It
was 2008, the start of the Andalusian region’s economic meltdown, La
Crisis, and anxiety spread like the Black Plague. But from the roof of
my apartment in this ancient white pueblo, I plunged back in time.
The
other world worried about bills, real estate values, tourism, lost
jobs, the immediate future. In contrast, I retreated into my quest,
hoping to take new stock of my identity by reclaiming ancestral
memories, history and DNA clues that I believe had been faithfully
passed down for generations of my family, the Carvajals.
They
had left Spain centuries ago, during the Inquisition. That much I knew.
We were raised as Catholics in Costa Rica and California, but late in
life I finally started collecting the nagging clues of a very
clandestine identity: that we were descendants of secret Sephardic Jews —
Christian converts known as conversos, or Anusim (Hebrew for the forced
ones) or even Marranos, which in Spanish means swine.
I
didn’t know if my family had a connection to the white pueblo. But by
living in its labyrinth of narrow cobblestone streets, I hoped to
understand the fears that shaped the secret lives of my own family.
History
is a part of daily life in the old quarter, where Inquisition trials
were staged and neighbors spied on neighbors, dutifully reporting
heretics — Christian converts who were secretly practicing Judaism. The
former Jewish quarter, where white houses plunge down a steep, silvery
lane, is still standing, though unmarked by any street sign. I wanted to
understand why my family guarded secret identities for generations with
such inexplicable fear and caution. When my aunt died a few years ago,
she left instructions barring a priest from presiding over her funeral;
my grandmother did the same."
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