The Conversation in Spain and Spiritual Karma
Last summer, my husband, our children, and I spent time in Spain during a Mediterranean cruise. Spain is beautiful. The architecture is breathtaking. The food is wonderful. The people we met were, for the most part, warm and welcoming.
But one conversation has stayed with me ever since.
It started over something completely trivial.
Right before Shabbat, I noticed my nail polish had chipped. It was one of those very “girl” moments. I didn’t want to board the ship with chipped nails, so I wandered through town looking for a salon.
I didn’t realize it was a national holiday. Nearly everything was closed.
Eventually, I found one small salon that happened to be open.
I didn’t speak Spanish well enough to explain what I needed, and the woman sitting next to me kindly translated. We started talking. She was lovely. We chatted about life, about the city, and eventually she asked what I did for work.
“I organize communities and work in politics,” I told her.
The conversation flowed naturally until I mentioned something that had been on my mind.
“My sons are nervous about wearing kippot here because we’re Jewish.”
Something shifted.
She paused before saying, “Well… we have a very interesting history here. At one point we asked all the Jews to leave.”
I smiled politely and asked, “Asked… or forced?”
Because history is rooted in truth, not in feelings.
Spain’s Jewish history is not simply one of departure. It is also one of expulsions, persecution, violence, forced conversions, and families whose lives were forever altered. That history still echoes through the Sephardic Jewish world today.
The conversation became uncomfortable.
Then it turned to Israel.
“I don’t like Israel,” she said.
I asked a simple question.
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“Would you ever go?”
“No.”
“So how can you be so certain about a country you’ve never visited?”
She didn’t answer.
She simply turned back toward the mirror, and our conversation ended.
I left thinking about something much bigger than politics.
How often do we inherit opinions instead of forming them?
How much of what we believe comes from firsthand experience, and how much comes from narratives we’ve absorbed over decades or even centuries?
Throughout our time in Spain, I noticed countless signs and slogans about Gaza. Thousands of miles from the Middle East, the conflict seemed ever-present in public spaces.
At the same time, on Friday night, our family walked to a Chabad House for Shabbat dinner.
Outside stood an armed security officer protecting the entrance.
Not because diplomats were inside.
Not because government officials were visiting.
Because Jewish families were gathering to eat challah, sing Shabbat songs, and spend an evening together.
That image has never left me.
It raises a difficult question.
What does it say about a society when ordinary Jews require armed protection simply to celebrate their faith?
History doesn’t disappear because we stop talking about it.
It lingers in culture, in assumptions, in education, and sometimes in prejudices that people don’t even recognize they carry.
Recently, Spain has also faced significant public debate over migration and border security. People across Europe are asking difficult questions about immigration, integration, national identity, and public safety. Those are conversations every democracy has to navigate thoughtfully and responsibly.
As I watch those debates unfold, I can’t help but wonder whether societies eventually have to confront the consequences of the stories they tell themselves, about history, about identity, and about one another.
My conversation in that nail salon wasn’t really about Israel. It wasn’t even about Spain.
It was about the danger of believing deeply held convictions without ever being willing to test them against reality.
Perhaps that’s the lesson worth remembering.
The antidote to inherited prejudice isn’t louder slogans.
It’s curiosity.It’s conversation.
And sometimes, it’s having the courage to visit a place before deciding what you think about it.