“That’s the most off-the-wall thing I’ve ever heard.”
That was Helmut Etzel’s initial reaction 25 years ago, when his mother, Marina, a devout Catholic from the mountainous Antioquia region of Colombia, told him, “Mijo, I believe strongly we are from Jewish heritage.”
“I also thought this would not be a good thing for my father to hear,” Etzel, 66, remembers. His father, Hildebrand Etzel, who’d emigrated from Germany, had been a Hitler Youth, given to making anti-Semitic comments that Etzel considered outdated and paid little attention to.
By the time Etzel was in his 20s, his parents had split up — the Catholic Church would not grant a divorce — and any influence from his father diminished “almost completely.” By his 30s, he’d met a few Jewish people, “and they seemed to be like anybody else,” he says.
He’d also come to realize that the Nazis camouflaged their agenda of military conquest under a guise of economic recovery, and he saw their extermination of various groups of people as “a mistake against what I thought was G-d at the time,” he says.
Etzel knew his mother, who was then living with him and his wife, Gail, and their three kids, had been doing genealogical research, but he never expected it would be life-changing for him.
Etzel was born in Colombia and raised there, in the U.S., and Europe. Growing up, he was unaware of any history of Jews in Colombia and assumed any Jews in the country had arrived relatively recently.
But his mother’s words stayed with him, and years after her death, unable to find her papers, he began his own research on Ancestry.com. With the help of his wife, he discovered 19 lines of ancestry linking his family to the Sephardic Jews of the Iberian Peninsula. Although there were more lines of ancestry he could explore, Etzel decided 19 lines were enough proof of his Jewish roots.
At that point, he notes, he could have said, “OK, my mother was right” and left it at that. Instead, he began to dig into the history of the Sephardic Jews, the Inquisition — which eventually reached Latin America — and the conversos, those who converted to Catholicism to save their lives but secretly kept some Jewish practices.
He realized that people from his mother’s area of Colombia have some unusual Catholic traditions, such as the Night of the Little Candles, which he now believes to be rooted in the Jewish celebration of Hanukkah. His mother’s people, who are known as Paisa (from the Spanish “paisano,” which means “countryman”), also light a candle on Fridays “for good luck,” he says, adding that they use a special pool, like a mikvah, for bathing, and wear a special fringed garment, like a poncho, made from either white and black or white and blue fabric, like a tallit.
Etzel says he decided “to go full heart in not only in finding out my Jewish roots, but coming back to my Jewish roots.”
Last spring, he began attending Kol Ami’s Introduction to Judaism class, which covers Jewish life, values, celebrations, history, theology, and spirituality, and then enrolled for this year’s class, which ran from September through April.
He also began meeting with Kol Ami’s Rabbi Malcolm Cohen and has contacted the Comunidade Israelita de Lisboa (the Jewish Community of Lisbon), hoping they will provide a certificate authenticating his Sephardic lineage.
“Helmut has such a deep thirst for knowledge. He jumped in with both feet,” says Sharon Glassberg, who teaches the Introduction to Judaism class. She explains that some students, including Etzel, use the class as a path to conversion, while others may be born Jewish and want to know more about their heritage, with some learning alongside their non-Jewish partners.
Etzel formally converted to Judaism on May 15, 2025.
The rabbi, Cantor Jen Benray, and Cantorial Soloist Marjorie Hochberg served as his Beit Din (Hebrew for “house of judgment”), a panel that ascertains if a prospective convert has undertaken adequate preparation to become a Jew, is doing so of their own free will and desire, and if they know what to expect living as a Jew.
Cohen, who has been captivated by Etzel’s journey and his passion, explains that the Beit Din “is not meant to be so much an interrogation as providing a meaningful gateway to the Jewish people.”
The rabbi also appreciates that Etzel chose to honor his Sephardic roots by taking a Ladino name for when he is called to the Torah. He’ll be called Salomon, the Ladino version of Solomon.
The Beit Din was “very, very beautiful,” says Etzel.
He wore a tallit for the occasion that was a gift from a neighbor, Stephen Acker, a Canadian Jew who winters in Tucson and served as Etzel’s unofficial mentor. Acker, who helped answer many of Etzel’s questions about the differences between Sephardic and Ashkenazi traditions, flew in from Ottawa for the conversion ceremony.
Acker notes that Etzel is “very interested in sort of nooks and crannies of Judaism,” far beyond the basics. Along with the tallit, Acker was pleased to give him several books, including “Dictionary of Jewish Lore & Legend” and a prayerbook in Spanish and Hebrew that he inherited from a fellow congregant, which at one time had been a gift from the Cuban Jewish community to the Canadian ambassador.
Etzel keeps the book on display on a living room shelf, along with several other Jewish books and a menorah; his house is dotted with Jewish books, including two well-thumbed volumes of “The Jews of Moslem Spain.”
Etzel is undeterred by the idea that conversion could make him vulnerable to antisemitism. As a youth, he confesses, he sometimes parroted his father’s epithets, yet at the same time, he always defended Israel’s right to exist, a dichotomy he finds fascinating.
“He is so eager to learn and experience and appreciate,” says Glassberg, who adds that his questions elevated her class discussions and sometimes caused her to do additional research. “[His] really is an incredible journey and Helmut is an incredible person.”
