PASS THE MATZAH AND THE TOSTONES!
Matthew Fernandez Konigsberg, JCSC at Penn State University
At my Passover Seder, the Ashkenazi Jews and the Puerto Rican Catholics sit down together. All the traditional foods are spread out on the table, including the egg, which symbolizes renewal, and the bitter herbs, which remind us of our oppression in Egypt. But I’m pretty sure Moses never ate pastelón and tostones—a Puerto Rican meat pie and fried plantains—with his matzah. I joke with my Grandpa Julio about him bringing mofongo—a Puerto Rican delicacy made of mashed fried plantains and pork—next time. When I need to fill my cup with Manischewitz for a toast, I tell him to pass the “vino.”
We take turns reading from the Haggadah. My father makes sure that Grandpa Julio reads the part about Rabbi Jose of Galilee, one of the great Talmudic rabbis. Sticking my Grandpa with the “Latino” rabbi is an old joke in my family, but it puts my father in stitches every time.
Once in a while, things can get a little uncomfortable, like when my Catholic aunt brought a loaf of bread to the house. I used it as an opportunity to remind her why we do not eat leavened bread during Passover. As punishment for his mother’s transgression, I made my little cousin sing the Four Questions in transliterated Hebrew.
I define my Judaism by family, love, and hope for peace. Religious orthodoxy takes second place. Though eating my grandmother’s caramel custard flan after dinner isn’t kosher for Passover, we all do it. We have to honor our own traditions.
Creating cross-cultural and interfaith bonds can be difficult within a family. Often we find even our own do not understand us. Some choose one culture and throw out the other. I choose to honor both sides of my heritage—Latino and Ashkenazi. I do not want to limit myself to one part of my background, one part of myself.
No Refuge
Roman Goldstein, 2nd year, Washington University in St. Louis
In 1976, as my mother was walking home from class at the University of Buenos Aires, someone blew up her apartment. No one was ever arrested. The military police barely investigated.
Looking for a safer place to raise their children, my parents left their family in Argentina and immigrated to the United States in 1984. They are part of an exodus. A study from the University of Tel Aviv shows that the Jewish population in Buenos Aires has declined from 500,000 in 1960 to roughly 235,000 today.
My great-grandparents settled in Argentina for religious freedom and economic opportunity. But life in Argentina soon turned sour. Many Nazi war criminals immigrated after World War II, protected by Juan Peron’s government. And a military junta held power from 1976 to 1983. The junta’s quest to stop “terrorists” led to the disappearance of thousands of innocent citizens, including many Jews. “A terrorist is not just someone with a gun or bomb,” said junta leader General Jorge Rafael Videla. “But also someone who spreads ideas that are contrary to Western and Christian Civilization.”
Now, when I visit Buenos Aires, I hide my Jewish heritage out of fear of anti-Semitism. Nazi graffiti was once spray-painted on my uncle’s house. A 1992 car bomb demolished the Israeli embassy, killing 29. Two years later, another bomb killed 86 more people and destroyed the Israeli-Argentine Mutual Aid Association (AMIA) building.
Many of the Jews who remain in Argentina have cut themselves off from their culture as a means of self-preservation. Special accommodations like kosher grocers, kosher restaurants, and time off for Jewish holidays are increasingly rare. Most Jews treat kosher laws as some mythical ritual. My relatives were astonished when I declined to eat pork, or to mix milk and meat. They were concerned that I was taking my faith too seriously.\t
At my college I feel a strong connection to my Hispanic friends because we share a common history of oppression. My friend Emiliano’s mother was jailed for expressing leftist opinions at odds with the Mexican government. My advisee Mario, who is Honduran, told me how the military in his country conducts searches for “subversive” literature. In contrast, most of my American Jewish friends have known only safety, comfort, and freedom. Unlike my family, their knowledge of oppression comes through scraps of stories passed down from aged relatives, not from the debris of a bombed-out home.
