserable, and when inside Toledo's cathedral and churches, I always found the opportunity to spit.


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*I'm including in that the later, Christian-led Silver Age.