The “Vinahafochu” of Jewish Safety

When I started my Portuguese passport process through Touti Ashbel, it felt simple — a small administrative way to reconnect to a piece of Sephardic history my family never fully spoke about. I wasn’t thinking about safety, politics, or moving anywhere.

But in one of our early conversations, they mentioned something that stuck with me:

More Jews than ever are applying for passports
to countries that once persecuted their families.

Portugal.
Poland.
Spain.
Italy.

It’s a real “vinahafochu” — and it’s not even Purim.

Because if you look around the Jewish world today, it’s hard not to notice the reversal:

Countries like the U.S., the U.K., and France — where Jews felt safe for decades — suddenly feel unstable or unpredictable.

Meanwhile, countries like Portugal and even Poland, places that carry deep scars in Jewish memory, are statistically among the calmest, lowest-crime environments in Europe.

It doesn’t make them “better.”
And it definitely doesn’t make them a substitute for Israel.
Israel remains home — emotionally, spiritually, historically.

But here’s the quiet truth people rarely admit out loud:

Most Jews aren’t talking about moving.
They’re talking about having something.

A foothold.
A document.
A symbolic key to the world,
“just in case.”

For some, Portugal becomes part of that discussion because it’s calm, it’s rebuilding — and yes, for younger Jews who can’t afford to buy in Israel right now, it’s simply more attainable. Not instead of Israel. Not in competition with it.
Just a way to own some piece of land in their lifetime.

Poland appears in the same conversation — not because Jews want to return there, but because history has flipped itself in a way our ancestors could never have imagined.

Beginning my passport process didn’t make me want to live anywhere else.
But it opened my eyes to a reality many Jews — in Israel and abroad — are navigating quietly:

The places we once trusted feel shaky,
and the places we fled now feel strangely calm.
A modern vinahafochu.

And in that upside-down world, Jews are once again doing what we’ve always done:
seeking stability, keeping options open, and finding continuity where history once told us we had none.

This isn’t a story about Portugal or Poland becoming new Jewish centers.
It’s a story about the moment we’re living in —
one where identity, memory, and practicality collide,
and Jews everywhere are asking the oldest question we know:

Where do we feel safe — and what do we hold onto just in case?