How I got a Lithuanian passport - and discovered a connection with my roots

The day the UK voted for Brexit was a personal blow. I’ve lived in Europe, studied in Europe and worked in Europe — losing my European-ness felt like losing a limb. For me the biggest asset had been the freedom of movement around Europe and I wanted my children to experience the same. And so I began wondering if my family’s forgotten heritage could somehow help by providing us with EU passports.
It was my daughter who set the ball rolling. “Where’s Shovel?” she asked.
This was the town my grandfather came from. When he lived there in the early 1900s, it had been part of the Russian Empire. How about now?
Digging tools is what came up during a preliminary Google search, but then it appeared we’d been spelling it wrong. Shovel was in fact Shavl, Yiddish for Siauliai. And today Siauliai (pronounced show-lay) is in the Baltic state of Lithuania. And in 2004, Lithuania joined the EU. Eureka!

Armed with century-old yellowing papers found in my father’s attic, I set off to the Lithuanian embassy in Belgravia, Central London. According to their website, if you could prove lineage back to a great–grandparent you might qualify for dual citizenship.
To me my grandfather was “Papa”. To everyone else he was Dr Elias Kessel, a much-loved GP who’d had a surgery in Golders Green, which my doctor father had in turn taken over. I handed my Papa’s papers — school reports, university degree, medical qualifications and the like — over to a man behind a counter.
“These are in Russian,” said the man.
“Yes,” I replied. “Siauliai was part of Russia when my grandfather lived there.”
“But you’re applying for Lithuanian citizenship.”
“Yes and these papers show my grandfather came from Siauliai, which is in Lithuania.”
Our conversation went round in circles. What I needed, it turned out, was to prove that my Papa had lived in Lithuania after it gained independence in 1918. In short, I needed his passport. Did I have it? No. My only option was the archives. I contacted archives in Siauliai, but all their Jewish records were destroyed in the First World War. I tried central archives, regional archives, archives in the capital, Vilnius, you name it, but I kept drawing blanks. I began thinking it would be easier to run a marathon in heels than to find the required paperwork.
My last hope was the archives in Kaunas (pronounced cone-ass), Lithuania’s second biggest city. I’d never heard of this place and my grandfather had never mentioned it, so I had zero expectation when I called them up. It was hard to harbour hope when the lady on the phone kept reminding me that most Jewish records had been lost. I gave her my grandfather’s name anyway and she began clacking on a keyboard, inputting the information. Then suddenly the clacking stopped.
“My goodness, I’ve found him!” The surprise in her voice was palpable. “And not only have I found your grandfather’s passport, but I’ve found your great-grandfather’s passport too. His name was Aron.”
The best news of all was that they were dated 1922, when Lithuania was independent. This was exactly what was needed. And when I received their passports in the post, there was more. There was an address where my grandfather and great-grandfather had lived in Kaunas. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Jo-s grandfather Elias-s passport

Jo's grandfather Elias's passport

Before the Second World War, a quarter of Lithuania’s entire population was Jewish. Persecution saw thousands of them flee the country and disperse around the world. Some came to the UK, like my papa, but America and South Africa were two other very popular destinations. The majority of those who stayed in Lithuania saw a very different fate, my great-grandparents included.
As I continued with my application for Lithuanian citizenship, a friend offered her take on the matter: “It’s rather ironic that you’re jumping through bureaucratic hoops to gain citizenship of a country your grandfather couldn’t wait to leave.”
Her point was valid and yet I’m not alone. While my motivation was Brexit, other Jews from around the world (many of whom now live in Israel) have done the exact same thing for their own, personal reasons. Why? I’m not sure. Perhaps there’s comfort in having a second passport, especially for those who have seen and felt and are fearful of persecution.
Fourteen months later my Lithuanian passport landed on my doormat and six months after that my three children became Lithuanian citizens too. And while I was happy that my kids would now be able to live, study and work in Europe freely, I also wanted our new-found nationality to mean more. I longed to see where we came from.
My 19-year old son Gabriel — who strongly resembles his great-grandfather Elias — felt the same way. And so we hopped on a budget flight to Kaunas. Ask anyone to name a Lithuanian city and chances are the only place they’d come up with would be Vilnius.
But 2022 has seen Kaunas become the European Capital of Culture and it’s more on the map than it’s ever been.
While the city’s glorious domes, steeples and pillars are still there, they’re juxtaposed with spruced-up, swanky avenues such as Freedom Alley (laisvės al in Lithuanian), which my grandfather wouldn’t have recognised. And although the address 52 Jurbarko Gatve listed on my grandfather’s passport still exists — I went there for what was an emotional visit — it’s possible the house numbers may have changed post-war.
Wherever I go and whatever I do in Kaunas, it’s hard not to wonder if I’m retracing my grandfather’s footsteps.
Did he stroll along the River Nemunas towpath? Did he pray in the Choral Synagogue — the only shul now left in the city? Did he ever try deep-fried Lithuanian doughnuts called spurgos and, if so, did he like them?

Jo enjoying the towpath of the River Nemunas which runs through Kaunas

They’re served warm (and filled with apple jam, cheese or meat) at Café Spurgine on Freedom Alley. For sure he would have been in the old town square, home to the Town Hall. It is this very same Town Hall he would have visited with my great grandfather to apply for his passport exactly 100 years ago. Gabriel and I gaze up at its soaring steeple, imagining our ancestors walking into the building.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I like it here,” he says.
“Do you feel like you come from here?”
He reflects: “I feel something.”
We both do, but that “some-discovering Lithuania-thing’ is hard to put into words. Do I feel Lithuanian? No. Do I feel like I come from there? Not really. But I do feel like I belong, like the country is deep-rooted in my DNA. It’s especially pleasing when locals address me in Lithuanian, presuming I’m a native.
There were two particularly poignant places we visited. One was an al fresco courtyard gallery at E. Ozeskienes g, dedicated to the Jews who perished here in the war. Quirky wall art (think bathtubs on balconies and wall-mounted bikes) is juxtaposed with murals composed of broken mirror shards, designed to show how people’s lives were so cruelly destroyed.

Jo in the Courtyard Gallery at E. Ozeskienes in Kaunas

Even more powerful was the Ninth Fort, just outside the city. The fort became a prison in 1918 and, when the Nazis invaded, it was used as a death camp. One gruesome, haunting day in October, 1941, saw 9,200 Jews exterminated here in 24 hours alone. The rain lashed down during our visit, which felt strangely fitting.
We explore beyond Kaunas and soon realise that it’s impossible to escape Jewish connections and reminders of the Second World War in Lithuania. The port of Klaipeda (formerly Memel) has an old theatre whose balcony overlooks the vast town square.
It was from this balcony that Hitler delivered a chilling speech in 1939 before going on to occupy the city. But Hitler couldn’t kill the Jewish spirit and neither could the Soviets who took over after the war. Even though they bulldozed the city’s old synagogue and cemetery (the odd relic remains), Klaipeda’s population of 300 Jews rebuilt it and constructed a community centre on the plot.
There’s something refreshingly authentic and untouched about Lithuania. We like its people and everywhere we visit, but it’s not until we reach the country’s Baltic seaside that we fall in love.
We stay on the Curonian Spit — a 60-mile finger of sand half-owned by Lithuania and half by Russia. The peninsula’s giant, drifting sand dunes are a Unesco World Heritage Site and the coastline’s raw beauty takes our breath away.

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It’s so striking that we can’t believe the rest of the world hasn’t heard of this place.
And were it not for my Papa, we wouldn’t have either. What began as a little bit of digging into our forgotten heritage has somehow become so much more.
The journey has not only given us a new identity but it has led us to discover a whole new country that a part of us will forever consider home.
We can’t wait to go back.