My foremothers Ana, Rebeca and Ita sailed the ocean from the land of spices and olive oil to the new world of promises where they hoped they would not fear anymore. The candles came with them, and eventually their light ignited an entirely new flame.

After the 1492 expulsion from Spain, my ancestors moved from country to country through the Netherlands, Italy and Morocco. They left behind almost all their possessions, friends and family who were still partly hiding their souls and love for their dear tradition. But in the new and mysterious world across the great sea, in the green and daunting jungles of el Nuevo Mundo, Ana, Rebeca and Ita would be free - or would they?

Ana Machado was the first to arrive, traveling as a child with her parents to Panama. From Panama they made their way to the Andes of Colombia and finally, in the 1930s, to capital, Bogotá. Ana's daughter Rebeca had three children, Inés, José and Joaquín. At 16, Inés, known as Ita, married a world-traveled engineer and devout atheist. They had four children, the youngest of whom is my mother.

Our family's Jewish traditions diminished. Was it because the Inquisition was active in Colombia until only a few years before they arrived? Or was it the lure of freedom that drew this artistically inclined family to cultural and intellectual pursuits rather than religious ones? By the time I was born, religion played no part in my family.

I attended Catholic school, and was instructed by my parents not to believe anything they taught me, just to follow along. I was a spiritually confused child. I prayed at nights to someone who was not invited into our home. I did not agree with the teachings at school, so I read books on Jewish mysticism. For some reason, these books jumped out at me at the International Book Fair in Bogotá when I was 15.

There was an unspoken reality and a few mementos that evoked Judaism in my grandmother Ita's apartment. Under her 1940s radio was a shofar, and in her garden was a healthy rue plant. The smells of buñuelos rolled around during Januká, and her cakes recalled the North African cooking our family had picked up along the way.

And there were candles. On Friday nights, my grandmother would light two candles and say a blessing in Spanish. She and I were close, and I treasure my memories of staying over at her house. The candles were lit on her kitchen table, not discussed, and they burned until the wax was all consumed.

Fleeing the drug-related violence, my parents and I moved to the United States. Soon afterwards, Ita died. Our Judaism was again submerged as we adapted to life in another new land.

My grandmother's candles flickered in me and went into a smolder, but they never went out. Four years ago I moved to Los Angeles, and the shimmering embers slowly grew into a raging flame. I started lighting my own Chanukah candles, and the fire burned until the next Passover, when I found a synagogue that moved me, and I began to grow into Shabbat. I've learned Hebrew and have been to Israel three times, most recently with my mother who has joined my journey. I've studied with wonderful teachers, and sometimes I have the strange experience of feeling I can finish their sentences for them. My Judaism feels like it was always there, as though I'm not learning something new as much as opening a door that had been closed. Perhaps just left ajar.

And it isn't only me. Over the last 10 years - coincidentally, it seemed - dispersed throughout the United States and South America, my whole family has begun to incorporate Jewish practice into their lives. The last Sukkoth before she died, my aunt Nina built her first sukkah on the family farm outside Bogotá. My cousin Greta in Minneapolis now celebrates Shabbat with her two boys, and my mother in Oklahoma teaches art in a synagogue school. My aunt in Washington, D.C., changed her name from Teresa to Tirzah. And in New York, my cousin Nancy just married a descendant of the revered Vilna Gaon.

Those small wicks from my childhood, which have rekindled Torah in us now, are connected to the candles burned Friday evenings three generations earlier. They in turn are linked to candles that burned in our family for centuries before that.

I salute Ana, Rebeca and Ita’s strength and persistence despite a growing disconnection to Judaism. They kept the flame alive. They held on to the candles, and those candles held on to us.

Vanessa Paloma is the Artistic Director of the SYNERGY ensemble in Los Angeles.