Ancestor’s Past: the Truth, the Ugly, the Brave

Escaping persecution was our salvation, yet, again we were torn down in our new land, why?

When my ancestors came to the Americas, back in the 1800's from Spain and Portugal, they heard all forms of racial and ethnic slurs. They were told to return to their “home” country.

After nearly 230 years, they still hear the same or similar sneers, the same hatred, the same misjudgments, and misconceptions. Comments like: “go back to where you came from”, “why did you come here?”, “get out of here, go back to your own country” and “learn to speak the language!”, are well known to my father’s family. As they are native to the U.S. since the early 1800's, they can speak English better than the Anglo-Saxon Americans who insult them.

My ancestors were here before the piece of land they owned — as cattle ranchers and mine owners — was taken by the U.S.A. Yes, at the time, Arizona used to be part of Mexico — the Spanish Empire (until the 1880's).

They were “allowed” to stay on their land, now belonging to the U.S. Government, in return for their mine as payment. They became miners while their cattle were taken and given to Texas.

You see, they were a well-to-do family in their home countries, Spain and Portugal… But once they came here to escape persecution… They were persecuted again by the neighboring country, the United States of America.

They lost their wealth, became poor, struggled.

Nowadays, they regained their mine and their land (150 acres). But the U.S. government tore everything away.

The lush grassland is desert. No longer able to bear anything.

The mine was robbed; they took everything, all the Copper, all the gems and semi-precious stones…all there was left was silica.

My heart breaks for my ancestors, the torment, the abuse, the persecution as the Jewish coming from Catholic countries, like Spain and Portugal, can ever feel. To escape death by default, because they were simply, different, in major aspects — how they looked, how they sounded, what they wore, who they knew, their “foreign” practices, and traditions.

My great-great-grandmother died suddenly after all this happened to her family (she was living on the U.S. side, technically at the time, in New Mexico).

When she got the news that her grandchildren’s hard-earned wealth was taken, just like it happened to her great-grandparents back in the 1500’s in Portugal, during the Inquisition, she lost hope in humanity.

The story of colonization and terror was just going to repeat; she felt like her family would never be safe and could just be.

She was the last true Jewish root in our family. We lost part of ourselves when she departed from this world. Mainly because her daughter’s husband, my great-grandfather (who grew up in a confusing abusive home), decided to join the Catholic church and forced my great-grandmother to convert, or he was going to leave her and their five children. She conceded and converted, losing her Jewish identity, the only connection left to her roots, to her ancestral family and home.

In her diary she says:

“A woman who is not loved or valued by her husband is the same as any indentured servant, and I am trapped.

My children will never know the family traditions, the foods, the singing, the prayers of my ancestors. They will never know their Jewish roots; they will never feel the spirit, the love, the rich history and struggles of our ancestors. I hope I can at least teach them our values. Perseverance, self-love and forgiveness (especially what I have learned from my mother), a promise to always protect and be kind to everyone, no matter how much it hurts, when we are mistreated and persecuted anywhere we go.

I will write down this prayer, so one day my eldest will have this diary, so she may know some part of me that she could not have known any other way. My heart breaks a little with each passing day, my mother is gone, but I hold her here in my mind, she is and will always be a part of me and I will always be a part of my children, so this will serve as their everlasting connection to their heritage, their ancestors, my mother. תנוח על משכבך בשלום” [translation: “rest in peace”]

Prayer of Healing:

Mi Shebeirach avoteinu v’imoteinu, Avraham, Yitzchak v’Yaakov, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel v’Lei-ah, hu y’vareich et hacholim [Ramon]. HaKadosh Baruch Hu yimalei rachamim aleihem, l’hachalimam ul’rapotam ul’hachazikam, v’yishlach lahem m’heirah r’fuah, r’fuah shleimah min hashamayim, r’fuat hanefesh ur’fuat haguf, hashta baagala uviz’man kariv. V’nomar: Amen.

Translation:

May the one who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, bless and heal those who are ill [her son was ill at the time, my grand-uncle Ramon]. May the Blessed Holy One be filled with compassion for their health to be restored and their strength to be revived. May God swiftly send them a complete renewal of body and spirit, and let us say, Amen.

The Anglo-Saxon descendants of America will never really be able to relate to this experience. No one persecuted them as hard as they did my ancestors; nobody ever dared to yell racial slurs at them.

The Anglo-Saxon descendants who now shout at my family and me, “go back to your own country”, blend in with the first colonizers’ racial identity. White, they will never know or feel the level of pain, persecution, injustice we have experienced, and still experiencing today!

Fast forward, one hundred years later; economically speaking, we are fine. When I read my great-great-grandmother’s journals and my great-grandmother’s diaries and her genealogy charts, I can see our story. The happy times, our struggles, our lost ones, and the new souls we bring into this world.

I continue that legacy; I will continue our genealogy tree. I write, every day since I learned how to read and write. It is my duty as in the Jewish tradition, the mother keeps track of the genealogy charts, and the father is to help add new information and keep track of them for accuracy.

My heart aches for this country, as it still does for my own native land, where I was born, Brazil. I see the torment, the loss, the hate, the anguish. I feel it. All of it is part of me, and I am a part of it. I am a local of Brasilia, Brazil, and live and am a local of Arizona, United States.

I am a daughter of immigrants from Europe, of immigrants from South America. I am a mother of three beautiful and intelligent little girls, for whom I must carry on the legacy and courage of my ancestors.

My shoulders feel heavy; they are tired. However, we must continue our fight for equality, justice, and peace! If not for our children, our future, then what for?

Thank you to Alice Toneatto for helping me find my voice in this piece. Grazie mille!

If you do not know how to help get us to a brighter future, start small, and locally. There are all forms and differing levels of activism. Join us, join our collective fight for what is right, for the truth: http:///www.represent.us, https://blacklivesmatter.com/, https://colorofchange.org/, http://www.startguide.org/orgs/orgs06.html

-HKB

(Mother, teacher, avid reader of everything, activist, and occasional writer — who are you?)