A note before you begin reading: This is my story of navigating my own Jewish identity, values, and experiences. I do not speak on behalf of anyone else and these truths are my own. I am not speaking for all Jews. I’m not speaking on behalf of my loved ones. I urge you to read this whole essay before making assumptions or judging the content. This will always be a space for me to share my identities and my journeys and open my heart for you all. If that feels uncomfortable, do what feels right for you.
*****I will not tolerate hateful speech or engagement on this platform.
I was going to start this story about my experience on and with October 7, 2023 but that didn’t feel like the right timeline for this. So, then, I thought I’d start this when I met my life partner, who was born and raised in Jordan. But that still didn’t feel totally right. I went back further in my mind—where do I need to start this story? My story? So many different beginnings.
I’ll begin with the most personal beginning I know. January 11, 1992. The day I was born.
31 years ago, I was born to Phil and Clare. Both with Jewish identities–though varying in scale and practice. If you ask me or any of my friends they would say I am “Jew--ish” and that is because I was exposed to some form of rituals and observance but have struggled to figure out what role Judaism plays in my life.
My father came from a more observant family and began raising me with his own take, values, and rituals that were most important to him. We belonged to various synagogues. I had a bat mitzvah. We did passover and hanukkah. the ones in between. My dad’s connections evolved and changed during my childhood/youth, as did our rituals.
My mom didn’t need a connection to Judaism–she showed up to this and that and hosted for the holidays, but I knew it wasn’t for Judaism, it was for family and love. Even my mom’s funeral was at a church (because her friend was a pastor, not because of Christianity) and she had a cremation (which is against Jewish beliefs). We didn’t sit shiva, but we had our own version of honoring after her death.
I spent a lot of time around my Safta and Saba (Hebrew for grandma and grandpa). They often shared in my care. If you peered into their lives, you would see they kept Kosher in the home. held weekly shabbot dinners. went to synagogue weekly. visited Israel often. talked about Israel often. read and learned Torah. read and taught me Torah.
Safta often asked, “will you light the candles with me, Ruth?” for our shabbat ritual. I never really wanted to because I felt like a fraud, but my mom would glance at me to do so, so I did.
I didn’t conform to the Judaism they expected of me. I sensed the judgment and disappointment in their eyes when I didn’t ever have enough jewish friends, didn’t go to jewish camps, didn’t go on birthright, believe in what I was supposed to believe.
Questions poured out of me faster than my grandparents could handle.
Why do we celebrate this?
Whats up with the rule that you’re jewish if your mom is jewish?
Why is Israel so important to you?
How do you know god is real?
Why must we eat kosher food?
Their answers never fully made sense to me– I thought differently about the world, about ritual, about community, about judaism. Confusion and complexity held me captive.
My capacity to figure it out lessened as I grew. As I entered college, I put my Judaism away–placed it neatly into a shoebox in the attic where dust grew around it. I didn’t know what to do with it and it never felt like the right time to find out. I opened the box a few times, like when I joined Hillel at my College for a hot second (literally, maybe, a month?), attended a passover seder here and there, took Safta to synagogue. I would tell people, I’m culturally jewish, but didn’t really know what that meant. I didn’t even feel that was accurate— I just needed a quick intro.
It wasn’t until August 2012, when I met and fell in love with my partner–Arab, Muslim, partner, that my judaism crawled out of the box. He always reminds me of the story of when, after a few weeks of dating, I said, “I need to tell you something.” He was ready for something break-up worthy. I told him, “I’m Jewish and I’ve been afraid to tell you in case you didn’t like that, [or like me].” He told me that didn’t matter to him and soothed the worry. We laugh about it now, but it was, in that moment, that I truly believed my Jewishness wasn’t compatible with his culture and identities. I didn’t know what he thought of jews, what his family thought, if he knew other jewish people. I made many assumptions, started to see gaps in knowledge & perspective, and a lack of understanding.
My parents never batted an eye when learned of him. I never thought it would be an issue. I knew their values and perspectives. I knew they had friends, colleagues, neighbors, of many faiths and backgrounds. My Safta, on the other hand, didn’t approve. I would tell her that she should be happy for me because he treats me well and we make each other happy. She couldn’t compute—you can find a Jewish man that does that. We need to continue our Jewish lineage. How will you raise your kids? I pushed back on her often. And at the same time, I know she loved him. We took her out to dinner and we would laugh and cry. We spent time with her in her apartment. When I looked into her eyes, when she looked at him, I saw love. I spent less time convincing and just being.
I felt the same way when I spent time with my partner's family in Jordan. It took his mom some time to accept our relationship and understand it. His extended family does not know that I’m jewish but his immediate family does. It’s not my Jewishness that scares them, it’s the upholding of Zionism, wrapped tightly around Jewish belief, that scares them–not a long enough visit to explain and explore that with aunts, uncles, cousins. To show them a different version of Judaism.
I have only ever felt love from his family. They have embraced me as a sister, a daughter, a partner. His Jida (grandmother) gave me the same look Safta gave Hasan—not fully understanding, but love. It’s my knowing and loving of my Arab family that I could fully see their humanness, that they are not separate from me. Their being is connected to my being.
I never had a connection with Israel. I’ve never traveled there–I pondered the Birthright experience but it never spoke to me. I’ve never understood needing a homeland. I’ve never understood why so many Jews needed it, yearned for it, protected it, defended it. What was I missing? Does everyone feel this but me? I hid these questions because I feared judgment by other Jews. I wasn’t wrong about the judgment. It came. Slapping me across the face many times.
As a child, teen, and young adult, I was exposed to many debates, discussions, and long hours of conversation about Israel/Palestine. Whether at my dinner table, or a friend's dinner table. My mom stayed quiet–as she did in most tense political discussions–but I knew she pondered it as well. My dad asked questions, added perspective, and approached the discussions with open arms. I never participated but listened and observed—I didn’t know enough I thought, this isn’t for me to engage.
That changed when I met and befriended a Jew separated from Zionism. An Anti-Zionist Jew. Woah. Even just writing “anti” reminds me of how much fear and anxiety I held in this friendship, worried this new perspective was anti-jewish, anti-love for my ancestors and all they went through. But my friend was deeply religious in ways that I wasn’t and this compelled me to listen. They extended their hand out for me and I grabbed it. I started reading, talking with my new friend, talking with my partner, listening, and reading more.
I began questioning Zionism among loved ones—that didn’t go over so well. I felt misunderstood and was told many hurtful things. I was trying on all these new hats, not sure which one would fit.
I came to understand and recognize that Zionism has masked how Jews view their Judaism—the plight and safety of the Jewish people, how they exist in the world, and how Israel is their foundation. But for me, it made me turn a blind eye to oppression because the contradictions were so loud and overwhelming–I thought we believed in Justice? Except for Palestinians? I thought we lived through a holocaust so we would have an awareness of when pain is being inflicted on others? Make it make sense.
What to do? What to say? What’s my role in all of this? Will I be ostracized from family members? What am I willing to risk?
These are the questions that led me here. These words. My words.
For the past few weeks, I have been attending interfaith events with my partner and his dad, my dad and his girlfriend. Many folks from all different points of views and backgrounds come together to hold space for each other and just listen. It’s not to debate or find answers, it’s just to listen and acknowledge what we were each feeling.
It was hardest for me to hold space for Jews. Zionist Jews. I resented them. I judged them. I didn’t have empathy. I was angry when they spoke and afterwards, we all said, “we hear you.” I didn’t want to hear them.
But I began to see and realize something new for me. There is a genuine, embedded fear that Zionist Jews have. They really do believe we won’t survive. The state of Israel gives them hope, something to hold on to, something to believe in. It anchors them. I can see and understand this fear and worry a little more now. I acknowledge its presence.
After 31 years of listening to those different from me, reading, asking questions, and being witness to Jews who don’t take the well-traveled road, I see now that Israel is just a facade—it looks nice and hopeful, it shines in the darkness. But freedom and safety for Jews requires the freedom and safety of Palestinians. We need a foundation that doesn’t crack and suffocate the foundation of another. I won’t pretend to know what form it takes but I know it’s not this one.
