The author celebrating the acquisition of her Portuguese citizenship in Portugal's Douro Valley.

By Orly Benaroch Light

My mother had a deep love for all things Spanish and was determined to pass that passion on to her children. Every morning at 5 a.m., as she prepared for work, her cassette player filled our home with the music of Julio Iglesias, Enrico Macias, and Salvatore Adamo. From a young age, it was clear that embracing this music was not just encouraged—it was expected.

My parents were born in Morocco. Like many Moroccan Jews, they believed they descended from Spain’s exiled Jews—a vast Sephardic diaspora stretching from China to India to the American West. The diaspora began in 1492 with the Edict of Expulsion, when Spain gave its Jewish population three options: convert to Catholicism, leave, or face death. Portugal followed suit in 1497.

“Sephardic” means Spanish, referring to the Jews historically living in the Iberian Peninsula (modern-day Spain and Portugal) and their descendants. French culture also deeply influenced my parents, as Morocco was a French protectorate from 1911 to 1956. French was my first language, and it was what we spoke at home. Yet my mom’s Judeo-Spanish roots ran deeper. Music was a way to reassert her Sephardic heritage.

In 2015, Spain and Portugal took a historic step, inviting descendants of Sephardic Jews – expelled more than 500 years earlier – to obtain citizenship. This served as a rare acknowledgment of historical wrongs, an attempt to make amends for one of the darkest chapters in their history.

I hired an immigration attorney in Madrid to start the process for my children and me. Unfortunately, Spain closed its repatriation window before we could proceed. Portugal, however, was still accepting new applications so our case was transferred to an attorney in Porto, who began the process. We only needed proof of Sephardic ancestry and a connection to a Sephardic community.

In October 2024, our journey culminated at an immigration office in Coimbra, Portugal. We signed documents, took photos, got fingerprinted, and received our Portuguese citizenship cards and passports. Reclaiming something stolen centuries ago was profound—a symbolic return for ancestors expelled without documents. Yet the weight of history lingered.

Portugal and Spain carry the burden of centuries of oppression, persecution, and massacres of Jews. Spanish Jews who fled to Portugal after expulsion often faced harsher conditions, including enslavement. In one devastating act, 2,000 Jewish children were exiled to the remote island of São Tomé, situated on the Equator in the Gulf of Guinea, where many perished from hunger and neglect.

As the adage goes, those who forget history are destined to repeat it.

Today, antisemitism persists. Since Hamas attacked southern Israel on October 7, 2023, antisemitic incidents have surged globally. Propagandists once again use dehumanization, demonization, and stereotypes to justify violence against Jews. Antisemitism is not a reaction to isolated events; it’s a 2,000-year-old epidemic.

I was the first person in my family to visit Spain in 1986 on my honeymoon. We traveled from Madrid to Toledo – often called the “Sephardic Jerusalem” – then to Alhambra in Granada, where Ferdinand and Isabella signed the edict of expulsion. For me, Spain was not love at first sight. It was just another country haunted by my ancestors’ trauma.

In 1956, my parents fled Morocco for Israel by boat in the dead of night with nothing but the clothes on their backs to escape rising antisemitism. In 1967, after my father returned from serving in the Six-Day War, he quickly arranged for us to leave Israel and start anew in Canada. His greatest wish was for his children to grow up free from the horrors of violence and war, in a place where we could feel truly safe.

When you are part of a generation born to a diasporic people or culture, the grief of a lost homeland is woven into our traditions and stories.

After decades of avoidance, my Portuguese citizenship gave me a reason to return. While visiting Algarve, just two hours from Seville, Spain, I decided it was time to confront the past.

Wandering through Seville’s Santa Cruz district – its former Jewish quarter – I felt both awe and sorrow. The Great Synagogue converted to the Santa Maria la Blanca church after 1391 but still bore traces of its Sephardic origins. Nearby, a mikvah (ritual bath) had become a wine cellar. Beneath numerous restaurants, homes, and the Hotel Las Casas de la Juderia (“Hotel of the Jewish Quarter houses”), lay the network of underground tunnels that once connected the hotel to 27 houses and provided Jews an escape during Christian attacks. It’s a chilling reminder of the tunnels Hamas constructed in Gaza, now being used to hold over 100 Israeli hostages since the war began.

These remnants of resilience served as a powerful testament to the strength Sephardic Jews needed to endure through the ages. Standing in the Plaza de Santa Maria la Blanca, I envisioned the vibrant lives of Jewish merchants, artists, rabbis, scholars, philosophers, bankers, and astronomers who once thrived there. In medicine, which held much prestige, it was rare for a medieval dignitary to be without a trusted Jewish doctor. Despite centuries of persecution and overcoming unimaginable odds, Jewish communities have endured and prospered, leaving an indelible mark on history.

I’m a liberal feminist advocate and have marched across the United States and other countries for women’s rights, peace, and justice. After the October 7, 2023, Hamas terror attack on civilians, I noticed the troubling silence from many international humanitarian organizations. Few raised their voices to defend the victims, and no demonstrations were held in their name or memory.

I felt abandoned and betrayed by the women’s organizations I had stood alongside—groups that claimed to fight against gender-based violence, and for peace, and justice. Their silence revealed a harsh truth: antisemitism is deeply embedded even within women’s and human rights organizations and their communities.

A renewed sense of identity and purpose overcame me after visiting Seville’s Jewish quarter. I am a proud Jew and no longer feel the need to hide my heritage. When people used to ask me what the name Orly meant, I’d brush it off with a joke as Orly airport, one of two international airports serving Paris, France. But now, when asked, I confidently share that Orly means “my light” in Hebrew. We can’t control all the circumstances we face, but we can control the light we put forth.

History has taught me to prepare for all eventualities. With multiple citizenships, I am ready to leave, if necessary, but remain committed to fighting discrimination and standing up for human rights wherever I am.

Reversing the evils of more than 500 years may take centuries of education, reflection, and concerted effort. Spain and Portugal’s 2015 apology and citizenship laws represent a significant step toward restorative justice, offering a path to healing and reconciliation.  Undoing centuries of deep-rooted harm requires education, advocacy, and collective commitment to change. If we work hard to dismantle hate wherever it exists, perhaps more nations will one day echo their powerful declaration: “Bem Vindos, Judeus!” (Welcome, Jews!).

Orly Benaroch Light is the founder and CEO Mid-Life+ Women and MCE Conferences. She worked for many years in the travel and hospitality industry. She is an activist defending women's rights and promoting peace. She is a writer and mom.