Gefilte Fish

The mother of one of my students invited me to her home for Shabbat dinner. As the six year old son passed the gefilte fish across the table to his grandma, I realized that somehow, in this Christian nation, I have felt as – if not more – connected to my Jewish roots than living in New Jersey or New York, where are there are more Jews than anywhere in the world, second only to Israel. How is this possible?

First, let’s look at Costa Rica’s relationship with Israel. Costa Rica was the first country to establish their embassy in Jerusalem, unlike most countries, where their embassies are in Tel Aviv so as not to offend the Palestinians’ claim on the religious city. This is a statement in itself and it stems from a very unique commonality between two nations – they are (or were) the only democracies in a region surrounded by military regimes.

What role do Jews play in Costa Rica? Well, there’s Luis Liberman Ginsburg. Who? He’s only the vice president of Costa Rica.

This country is a hospitable country to foreigners, making Costa Rica a place where Jews cannot only practice their religion, but thrive in an active Jewish community and in the community at large. Part of the reason that I’ve felt a strong connection to Judaism here is because it’s something I’m familiar with in an unfamiliar land. But I believe that it’s more than that. It stems from the fact that the Jewish community here is not only successful, but is very tight-knit. It seems like Jews here do not marry outside their faith: in every Jewish gathering I’ve attended, there has also been someone playing the matchmaker. Also the day after I informed my student that I was Jewish, he handed me his cell phone, saying, “it’s my mom”, and she extended an invitation to her home for Shabbat dinner. Would that have happened in New Jersey? Probably not. Not when there are 500,000 Jews as compared to 3500.

Yet it’s more than sheer numbers. In Japan, where there are 2000 Jews, I didn’t find the Jewish community to be as welcoming nor as active as in Costa Rica. This may be in part because the Costa Rican Jews have a rich history. Most of the oldest Jews here immigrated in the 20s and 30s from the same village – a shtetel in Poland called Yelechov. There are even 200 holocaust survivors in Costa Rica. In the center of San Jose is a statue of Anne Frank (picture above).

The Jewish community here is unlike any other Jewish community I have ever come across in my travels. Despite being accepting to Jews, Costa Rica is still a Christian dominated land, and so it’s unlikely you’ll come across a kosher restaurant or a mikvah. The Jewish community has responded to this by defining its Jewish identity in unique ways, at least from a New Jersey Jew’s perspective. My student’s family is part of the orthodox community here. Having attended Shabbat services on Friday night (as they do every week) at a synagogue where men and women are separate, they returned to the grandmother’s home to meet me for dinner…by car. They then served the vegetarian (that’s me, by the way) cheese lasagna while everyone else ate chicken. They may even be working today - one of my Jewish friends here told me that most Jewish businesses stay open on Shabbat. What I’ve gathered from all this is that there seems to be a distinction here between inside and outside the synagogue.

Judaism is not only a religion, but a culture and a race, a small minority with major success, a people of nearly 6000 years (the oldest existing religion in the world) who have survived countless persecutions. As my student’s family drove me home after Shabbat dinner, I told them that it was nice to be among Jews. “There’s a unique connection among us,” the mother responded, “which nobody else understands.”

The Adventure to Guatemala: Part 2

Cesar pulled the car over and we examined the tires in the storm. The front left and the back left were flat. We changed the front tire, which was completely dead, but we only had one spare. In order to secure a safe spot on the side of the road, we had to turn around and drive against traffic. The only lights visible in the night were those of the oncoming cars. We pulled over to the side and Cesar rang the doorbells of nearby homes to no avail. I noticed he was wincing in pain - his forefinger had turned green. He injured it while changing the tire.

Cesar called for help from Guatemala City - an hour away - and we waited. Mima sat quietly and the girls typed away on their phones while Cesar soaked his finger in the rain. Three hours later, Cesar's brother showed up with a truck, who knows where he got it from (there's no AAA in Central America). Cesar drove the van onto the back of the truck and I gazed through a misty windshield as we were driven back to Cesar's home, lost in a state of exhaustion and surreal silence.

We were the lucky ones. The next morning I awoke to a television report about landslides, "rumbas", throughout the country. The road to Antigua was closed; rescue teams were sent out, searching for people buried beneath the earth. Nine people were reported dead.

What I found most striking of all from this experience was the way the Palacios responded to the situation. Not a single complaint was made by any of the teenage girls. Not once did Mima express fear or incertitude. Cesar took charge, understanding his duty to his family, and seemed unaffected by his wife and daughters' gentle laughter when he wrapped up his finger in a makeshift splint of band-aids. I taught the family the word game "Ghost" and they demonstrated the English they had learned at their bilingual school with giggles and squeaky voices.

Things move at a slower pace down here than most places - let alone the New York area. There is less stress and worry - at least on the outside. Maybe having gone through a 36 year civil war, countless corrupt governments, and little in the way of human rights, the people of Guatemala are able to let a small crisis (or inconvenience, depending on how you look at it) glide down their backs like the falling rain. All people encounter tragedies in their lives of some form or another. Perhaps it's how we respond in the face of these events that really defines us.

The Adventure to Guatemala: Part 1

As I entered the terminal at La Aurora International Airport, I studied the faces of men and women from a different world. This was my first flight within Central America and I didn't see a single gringo lining up to get his or her ticket checked before stepping onto the plane. Guatemala was the first country I knew I would travel to before I even mored to Costa Rica. I wanted to see where Marleny, my family's housekeeper since I was three, grew up; I wanted to meet her family. I wanted to experience Central America.

In the last decade, only 5% of the murders in Guatemala were prosecuted. The number of kidnappings have quintupled; annual murder rates have risen from 2904 to 6498. Despite new penalties for femicide, they are considered useless in a country where so many murders go unsolved.

These dangers stem from poverty, which is impossible not to notice if you look out the airplane window as the plane hits the runaway in Guatemala City. Between the forests and rolling hills are dilapidated homes as far as the eye can see.

The first thing you can't help but notice when you step out of the airport are the Mayans, Nearly half the population consists of "indigenas" clad in traditional garb - striped skirts, ornate blouses, and long, beaded necklaces for the women with braided hair, cowboy-like sombreros for the men. The Mayans may be the poorest people in the country, but they possess an incredible richness in history and culture. It was to an ancient city, Antigua, where I was headed, to which my friend, Reuben, who traveled the slither of land from Costa Rica to Guatemala, described as, "the Jerusalem of Costa Rica".

Marleny's niece, her husband, and their three daughters, ages 15, 17, and 19, picked me up at the airport. Cesar, who has a note written by one of his daughters above the desk in his office that states, "el mejor papi del mundo", rented a van just to have enough room for me and my luggage (which was only a backpack).

After lunch at a nearby mall, we set off for Antigua. Not only does Antigua retain its beauty through colonial building and ancient ruins, but it is surrounded by 3 volcanoes. But I only knew of them through books and photographs. By the time we left lunch, a deep fog had taken over the sky, and it started to rain. Hard.

In the midst of a thunderstorm, Cesar Palacio took the wheel, dodging potholes left and right, on the road to Antigua. The three daughters were in the back , playing with their blackberries, and Mirna was silently observing. When our tires hit the cobblestone streets, I could tell, despite the horrid weather, that Antigua was a special place. In fact, Antigua looked pretty in the rain, heavy droplets falling in front of the lights of the Catedral de Santiago. I studied the local dwellings, built with mud, stones, and wooden poles "bajareque" style, through the blurred car window. Perhaps this was the way Antigua should be seen - the city has stood the test of time, surviving earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and has retained its traditional charm, not unlike that of Kyoto, Japan.

All was fine as we ran back into the van and left the ancient city. But on the road back to Guatemala City, Cesar was unable to avoid one of the many potholes. One was all it took.

Part 2 soon to come...

Yom Kippur in Costa Rica

There are four synagogues in Costa Rica: an orthodox and Sephardic temple in the Jewish area of Pavas, a chabad, and one in the outskirts of San Jose, which a member described as “reform or conservative – whichever way you look at it.” Costa Rica is nearly 85% Christian (70% Roman Catholic and 14% Evangelical Protestant). There are a total 2500 Jews.

B’nai Israel, the “whichever way you look at it” synagogue, was my shul of choice. I took a long taxi ride through San Jose traffic to a destination I feared the driver had no idea how to find, let alone what a "sinagoga" was (my explanation: Una iglesia para judio!). The sun set and it was dark. But as I scanned the buildings out the window, I spotted the Magen David (Jewish star) in the window and shouted, “Esso!”

The services were conducted in English, Spanish, and Hebrew. I felt strangely drawn to the Spanish prayers, to chanting aloud in the native tongue. When the service ended, I kibitzed with the congregants. They were from all over the world: Spain, Mexico, USA, Colombia. The rabbis were a couple from Argentina.

Although I wasn’t spending the holiest of days with my family, I was glad to experience Yom Kippur in Latin America. It felt good to be part of a larger community. There I was, saying the same prayers as Jews around the world, atoning for my sins, fasting. It’s nice to know that almost anywhere I go in the world there will be a synagogue for me to go to, the Magen David proudly displayed. Now if only that were the case with a good bagel.