Fiddler on the Roof in Nicaragua

By Steve Merritt

Nicaragua is a poor place with problematic politics where it is hard enough to survive, let alone be a Jew. Life is a balancing act. And yet, the people I met there on my visit in July were determined to hold onto their Jewish identity and build community.

I connected with the Nicaraguan Jewish community through Kulanu (kulanu.org), an organization whose mission is to “support isolated, emerging, and returning Jewish communities around the globe.”

I am inspired by photographs from 33 communities in Africa, Asia, Europe, and Latin America that Kulanu stays in touch with. Being Jewish in these places is not easy. And they are a reminder that the Jewish people are more than just the white, Ashkenazi Jews we Americans often imagine.

During my visit to the Central American country of Nicaragua, I was able to deliver almost 100 pounds of Jewish books and ritual objects to two fledgling Jewish groups.

I received generous support for this project from the Jewish Federation of Greater Ann Arbor, Beth Israel Congregation, and a handful of donors from the Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation.

My Nicaragua connection

The visit brought together two longtime interests of mine: Jewish values and community and Latin America. My interest in Judaism has focused on fostering community and the sense that we really are “our brothers’ keepers.” I’ve created numerous programs in the Jewish community and served on several boards. My interest in Latin America dates from when I began studying Spanish in 2000. Since then, I have traveled to Latin America many times to study, volunteer, and immerse myself in the culture. In the U.S., I worked eight years as a Spanish interpreter. During this trip, my two worlds came together.

My first exposure to Nicaragua was in 2011, when I went for a short Peace Corps-like experience and ended up founding a literacy nonprofit, CREA (creanicaragua.org), with expat friends. When CREA scheduled meetings in Nicaragua this summer, I decided to use the opportunity to visit the Jewish community there.

Setting the scene

At its peak in 1972, Nicaragua’s Jewish community was estimated at 250, including many Jews who came from Europe before and after World War II. They were mostly farmers, manufacturers, and retailers, and even owned the two largest department stores in the capital of Managua.

The Jews of Nicaragua prospered. Their synagogue, the Congregacion Israelita de Nicaragua, served as a social center, and they had both B’nai B’rith and WIZO (Women’s International Zionist Organization) chapters. Their children attended the private American Nicaraguan School and were sent to Miami for the summer. But then things went awry.

In 1972, an earthquake decimated 90% of Managua. This was followed by the Sandinista’s socialist revolution in 1979, which overthrew three generations of dictatorship by the Somoza family.

The Jews faced hostility, perhaps because of resentment of their economic success, perhaps because the community was linked to Israeli arms sales to the dictatorship. Many fled. Property was seized. Their synagogue was firebombed and later expropriated.

At the low point, there may have been fewer than a dozen Jews left in Nicaragua. Some returned after the Sandinistas lost the election in 1990. They were later joined by about 140 converts, including 114 converted by rabbis sent by Kulanu in 2017. Many converts claimed Jewish ancestry. Some Jewish American retirees joined the mix, attracted by the tropical climate and low cost of living.

As I planned my visit, I learned they had recently suffered a major setback. The congregation used to meet in the hotel owned by its president, Kurt Preiss. But when Preiss died in 2022, unbeknownst to the congregation, his widow sold all the Jewish items, including their Torah, to pay off his medical bills.

In addition to losing Preiss’ financial support, the synagogue had its legal status revoked in August 2024.

It was into this scene that I arrived on July 30 with two suitcases. Packed among my clothes were 11 siddurs, a Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law), two Five Books of Moses, two Books of Psalms, a Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), 21 mezuzahs, 17 tallits, 45 yarmulkas, seven seder plates, and an assortment of candlesticks, kiddush cups, menorahs, and candles. And a shofar!

Going through Nicaraguan customs, I was nervous. Images flashed through my mind of the Jews who smuggled Judaica into the Soviet Union in the 1980s.

The young customs agent pawed through the suitcases. “They’re all donations,” I said. “Religious items.” He glanced over at a woman, perhaps his supervisor. She looked at the Hebrew books he held in his hands, then away. Perhaps not worth the trouble of filling out the paperwork? I stuffed everything back into my suitcases and walked away, relieved.

Meeting the Nicaraguan Jews

One of the two groups I met with is led by a couple in their late 40s, Keren Yocheved, and her husband Meir. Sensitive to the political situation, they requested that I use only their Hebrew first names in this article. At first, they seemed cautious, but as we talked, they slowly opened up.

Meir wore a black yarmulka and a Star of David on a chain around his neck. I wondered how it was for him to wear that identity so openly.

They seemed well-integrated in Nicaraguan society. Keren is a doctor and received several medical calls while we were together. Meir has a degree in economics and works in computer systems support.

They have been married 26 years and had a Jewish wedding in 2015, which is common after couples formally convert to Judaism.

They have a daughter, Rivka Sarai, who will graduate from medical school soon. She traveled to Israel in 2017 to participate in the Maccabi Games. Their son Israel Meir is in high school and also wants to pursue medicine.

Meir has studied Talmud daily for many years through the online Daf Yomi program. In 2017, he traveled to Israel for an interfaith gathering. He found the experience “profoundly transformative” because it allowed him to reconnect with his roots.

Their group has about 30 members, and they dream of having their own Torah and a place to pray and celebrate together.

In one of the most striking moments of the visit, Meir walked into a courtyard with the shofar that had been sent by Beth Israel. Incongruously, surrounded by dense jungle, he began to blow the shofar … and was immediately answered by a chorus of a dozen dogs! Meir had learned to play the shofar from YouTube.

Not long after our visit, Keren wrote to tell me that their group had met. They adopted the name Beit Shalom. Because it is a “mixed group,” meaning they follow various traditions, they decided that every member could practice in a way that felt comfortable. They also agreed to celebrate Rosh Hashanah together.

They were very appreciative of the donated items, which can be difficult to acquire there.

In a subsequent thank-you letter to donors, Keren said, “For our community, these resources are much more than objects: they are symbols of connection, identity, hope, and continuity.”

I met next with Alfonso Fried, a retired lawyer in his sixties. He was friendly and warm. His wife Jeaneth was shy. Chaim, as he likes to be called, is proud of his Jewish heritage, and he did not hesitate to have his full name appear in an article.

Jeaneth converted through Kulanu, and this couple also had a Jewish wedding. Chaim’s son Siegfried converted with Kulanu in New York before traveling on to Israel in 2017 for the Maccabi Games.

Since the Congregacion Israelita synagogue closed, Chaim and his wife have practiced their Judaism mostly at home. Though not members, they are on friendly terms with four groups, totaling about 90 members, whose observance ranges from Conservative to ultra-Orthodox. They are not in contact with a fifth Jewish group.

Chaim showed me photos of the Jewish cemetery in Managua, which has 50 Jewish graves. “My father Adolfo Fried, a Hungarian Jew who survived the Holocaust, is buried there.”

Chaim likes to study colonial and Jewish history.

“The period with the most organized Jewish presence here was between the ’50s and ’70s,” he said. Of the 250 Jewish families, he estimates that only about 25–30 people remain. They can be identified by their Eastern European surnames.

The history of the Sephardic Jews is more complex, he said. They arrived at the beginning of the Spanish Colonial period in the 1500s and were unable to openly follow Jewish practices, much less build a synagogue or Jewish cemetery. Their Spanish surnames are less identifiable as Jewish. Though it cannot be proved scientifically, Chaim believes over half of the Nicaraguan population probably has some Sephardic Jewish blood.

Final thoughts

I was struck by how different Nicaraguan Jews are from American Jews. A high percentage of American Jews consider themselves Jewish mainly by ancestry or culture but don’t engage in religious practices or institutions. In contrast, the interest of these couples in Judaism had a palpable intensity. This was something they really wanted. It made me think of the Jews throughout history who risked death for their faith.

Shortly before Keren and Meir left, I commented that their situation reminded me of the play The Fiddler on the Roof, with which they were familiar. And they agreed, life for Jews in Nicaragua can be precarious.

And that is what impressed me most from my visit with these Nicaraguan Jews: their strong desire, despite the challenges and risks, to hold onto their Jewish identity and community. And their sincere appreciation of our support.