Cuartro Cuerpos, Four Bodies.
“Check in with your bodies: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual,” the online yoga instructor said.
Pain radiated down my legs. Sciatica. My mental body divided our journey into five parts, checking bus routes and times. Arriving in Cádiz on the train, my emotional body was delighted. My spiritual body? I did not know.
Cádiz juts into the Atlantic Ocean. Though it is a peninsula, there is water in four directions. Tourist material compared the sea promenade to Havana’s Malecón. Both curve the coast, providing enchanting views of land and sea. In both cities they are designated places for kissing and selfie poses. The kissers are not just lovers but also friends, parents, and grandparents; a place to express love. We walked the coast daily. One evening, flamenco singers and guitarists were performing at a bar on the beach. We watched the waves dance to the music.We hung our laundry on the roof while watching the action on the main plaza and port. We danced with clothespins in hand, to band music in the plaza below us, while a group of birds flew circles around the Diario de Cádiz building. Cádiz was a feast for my emotional body.
Our physical bodies were satiated at the ancient Mercado Central, with its myriad produce, seafood, and cheese stands. We shopped there every day, filling our bags with persimmons and shrimp, artichokes, and pomegranates. In Spain, we were not in love with the restaurant cuisine. We did, however, find one restaurant that made us swoon. We had fresh tuna cooked with slices of goat cheese and a sauce that was probably just butter and molasses, and a salad served in a pineapple with shrimp, lettuce, hearts of palm, and smoked salmon.
The restaurant was on a plaza that was a forest of planted trees. A man approached our table and asked us to buy his bracelets. He and Dave exchanged stories. He was from Mali. The rest of his family was on the Mexico border trying to get into the US, but they didn’t have papers. He wanted to join them. There are no jobs in Spain, and you can’t make a living selling beaded bracelets. He gave us each a bracelet. We gave him euros. The beads reminded us that there are no borders in the struggle for immigrant rights.
The conversation with the man from Mali reminded us how few meaningful social interactions we were having. Mostly, we resorted to what parents of toddlers call parallel play. At the city library, we had no conversations but felt communion with others who were also reading and writing.
Music feeds the emotional and spiritual bodies, especially for David. Cadiz streets reverberated with electrified guitarras. We contributed our coins to their cases, awed by plaintive voices. Often, they had a recorded percussive clapping track to accompany strummers and singers. One day, we walked past a tiny bar, big enough for ten standing up. Inside were men shoulder to shoulder surrounding a guitarist, voices lifted in harmony. Peaking in the doorway, I fell in love with all of them. So did Dave. He looked like a little boy trying to figure out how to join the cool group.“Go on in,” I said.
“But I don’t know the words,” he said. Instead, we sat on the church steps next door and listened.
When we first walked into our Cádiz apartment, David had looked around expectantly. “Somehow I thought when we got to Spain I would have a guitar to play.” Later at the plaza in front of the Mercado Central, we perused the used goods spread on the ground, looking for a facsimile of a menorah. We found none. But there was a man selling guitars; Dave got the cheapest one: 25 euros. He began working on chords for El Quinto Regimiento, a song from the 1936-9 Spanish Civil War.
We went to a free concert at the library, a musical homage to six books. The only one I had read (or heard of) was Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. The others were famous Spanish poets and novelists. A man read excerpts, while three musicians: a guitarist, contrabass player, and alto saxophonist played original compositions. The event took place in the children’s library room, with a ceiling 90 feet high.
Gaza Protest on the International Day for Human Rights
We saw a leaflet plastered on a wall, about a protest for justice in Gaza, to take place on December 10, to mark the International Day for Human Rights. We went in search of posterboard and markers to make a sign to carry. I crafted a message about being a Jew for Justice. On December 9, we rehearsed taking a walk to find the Plaza where the protest would take place. Everything was nearby in Cádiz, but still, we got lost every day. The phone maps were useless as they could not tell where we were on these tiny, ancient paths. Getting lost was usually a pleasure, but in this case, we wanted to make it to the rally, so we practiced.
On the 10th, we got to the site early. Palestinian keffiyehs let us know that a few people had already gathered. The crowd looked so familiar and yet so foreign. They greeted each other in familiar ways, a community of activists who have been doing this for a long time. That felt like home. Yet no one recognized or greeted us, reminding us we were strangers. I brought my poster but never unfurled it. I think we were the only extranjeros there. I am sure I was the only Jew. There is no Jewish community in Cádiz, no AIPAC, and no Jewish Voice for Peace. There was a small contingent of Muslims, Arab and African. The University was not in session. Though there were some young people with strollers, the vast majority were Spaniards in my age cohort, a coalition of three groups who came together.
We marched slowly through the crowded, narrow streets of old Cádiz, chanting, in Spanish, “It’s not a war, it’s a genocide,” and “Israel bombs with European arms,” and a message to Israelis: “You protested Netanyahu months ago, where are you now?”
At the Municipal Building (a few steps from our apartment), the march ended in a rally in the main plaza. There were a few speeches, all quite moderate, though sending a strong message that Israel was intent on genocide and the world needs to stop it. One speaker talked more generally about human rights in Spain, particularly the rights of immigrants. A four-year-old Palestinian child danced in the space our circle made, bringing smiles to everyone. The rally ended promptly, and everyone dispersed.
David suggested we follow some who were gathering at a lunch spot, and so we did, getting a table between two groups who still had their protest stickers on—as if people would talk to us if we just sat there. They did not. This only made me feel lonelier. I was already overcome by a cocktail of emotions that Dave did not share. When we returned to our apartment, I felt clammy and cold, though the room was warm. I crawled under the covers for the rest of the afternoon. My physical body was talking to the other three, but I’m not sure they were listening.
Gaza protest Cadiz December 2023
Feeding the Spiritual Body
On December 12, we watched a liberation theology mass at the famous Sagrada Familia Cathedral in Barcelona, on Spain’s public TV. The music was magnificent and ethnically diverse, with Latin American flutes combined with classical music, ending with a political song: a rousing call to action. Anti-war and pro-refugee messages were the focus. Ukrainian refugees and a nun who runs a hospital for war refugees spoke. The solo singer made me weep. The Pope sent a video, “There are no winners in war except arms manufacturers,” he said. Amazing how comforting it is to have a person in a powerful position say what all conscious humanity knows: the emperors are indeed naked. My spiritual body was fed by music and words of truth in this religious context. It was equally satiated by witnessing righteous struggles of a secular nature.
In Sevilla, where we spent a day on our way from Portugal to Cadiz, we witnessed a protest of workers in front of a majestic post office. It was not a strike, but an action of support for post offices in danger of being privatized. While Dave went inside to send a package, I stood outside taking photos, trying to understand their chants. In Cádiz, home healthcare workers protested at the municipal building a couple of times a week, demanding public support for their industry and dignified wages and working conditions. They wore white coats and blew deafening whistles. The signs they posted on the building were not taken down. Unfortunately, my ear registered their whistles as acute pain, so I took their photos, nodded my solidarity, and then removed myself from their vicinity for the duration of their protests. Given the high unemployment rate, it is especially admirable to see organized workers making demands in Spain. The ruling Socialist Party promised to decrease the workweek from 40 hours to 37.5 hours in 2025. Hopefully, that will lessen unemployment.
In Madrid, I would pick up a book on Jewish Liberation Theology, translated from English to Spanish, at the Casa Arabe bookstore. It spoke directly to what is happening in Gaza today— the abuse of religion to justify mass violence and perpetuate inequality. The Author, Marc Ellis, explained that liberation theology in any faith is concerned about inequality today, instead of the hereafter. It always sides with the have-nots. The book came out in 1989. The latest edition was 2004, before the rise of Jewish Voice for Peace, IfNotNow, and Global Jews for Palestine, who speak a theology of liberation, in their fight against Israeli genocide in Gaza.
We were in Madrid on January 20 and joined tens of thousands of Spaniards and millions across the world in a day of protest for Palestinians. To be a tiny part of something huge, to walk with others, on the side of justice, that is what my spiritual body wants.