“Divine beauty lies in learning, just as the beauty of humanity lies in tolerance. To learn is to accept that life did not begin with my birth. Others came before me—I walk in their footsteps. The books I read were shaped by generations of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, teachers and students. I am the sum of their experiences, of their questions and quests. And so are you.”
These were the words of the famous writer Elie Wiesel, a Romanian-American Jew and Holocaust survivor.
As I walk past old tombstones etched in Hebrew, nestled on Marjan Hill above Split, I can’t help but think how perfectly his words resonate with the story of Split’s Jewish community—and with the richness that lives within all of us, if only we choose to live it together.
The old Jewish cemetery in Split, a monument of cultural memory
On the eastern slope of Marjan Hill, behind a gate secured with a lock and key, lies the Old Jewish Cemetery — a designated cultural monument. It was established in 1573, the same year the first burials took place.
It is the oldest Jewish cemetery on the territory of the Republic of Croatia—and it looks the part. Cracked headstones, sun-dried vegetation, the quiet simplicity of bare stone engraved with Hebrew calligraphy, and the soft rays of the setting sun filtering through the pine forest give the place a rustic, nostalgic charm.
Today, more than 700 graves can be found here, most from the 18th and 19th centuries. But the history of the Jewish people in Split stretches much further back, all the way to antiquity. Still, for the purposes of this story, we’ll begin in the 16th century—a time when a wave of immigration would leave a lasting mark on the city…
During the persecutions across a darkened Europe, Split was a small Jewish haven in the sun
We mentioned earlier that the Old Jewish Cemetery was established in 1573. At that time, a growing number of Sephardic families from Spain and Portugal were arriving in Split—nearly 300 Jewish refugees in total.
This marked the end of the golden age of Jewish culture in Spain, especially in Andalusia, where Jews and Christians had lived in relative peace under Muslim rule. That harmony ended with the Christian Reconquista and the beginning of the infamous Spanish Inquisition in the late 15th century.
When we speak of Sephardic Jews, we’re referring to the “Eastern” Jewish communities from Spain and Portugal who were exiled across the globe during the 15th century. Today, the term has broadened to include Jewish communities from other parts of the Mediterranean and beyond.
In their search for safety, many fled to other parts of Europe—but rarely did they find Christian compassion. Split, however, and the Republic of Venice were more tolerant. While ghettos were standard across much of Europe, Split’s Jews lived within the city itself, inside the ancient walls of Diocletian’s Palace—at least until the 18th century, when the Pope issued an edict forcing them to relocate to a separate quarter.
The Jewish community enriched the city that welcomed them as its own. Duško Kečkemet describes how Jews in Split became renowned tailors of military and traditional clothing, initiated the construction of one of the best-equipped lazarettos in Europe—enabling a flourishing trade (hence the name Rodrigova Street)—and were also respected physicians.
One of the most influential figures was Daniel Rodriguez (Rodriga), a Spanish Jew who advocated for the construction of the Split pier. It was through his persuasion that the Venetian government agreed to build it. His initiative transformed the small town of Split into a vital trade hub and European port through which goods flowed between Venice, the Ottoman Empire, India, and Persia.
Another prominent figure in the city’s political and cultural life was Vid Morpurgo—a skilled merchant and founder of the First People’s Dalmatian Bank. More importantly, he played a key role in the Dalmatian National Revival. He ran a bookstore, published patriotic works, and supported the victory of the Croatian Party in the 1882 Split elections.
In his article “Without the Jews, Split Would Be Just Another Small Town on the Adriatic,” Sergej Županić lists even more contributions. In the 17th century, Jews defended Split during the war between the Venetians and the Ottomans. The site where they stood guard near the Monastery of St. Arnir is still known today as the Jewish Post (Položaj Židova).
Županić also recalls moments when the people of Split stood up to protect “their” Jews, especially during times of rising hostility—long before the tragedies of the Second World War, which would later become emblematic of Jewish suffering.
“Thanks to their efforts, Split rose to become a first-class trading port, and time and again they offered help in days of poverty, war, and disease. Such were the old Jews of Split—who lived alongside us for centuries, sharing with us all our suffering, and the few joyful days we were granted.”
– Croatian historian Grga Novak
These are just a few glimpses into the lives of the Jews who lived in Split—and with Split. Today, the Old Jewish Cemetery holds around 700 graves, including those of some of the city’s most respected citizens, such as the esteemed Vid Morpurgo, whose legacy still echoes in the streets of Split.
As moving as these stories are, it’s hard to fully surrender to their beauty—because we know what’s coming. In the rearview mirror of history, the Second World War looms, along with the galloping rise of Italian fascism in Dalmatia. Some residents of Split were already donning black uniforms, waiting for their chance. Others would join the Partisans and the fight for liberation.
In June 1942, fascists physically attacked Jews gathered in the synagogue during Shabbat prayers. They smashed the holy place, looted its treasures, and burned sacred texts in the public square. The flames of burning books were only the first sign of a greater tragedy yet to come.
Some of Split’s Jews managed to flee—to safety or to the resistance—but around a hundred were deported to concentration camps. Only a third of them survived to see the war’s end.
“I am the sum of their journeys and questions. And so are you.”
The last burial at the Jewish cemetery took place in 1945. That year, the cemetery was officially closed and protected as a cultural monument. Today, the Jewish community uses a section of the Lovrinac city cemetery, where a Holocaust memorial also stands.
The old Jewish cemetery should stand as a reflection of the city’s commitment to honoring its past and its cultural wealth. It is not neglected—it is locked and preserved—but I believe it deserves more attention. Not just as a polite, symbolic gesture of civilization, but as a genuine tribute to the Jewish citizens of Split—for all they did for the city, and in memory of the days when Split was a safe harbor for the displaced.
And finally, a song—an old Jewish lullaby about childhood and a small town that no longer exists. It’s not directly related to Split, nor triggered by anything specific. But I don’t often get the chance to share it. And perhaps, because of its nostalgic tone, we can imagine it echoing through the quiet old streets of this city…
