I’ve been to Madrid twice, both times to perform ritual circumcisions, and both trips overlapped with some of the saddest yearly Jewish commemorations: Tisha B’av and, this year, International Holocaust Remembrance Day. The timing gave both visits a somewhat somber tone.
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On my outbound journey last week, I was stopped by Israeli security to check the contents of my bag. My Brit Milah tools often raise questions. “I’m a mohel,” I informed the security personnel, although the additional information seemed to have little effect.
It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these inspections. I developed a system through experience that usually averts complications - don’t try to hide them, take the tool boxes out so they’re visible on the conveyor belt.
“They can’t be opened because they’re sterilized,” I warned the guard who paced, frantically searching for his superior.
When the manager arrived, I began to show him cell phone images to ensure none of the contents were sharp. “I don’t need that,” he said with a smile. “What’s the purpose of your trip?” I explained that two families needed brises in Spain.
I wondered if this was the beginning of a longer interrogation. I was subject to such scrutiny once in Bulgaria when purchasing a last-minute return ticket. Airline security didn’t see a traveler; they saw a red flag.
However, on my way to Madrid, the conversation took a different turn. “What an amazing mitzvah you’re doing!” he exclaimed. I thanked him, even though I was still unsure where all this was headed.
“Where were you born?” he continued. “Philadelphia,” I told him. “It’s amazing to see people like you, who’ve chosen to live in Israel. Best of luck,” he said as he handed me my tools. I finally exhaled, knowing I was on my way.
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It felt strange being cheered on while headed toward a political lion’s den hostile to the Jewish State. This past September, diplomatic tension reached a surreal fever pitch when Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez, while announcing a suite of sanctions against Israel, lamented that his country lacked the nuclear leverage necessary to halt the offensive in Gaza. “Spain, as you know, doesn’t have nuclear bombs,” he said. The retort from Jerusalem was swift: “Apparently the Spanish Inquisition, the expulsion of the Jews of Spain, and the systematic mass murder of Jews in the Holocaust are not enough for Sánchez.”
There was a profound irony in the timing. While some European leaders speak of Israel as a problem that needs solving, others are still choosing to bind their fate with Am Yisrael. Both of these brises were for conversion. Since neither was bound to the traditional eighth day, a troubling question arose: Was International Holocaust Remembrance Day an appropriate time for such an occasion? I once asked a colleague a similar question regarding Yom Hashoah. His response was unwavering: “I can’t think of a better day to make another Jew.”
As beautiful as the Spain brises were, they were held in private residences. It gave them a subdued feeling, as if being hidden from public view. It was much like the warning I received from close friends in the area. “Do you have a hat?” the couple checked as I left their home. “It’s one of the most frustrating parts of living here, but it’s necessary.” Although in my heart I only donned the hat for rain protection, it still made me feel like a hiding Jew.
Later, when speaking to the hotel concierge, I realized I had taken the hat off. “Does he know I’m Jewish? Does he care?” I wondered.
“You’re on the fifth floor,” he instructed me.
“Thanks,” I replied.
He leaned in with a smile. “Sababa.”
It was the most impactful word of my trip. This tiny interaction didn’t repair the Spanish government’s hostility, but it shattered the isolation. It was a reminder that even in the most unfriendly places, there are individuals who wish to bridge the gap - even if their leadership is intent on widening it.
No matter how unjustly countries treat Israel and their local Jewish populations, we traveling mohalim must make the journey to ensure our most sacred tradition continues, even on the hardest days, even to the coldest locations.
As I headed to the airport, Madrid’s rare January snow - the first signs of Storm Kristin - began to fall. I was able to escape just before the worst of the blizzard hit, shutting down the city behind me.
Tractate Yoma describes how, during the Temple period, a crimson thread was used in the Yom Kippur service. If it turned white like snow, it was a sign that the nation’s sins were forgiven. The snowfall in Spain did not serve this ancient purpose; there’s still a long way to go. But I pray that it’s an indication of things changing - that all of Europe will finally learn from its past and embrace the Jewish community, both at home and abroad, so we can soon see a better day.
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