Berkley Center

One of the first things I did upon arriving in Seville was study the map, both in my home stay and as I walked the streets. I wanted to get my bearings on the city, discover a quick route to the University of Seville, and memorize main streets in an attempt to save myself from getting lost. I quickly learned the city’s general layout: the ancient murillo encircles a jumble of short, narrow streets with ever–changing names, while the Guadalivir River and the more modern barrios are situated outside the touristy centro. I found where the barrio of Puerto Osario met el centro, recognized why Triana considers itself unique from the rest of Seville, walked through La Macarena (whose streets, come Semana Santa, will be too crowded to pass), and fell in love with the romanticism of Santa Cruz. Situated between the Alzacar and the catedral, Santa Cruz is full of the stereotypes of Seville and Andalusia: wailing flamenco singers, “morena” Sevillanas dancers, stylish Don Juans, white-washed houses, curving narrow streets, small churches, and outdoor cafes. After a class tour, however, I found out that underneath the touristy exterior of Santa Cruz is a history full of violence and persecution against Seville’s Jewish population.

Before the mid-fourteenth century, the Jewish population of Seville lived in what is now the barrio of Santa Cruz. Under various regimes, they experienced different amounts of religious persecution and political and economic discrimination. Under Muslim rule, “gente del libro”—Jews and Christians—were allowed to practice their religion in private, maintain their social organization and regulate their communities using their own laws. After the Christian “reconquista” of Spain, Seville's Jewish population was segregated, forced to live in the “ghetto” of Santa Cruz, behind large iron gates whose closure signaled the end of Jewish curfew. At the end of the fourteenth century, during an era of war, economic crisis, and widespread plague, the Jews of Santa Cruz were the victims of a pogrom. Blaming Seville's Jews for the city's social, economic, and political problems, the lower sectors of the Catholic Church attacked Santa Cruz, completely destroying the population and infrastructure of the community.

Little of this political and religious violence is evident in Santa Cruz today. The churches, most of which were once synagogues, lack any mention of the area's Jewish history. The clean, whitewashed buildings bear no resemblance to the burned skeletons of houses that existed after the pogrom. The 70-some Jewish families residing in Seville today do not live in Santa Cruz. The only evidence is in an underground parking lot, where a small display shows the remains of a Jewish cemetery.

Learning the history of Santa Cruz did not drastically change my impression of Seville or its people. In an area that has been ruled by two of the major world religions, with a population with diverse ethnic heritage, religious and ethnic conflict are no surprise. In discussions with my host family, my professors, and my Spanish classmates, I have not sensed religious tension or anti-Semitism. I have also not sensed any sort of unwillingness to discuss Spain's history or to recognize it’s Muslim and Jewish influences. Learning the unseen story of Santa Cruz, however, gave me a more nuanced perspective of the city, and showed me the importance of learning beyond guidebooks.