To Be a Jew
I believe in the power of stories to bring people together, to build bridges and to create connection. I believe stories are the most powerful way to bear witness to trauma. Tonight, I write to share my story with you and to bear witness to the individual and community trauma happening to me and people I love this week, holding these beliefs in my heart. I write to share my story of what it means for me to be a Jew today, on October 13, 2023, during the darkest week of my life.
This story may not be for everyone. If you believe Hamas is not a terrorist group, this is not for you. If you believe Israeli citizens deserved the violence Hamas perpetrated this week, this is not for you. If you believe Israel is an occupying country that upholds apartheid and represents colonization and colonialist ambitions, and you are not curious about this, this is not for you. But if you are confused about what has happened this week, if you are open to learning and wondering, and if you believe your Jewish friends and acquaintances have the right to self-determination and to live in peace, then this is for you.
This week, I have learned what collective trauma means. I have learned what it means to be a part of a global community feeling a grief and a fear so intense that we can only process it in pieces, in small moments, in one text or hug or phone call at a time. A grief and a fear that keeps me, literally, from standing up at any given moment of the day because I don’t have the strength. I have felt an exhaustion so deep that in some moments, I cannot move. Intellectually, I know the signs of trauma — the inability to focus, the startling at sudden noises, the senseless fears of everyday moments. I know I have deeply ingrained behaviors indicative of generational trauma. But this week, it’s not just my inability to sit with my back to the door in any given space. This week, I’ve frozen in a parking lot at the sight of a heavily tattoed young man, no different than dozens of students I’ve loved and cared for in the past, while my mind screamed “Nazi”. This week, I have been hit by a wave of nausea with every buzz of my phone — is it my daughter, telling me her friend has been kidnapped? Is it my mom, telling me my cousin and his young children have been bombed? Is it a friend, sending me a picture of the swastika painted in the local high school bathroom? Is it the news, reporting on a Free Palestine protest in response to the massacre of children? This week, my hands won’t stop trembling, my legs suddenly buckle, tears come at any given moment and my stomach lurches constantly.
This week, I have also learned what internalized oppression means. Intellectually, I know this to be self-doubt that is sown by interpersonal and institutional bias, discrimination and prejudice. But now I see it in myself. Writing this tonight is an act of resistance as I push back on a multiplicity of untrue stories I have long believed. My title of this piece — To Be a Jew? It has taken me 44 years to call myself a Jew. Jewish, yes. Jew, never before. Why? Because antisemites have taught me Jew is an ugly word. It’s a word that’s graffitied on storefronts, a word that’s printed on yellow stars, a word that’s chanted in fury by white supremacists. I don’t want to be that. I don’t identify with ugliness. And so I have been Jewish, but never a Jew. But in the face of an attempted genocide, and in the unity of a worldwide community, I see, finally, the beauty. To be a Jew is to resist, to believe, to love and to ask for peace for all people even in the midst of unspeakable horrors. It’s not just internalized oppression that has come to light. As a Jew in America, I have been the victim of gaslighting. The Free Palestine movement has continuously made me question whether I even have a story to tell. Isn’t the true injustice the Palestinian oppression? Isn’t their suffering more important? How can I make this about me, a white woman who walks through life with many privileges, while Palestinians are living their own horrors? Every time Israel is attacked, Free Palestine surfaces. Every time Jews stand up against antisemitism, Free Palestine surfaces. Every time Jewish history is told, Free Palestine surfaces. And every time Free Palestine surfaces, I find myself not knowing what to say and questioning my right to take up space with my story. So I stay (mostly) silent. This time, when Free Palestine surfaced within 48 hours of 40 Israeli babies being beheaded and mutilated, I finally saw it — the gaslighting, the way I’ve been made to question and invalidate my own experiences, and the space that has been stolen so I can’t tell my story. Tonight I write to take back that space. Because my story matters. And the story of my community matters. There is space for us that won’t be taken away this time.
Some history before I go on, because it will be relevant in a minute. Interestingly enough, the Free Palestine movement has gained a stronghold in the United States thanks to its long-standing partnership with Black Lives Matter. I am a liberal Democrat who supports much of BLM’s work. That said, as I understand it, early on in the BLM movement, a group of Palestinians reached out and invited BLM’s founders to visit Palestine. With this visit, BLM drew some nice, neat and completely inaccurate parallels between the history of Palestine and the history of the United States. Israel was dubbed a colonizing, occupying country that forced Palestinians to live in a state of apartheid much as the United States had done to indigenous populations. This simplistic reduction of the history of an extremely complex and deeply historical geopolitical region helps BLM and its supporters put Palestine and Israel into tidy little boxes to fight for and against, all in the name of anti-oppression. There are many, many problems with this, as most Jews will tell you, but one that strikes me now is that of white supremacy. The tenets of white supremacy are key elements that BLM fights to break down. One of these tenets —either/or thinking — actually forms the foundation for BLM’s support of Palestine. In the Free Palestine movement, there is no room for both/and thinking. Both/and would be an understanding that the land of Israel is sacred to Jews and Palestinians, not a call for Palestinian land only. Both/and would be an understanding that Palestinian lives matter and Jewish lives matter, not a celebration of horrific civilian massacres. Both/and would be a recognition that Palestinians and Jews both deserve countries of their own where they can live secure, peaceful and meaningful lives, not a belief that only Palestinians deserve safety and self-determination. For when Palestinian freedom is called for, it is not Hamas who is named as the oppressor. And if it is not Hamas, and there is no recognition of their true goal, Jewish safety is not a part of the cry for freedom. Let me explain.
Hamas plays a central role in the oppression of Palestinians. They came to power in 2007, after Israel had forcibly removed its citizens from Gaza to return the land to the Palestinian people in an exchange for peace. Since Hamas came to power, they have kept none of their political promises and have not held a single election. They are not supported by the majority of Palestinians and they have not accepted a single peace deal in over 70 years. In their charter, Hamas names the extinction of the Jewish people as a clear goal. Let me repeat that. Hamas names the EXTINCTION of the Jewish people as a clear goal. This week, when Hamas kidnapped nine-year-old children from their beds, when they gassed to death teenagers trying to hide in a safe room, when they took pregnant and elderly Israelis hostage, they were not trying to “free Palestine”. Those were acts of genocide. An attempt to murder as many Jews as possible, as called for in their charter. This week, while college students across the U.S. rallied in support of Palestine, Hamas called for a day of rage, a global mobilization to wage jihad not just against Israel, but against all Jews worldwide. This is not fighting Palestinian oppression. This is fighting for the death of Jews. When Free Palestine supports Hamas by naming Israel as the sole oppressive power, the movement says Jewish lives do not matter. Either/or thinking — a philosophical flaw that undermines the legitimacy of the movement.
So now, I finally understand — when Free Palestine rises up to defend the atrocities committed by Hamas, when young people say we should expect for babies to be beheaded in their homes because people who grow up under oppression will of course combust one day, when the Palestinian plight makes more headlines then the thousand rockets continuing to be shot at Israelis on a daily basis, I will no longer question my right to tell my story. I will not be gaslit any longer. This is my both/and thinking. Palestinian lives matter. And Jewish lives matter. There is space for both stories.
But I want to return to my story and my newly experienced trauma. This is what it has meant to be a Jew this week.
On Saturday, our sister city, Sha’ar HaNegev, a collection of kibbutzim — communal farms and villages — was attacked and became the epicenter of the horrors. The mutilated children, the kidnapped hostages, the murdered mayor all came from this “city”. Also living in this city are many young teens who spent this past summer at camp with my daughters. There are many older teens who have spent a year working at our synagogue, tutoring and mentoring my children. So when we learned of the attacks, my daughters reached out to their friends. They were hiding in bomb shelters. Every day, my children ask if we’ve heard from Shahar. If we’ve heard from Maya. If we’ve heard from Lihi. Their beautiful, treasured Israeli sisters and brothers. Yesterday, we saw a video this incredible group of teens made, urging us to support them, and in their eyes, I saw the fear, the loss of innocence, the prayers and the hope they now harbor. For my children, this war has a name and a face. It has many names and faces of people they love.
On Sunday, the first Free Palestine and Death to Israel social media posts surfaced on our feeds. A teammate of my daughter’s reposted these messages and very quickly, a friendship was lost. My daughter and I spent the day talking about how she should engage online and how she could face her teammate on Monday, a girl who had just called for the destruction of her people. “Mom, how do I honor her opinion and keep myself calm, remembering we want the same things in the end?”
On Tuesday, San Diego held a community vigil. By then, Free Palestine protests were in full swing and fears of antisemitism had flared. We received many emails: at the vigil, we were not allowed to have chairs, blankets or bags. Come to grieve, but you must remain standing with nothing on your person. There would be high levels of security provided, so we could feel safe. But my children did not feel safe and did not go. I did not feel safe, but my need to be in community outweighed my fear. I quoted Hamilton to my husband before I left: “If I stand for nothing, what do I fall for?” As it rained that evening, 4,600 people stood in an open field, praying for peace and healing. The small group of allies from the Hindu Association standing in the back overwhelmed me with tears. While we sang, cried, hugged and processed together, a loud surveillance drone buzzed overhead, competing with our communal prayer for peace. Military in full battalion gear stood on the rooftops of the nearby buildings, surrounding us with their rifles and their binoculars. Dogs roamed amongst us with police by their side. I was not the only one constantly scanning the crowd, checking the perimeters, watching who might be standing on the other side of the chainlink fence. Even as we grieved, we did not feel safe. We did not have space to give ourselves fully over to healing. More than one friend I met who brought their teens told me their children hadn’t wanted to come. Out of fear for their own safety, my children had to grieve in solitude. Alone, at home, because being in community was not safe.
On Wednesday, I was given an unexpected space to process what I had been going through and to share it with a group of non-Jews. I babbled about my fear, the people I knew, my family in Jerusalem living in their bomb shelters, the atrocities I’d heard of that weren’t being shared by mainstream media, the security at the vigil and the security we navigate on a weekly basis every time we go to synagogue for Shabbat or Sunday school. And afterwards, I felt a deep sense of guilt and shame. Who was I to take up so much space with people who weren’t Jewish? Who was I to think my story mattered? Who was I to make this about me? But as I sat with the guilt and the shame, I was thanked. Over and over again. “I had no idea,” people said. “I’ve never heard any of this before.” “Thank you for sharing with us.” “You have opened my eyes.” And it was on this day, in this moment, I knew I needed to write this piece because an amazing group of mostly strangers validated my story and convinced me it could make a difference.
On Wednesday afternoon, my mother tried to find an “I Stand with Israel” frame for her Facebook profile picture. There were none. There were also no creative commons banners showing support for Israel. There was no legal way for her to visually show her solidarity. When Ukraine was attacked, frames, banners, flags and posters were prolific. Every neighbor, every friend, every colleague spoke up. There has been nothing for Israel. Why? Because we have all been victims of gaslighting. Free Palestine has made it unsafe for people to express solidarity with Jews and Israelis and so the world has remained largely silent.
On Thursday, my daughter led her school’s Jewish club meeting. She explained what antisemitism is, after hearing multiple classmates ask what the word meant. She explained what was happening and why. She led a moment of silence. She learned about the Hamas call for jihad. And she was beautifully supported by over 40 students in her school who honored her and respected what she had to say.
On Thursday evening, I gathered with Jewish friends. I heard of a young woman who was sitting at the airport, waiting to escape, hoping beyond hope her delayed flight would leave this time. For days, this young woman, an American PhD student, had stayed up, waiting for hours to try to book a flight out only to be called repeatedly to the bomb shelter and lose her place in the virtual line. She had gotten no sleep but was finally at the airport. The only other times I have heard stories of Jews fighting to “get out” is when I study the pogroms or the Holocaust. I heard of the swastika painted on the wall of the boy’s bathroom at a local high school. I saw the Instagram picture of members of a local school’s Jewish club labeled “look at these dumb fucks”. I read weak statements from our children’s school districts calling for peace and respect but not having the courage to name the places of Israel and Gaza, or the people who are Jewish or Palestinian. I heard my friend say that despite the horrific images and news online, she had to force herself to continue to engage because otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to understand why Israel has to respond the way it does.
On Thursday night, I went to synagogue to hear an update on the current situation in Israel. I learned that the murdered mayor of our sister city had been working on building a massive center to provide jobs, education and healthcare to 10,000 Gazans on a daily basis. I heard a 10-year-old ask our rabbi: “How do I stop myself from hating?” and I heard the beautiful answer that hate takes up too much energy and when we hate, we’ve let them win. It’s far easier to love. I heard that many members of other faith communities had reached out to express their support for our community. And I heard that the only faith community who had been silent was the Muslim community. The road to partnership with them, our rabbi said, was all but dead. They were not interested in building bridges or in creating connections, except for one man — a leader in the local Afghan Muslim refugee community who had expressed support and wanted to attend our vigil, but instead was threatened. And when I returned home from synagogue, drained and weak, the Hamas call for the murder of Jews worldwide had caught up with my daughter. She was crying. Petrified of going to school the next day. “Mom,” she said. “I am a target. Everyone knows I’m Jewish now because I led the club meeting.” I spent an hour lying to her, trying to assure her she would be safe when we both knew I couldn’t make any promises.
On Friday, I woke up with a pounding headache and the strongest nausea yet, for it was the day of rage. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. My aunt told me L.A. was under FBI watch and they had been ordered to move around with care. My sister told me synagogues in Sacramento would close for Shabbat because they did not have the resources to keep their congregants safe. My brave daughter, given the choice of hiding or exposing herself to the unknown dangers of the day, rallied and faced her fears. But by lunchtime, she couldn’t take it anymore. Everyone was talking about it. The situation, the controversies and the threats — a headache, a heartache and a bone deep bodyache had taken its toll, so she came home to safety.
On Friday afternoon, my cousin called me. She told me she’s been working around the clock to raise money to send supplies to her dear friend’s reservist unit because there was not enough equipment to protect the young soldiers. They needed vests, goggles, guns, ammunition and more so they could have a fighting chance on the front lines with Gaza. They were too many soldiers and no way to protect them all. She told me she’s using her therapy tools to stay grounded and centered on her work, instead of falling into an oblivion of depression and fear.
On Friday evening, my family pushed through another wave of panic to gather at synagogue for Shabbat. We arrived, our bags were searched, and we met up with friends for some hugs and the first smiles of the day. The service was beyond beautiful — as always, the Jewish respect for life, the belief in better days and the strength and wisdom of our ancestors brought a community of strangers together to sing hymns and rhythms that were being sung all over the world by our extended family of Jews. The Israeli soldier that had, by video, asked us to rock the house while we prayed because so many IDF soldiers could not, got what he asked for and I cried and cried. When we were invited to name the names of those in need of healing, I shared my family’s names and I listened to my friend share her son’s name. Her 22-year-old son, who just made aliyah, who is surrounded by Palestinians in East Jerusalem where a new round of fighting has broken out, is trying to come home but can’t get on a flight for seven more days. Seven more sleeps while she waits.
Tomorrow will be Saturday. I do not know what the day will bring but I know that when the sun rises, I too must rise. I will kiss my children good morning, I will drink my coffee through my nausea and I will wait for brighter days, trying hard to notice the bright moments in the midst of the darkest days. I will hope and pray we will be safe. I will hope and pray my family, my friends and my children’s friends will be safe. I will not feel guilty for hoping and praying for Jewish lives and I will allow myself to center these lives in my heart. I will continue to wonder when else in history the innocent victims of a massacre have been blamed for their own deaths. I will continue to wonder when else in history a country has not been allowed to defend themselves against extinction. I will continue to wonder how far a country is allowed to go to save themselves. I will continue to wonder when the whole story will be told by media not afraid of gaslighting.
And through this all, in the past seven days as I have experienced the deepest, heaviest heart I have ever had, I have heard from a total of five non-Jewish people in my life. One acquaintance, one colleague, two family members and one friend. Five. While I’ve suffered, few have noticed or asked or reached out. If you are a friend or family member that has not reached out, I do not say this in spite. I say this to call you in, not call you out. I have not openly shared much of this before with you. I understand that we don’t know what we don’t know — and when we know better we do better. MLK Jr’s quote rings strong in my head: “In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but we will remember the silence of our friends.” If you know someone who’s Jewish, ask them how they’re doing. Tell them you’re thinking of them. Every single Jew I know has been impacted personally and globally by the events of this week. I ask you to share my story far and wide. Take an excerpt and post it on social media. Take this link and email it to your friends and family. Take my messages and share them in conversation. Because otherwise, the silence is deafening.
This is what it means to be a Jew today.
