Cheapskates, we visit all the sites that we don't have to pay for. The synagogue is nice, we see the statue of the Rambam (Rabbi Moshe Ben Maimónides), the influencial rabbi from the 13th Century who lived, taught, and doctored in Córdoba, and we wander the old streets within the city walls. We don't visit the old Jewish house except to view the gift shop, because then we would have to pay, and that pay could buy us churros or beer, of which a glass is nice when you don't have a home and wander around all day.
So Jaime stands at the large, iron Hanukiah, so tall that one of his fellows, an older man, pulls up a chair for him to stand to reach the candles. It is a small crowd, less than the ten men required to create a synagogue, and Jaime lets us know the ceremony will be in a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, not English, but to please ask questions later. He speaks (I find out later) about the meaning of Hanukkah, and how he is trying to create a Jewish community in Córdoba that is not Reformed, not Orthodox, not anything but simply Jewish. Religious tolerance, he says, is what we need, and my heart is with him. The older man gestures for Merav to light a candle, and does so with all of the other Jews, then he looks at me and holds out the candle for me to take. He must know that Ryan and I are not Jewish because of our awkwardness throughout the whole thing, not knowing when and what to say, like a Catholic church when I don't know when to kneel, but nonetheless I climb the chair, get level with the Hanukiah, and light the eighth candle of Hanukkah.
Feasting on the Hanukkah goodies in the museum part of the house––sugar donuts, challah bread and salt, anise liquor that reminds Merav of home, cookies, and thick, Spanish sweet wine made from raisins––I realize why there are not enough Jews in Córdoba to create a synagogue, and why there are only three old synagogues left in Spain: the Jews are either exiled or dead. I am further enraged as we stroll the incredible expanses of the Mezquita Catedral ("Mosque Cathedral"), among the nearly a thousand arches, wide open foyer of orange trees, a soaring minaret/bell tower, the many Christian side chapels and the magnificent cathedral among Moorish architecture: how two different religions expressed the glory of God. I am enraged because, in this converted church, there are glorious pictures of Christ opposite Spanish monarchs; a chapel of St. Paul holding a broadsword, the image of the Cross of Christ, which is odd for a man who had given up the sword; swooping battle scenes with angels butchering their naked opponents with the Cross/broadswords held high.
And as I see these things I think how unlike Jesus they are. How a church effective is very rarely a church that is richly adorned. This is not to tear down the cathedral, in fact, I think it is beautiful and one of the best spots in Spain––it is the Moor's capital and prize mosque––but when I think of Spain's history, I understand some and am baffled by other bits. I understand the 1492 Reconquista and the removal of the Moors: I understand why Ferdinand and Isabella would remove with violence what had been taken from Spain through violence. What I don't get, though, is how one could justify the Inquisition (which had its seat in Córdoba in a castle we did not go in) and the expulsion of all the Jews from Spain and, by a marriage promise, from Portugal. The culture lost! The lives destroyed! Granted, the displaced are long resettled, but I fear those attitudes still persist in the darker sides of our human nature, and if we do not educate about it then we will stumble into the horror again, just with a different religion, or a different race of people. I don't want to wade through the aftermath to find out we repeated what proud people just as human as us did five hundred years ago.
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