A Surprise Treat in Tomar: When History Finds You

By Michael L Weiss | Besorah: Good News from the Journey

There’s a saying I’ve heard often in my life—G-d moves in mysterious ways. Those words never felt more alive. This was during our journey from Lisbon to the Six Senses in the Douro Valley, Portugal.

First a little recap. When we landed in Lisbon, I was still shedding the layers of routine. This often happens when travel begins. A driver had been arranged to take us from the airport to our hotel in the Bairro Alto. The van was sleek and quiet—an electric Mercedes—and our driver, Paulo, introduced himself with an easy warmth.

As we rode through the tree-lined boulevards of Lisbon, our guide made introductions. When Paulo heard our family name, he paused and asked gently, “Are you Ashkenazim?” Given the tensions in the Middle East, and the troubling resurgence of antisemitism worldwide, I must admit—my guard instinctively went up. I’ve spent too many years navigating complex environments not to take such questions seriously.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Paulo smiled and shared that his own mother was of German Jewish origin. “I too am Ashkenazim,” he repeated. This time, he acknowledged kinship. He said aloud in a sincere and respectful voice, “welcome home, to a country of your forefathers”. And just like that, the chill lifted. Over the next few days, Paulo revealed himself not just as a driver. He was a storyteller and teacher. He was rich in knowledge of Portuguese history. He was deeply respectful of its Jewish chapters.

On our third day, we were traveling from Lisbon to Six Senses in the Douro Valley. Paulo informed us that he’d need to stop. He needed to recharge the vehicle. “Don’t worry,” he said with a glint in his eye, “I have a surprise for you. You’ll like it.”

I expected a country restaurant—some roasted piri-piri chicken and vinho verde while the van topped off its battery. Instead, we found ourselves entering a modest rural city of Tomar.

Paulo parked near a hillside. “Tomar is special,” he said. “It was the seat of the Knights Templar in Portugal. But that’s not the surprise.” He paused. “We’re going to visit one the oldest surviving synagogue in Europe.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. I was unprepared—not emotionally, not spiritually—for what came next.

We made our way through the winding cobblestone alleys of Tomar’s old judiaria, the medieval Jewish quarter. The streets were quiet and the air was warm. Time seemed to slow as we reached a small, pale stone building. It was tucked discreetly behind a wooden door on Rua Dr. Joaquim Jacinto. This was the Synagogue of Tomar. It was built in the mid-15th century around 1430. Perhaps, it was the last synagogue constructed in Portugal before the expulsion of the Jews in 1497.

The exterior was unassuming, but inside, I felt a rush of pride and contentment and serenity.

Four columns rose from the floor. Each formed delicate Gothic arches. These arches crossed the vaulted ceiling like arms reaching upward in prayer. These twelve arches represented the twelve tribes of Israel—silent witnesses to centuries of history. The acoustics were perfect. Whispered words seemed to hang in the air with reverence. And though no services have been held here in hundreds of years, the space still felt sacred.

It was humbling.

A local curator showed us relics. These included stone inscriptions, ritual objects, and notes about the building’s rediscovery in the 20th century. Samuel Schwarz, a Polish-Jewish engineer, discovered the building and preserved it for future generations. For years, the synagogue had been used as a prison and hayloft. Ironically, that had helped shield it from destruction. Now it stands not just as a building, but as a bridge—linking a forgotten past to the present.

Standing there, I felt the weight of time press gently on my shoulders. My family did not come from Spain or Portugal. However, I thought of my ancestors. I thought of prayers said in secret. I reflected on names erased and rediscovered. I thought of Paulo. His mother’s quiet heritage had led him to preserve stories like mine. These stories were kept not in stone, but in memory.

Later, over coffee in a nearby café, Paulo shrugged off our thanks. “It’s a small thing,” he said. “But I believe these places deserve to be seen by those who understand.”

What had begun as a routine transfer in an electric van had become a spiritual detour. I didn’t find this synagogue—it found me. And in doing so, it reminded me that even in a secular journey, there is holiness to be uncovered. Sometimes, we are led to exactly where we need to be.

It wasn’t on the official itinerary. But it was the heart of the trip.