By Michael Freund, JNS
During a time when Jews were at great peril, a small island did what the world’s great powers refused to do.
History has a habit of overlooking people and places that did the right thing quietly.
When the gates of much of the world slammed shut to Jews fleeing Nazi Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, refuge was often denied by powerful nations that could easily have offered it. Yet salvation sometimes came from unexpected quarters. One such place was Jamaica, a small British colony in the Caribbean that, without fanfare or grand declaration,s opened its doors to Jews in desperate need of safety.
Jamaica’s role as a haven during the years of World War II and the Holocaust was not accidental. It was the product of a long, deeply rooted Jewish presence on the island stretching back centuries, and of a local culture that at a crucial moment chose humanity over indifference. And its legacy is one that deserves greater recognition.
Jamaica’s Jewish story began in the 16th century, when Sephardic Jews fleeing the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions arrived on the island, often by way of Brazil or Amsterdam. Many came as conversos, Jews compelled to convert to Catholicism who practiced Judaism in secret. Since the island was still under Spanish rule, they were forced to continue to hide their identity.
After Britain conquered the island in 1655, the situation changed significantly, and they were able to live openly as Jews. They became merchants, traders, financiers and ship owners, playing a disproportionate role in the island’s commercial life. Jewish communities flourished in Port Royal, and later, in Kingston, complete with synagogues, cemeteries and communal institutions. Tombstones written in Hebrew, Portuguese and English still testify to that early presence.
By the 18th and 19th centuries, Jamaican Jewry was woven into the fabric of island life. Jews served in civic roles, participated in local politics and helped shape Jamaica’s economy. This was not a transient community; it was one with strong roots. And that mattered when catastrophe struck European Jewry generations later.
In the 1930s, as Nazi persecution intensified, European Jews searched frantically for anywhere that would take them. The infamous Evian Conference of 1938 exposed the moral bankruptcy of much of the Western world, as country after country expressed sympathy while refusing to increase immigration quotas.
Jamaica was different.
Between the late 1930s and the end of World War II, the island accepted hundreds—by some estimates, more than 1,000—Jewish refugees from Germany, Austria and other Nazi-occupied territories. For those who arrived, Jamaica was not a first choice. It was simply a choice, and that was enough to save lives.
Refugees were admitted under British colonial authority, often with the quiet encouragement of local officials and the active assistance of Jamaica’s Jewish community. The island established refugee facilities, most notably at Gibraltar Camp near Kingston. Unlike the camps of Europe, these were places of safety where refugees could live, work and begin to rebuild shattered lives.
Some refugees stayed permanently. Others moved on after the war to the United States, Canada or Israel. But for all of them, Jamaica was the bridge between annihilation and survival.
What makes Jamaica’s record especially striking is not only that it accepted Jews, but that it did so without the virulent antisemitism that marked so many other societies at the time. Jewish refugees reported warmth, curiosity and a genuine willingness to help from local Jamaicans.
This was no small thing. In an era when Jews were portrayed as threats, burdens or outsiders, Jamaica treated them as human beings.
The local Jewish community mobilized to provide housing, employment and social support. Synagogues became centers of aid. Families took refugees into their homes. A small island did what the world’s great powers refused to do.
Places like Jamaica matter more now precisely because they preserved life when it mattered most. Every Jew who survived because a small island opened its doors became a witness to history. Without such havens, there would be fewer voices left to remind the world of what indifference looks like and what moral courage can accomplish.
As memory fades, responsibility grows. Remembering Jamaica’s noble act is not an exercise in nostalgia; it is an obligation to truth.
That is why 2026 should not pass as just another calendar year. It should be a moment of overdue recognition. Jamaica’s role as a refuge for Jews fleeing the Holocaust deserves formal acknowledgment by Jewish organizations, Israel and the wider international community.
Memorials, educational initiatives and official commemorations would not merely honor the past; they would strengthen the moral foundations of the present. Recognizing Jamaica’s quiet righteousness would send a powerful message: that saving lives, even without fanfare or reward, is a legacy worth honoring.
History will judge nations not only by their power, but by their choices in moments of darkness. True, Jamaica did not save millions. It did not issue lofty declarations or convene international conferences. But it opened a door when others turned their backs.
With the passage of time, fewer Holocaust survivors are living among us. The men and women who could say “I was there” are rapidly leaving, taking with them not only memories of horror but of rescue.
As the witnesses pass away, Jamaica’s example remains—an enduring reminder that moral clarity has never required size or strength, only the willingness to act. And that is something worth preserving.
