How a Trip to Israel Helped This Latina Embrace her Jewish Roots
By Samantha Wendorf
I have never, ever felt very Jewish. But this year during the Hanukkah season, after a 10-day trip to Israel over the summer thanks to the Taglit-Birthright program, I’m thinking differently about myself.
First, some background about me: My last name might be German, but for most people who take one look at me and then down at my name, I never fail to throw them for a loop. I look like the Hispanic side of my family. My Catholic mother was born and raised in El Salvador, her father born in Nicaragua and his family may or may not have came from somewhere in the Middle East. My father is a native New Yorker whose Jewish grandparents made their way through Ellis Island off ships from Austria and Russia.
I love being biracial and appreciate that I’m made up of all of these cultures so different from one another. I love my unique look and ethnic ambiguity. I believe it’s what helps me to have a better understanding and connection to almost anyone that I meet from anywhere. I’m not confined to one way of thinking, but I know I have so much more to learn and explore.
But growing up being so different was not always to my advantage. For one thing, being Jewish was not only misunderstood in my closest circles, but also not very respected. Yes, I am from New York where we have one of the biggest Jewish populations in the world. However, I can recall times growing up when I’d get asked, “What ethnicity are you?” and before I had the chance to respond, a friend of mine would chime in with “She’s Jewish!” followed by insanely obnoxious laughter. That always really got underneath my skin. The mocking aside, I didn’t like that I was being defined by someone else. I didn’t understand why only that one aspect of me needed to be pointed out.
Even in my own family I sometimes felt misunderstood. To my Hispanic relatives, I was the little Jewish girl. To my Jewish family, I was an outsider. I had no place where I truly belonged, and even as I got older and I associated more with my Hispanic friends in school and at work, I was never Hispanic enough. I didn’t speak Spanish well. My friends assumed I wouldn’t know what that dish was, or who sang that song. Even though I eat carne asada and dance merengue (and pretty damn well, too), I always felt like I had to prove myself.
The Jewish part was more complicated. Growing up I didn’t know much about Judaism. I had difficulty identifying with being Jewish, and sometimes ended up hiding it. I wasn’t raised to be a proud Jew. If anything it was something that I had to defend myself against when I felt someone judging me merely because of it. Making sure people knew I wasn’t really Jewish.
So as I think back to this summer, I wonder what business did I have stepping foot in this holiest of lands? The “Jewish State”? In all honesty, I was just in it for the free trip. I mean, 10 days. All-expenses paid. All they asked of me was a $250 deposit — which they would REFUND me after I returned home. For me, it was just another destination to check off my list.
After meeting the 34 other participants in the Philadelphia airport, poking at the mandatory kosher meal on the plane, and about 12 hours of flying we finally arrived in Tel Aviv. Once we made it through the really long, unorganized line at customs, grabbed our suitcases, found our group leaders — and wifi, of course — we were greeted with the hot, Middle Eastern July sun. Not to mention the delicious pastries and much needed water outside of our tour bus. It was finally sinking in that we were here and about to embark on a new adventure. Excitement permeated the air amid this already really friendly group of total strangers.
The first few days were jam-packed with activities: we slept in a traditional communal kibbutz, hiked in nearly 100-degree weather, set our sights on the borders of Jordan and Syria, rafted the Jordan river and camped out in makeshift campsites. Oh, and hummus. We ate lots of hummus. After only been a short time, but I felt like I’d known most of these people for years.
On day 4 and we made it to Jerusalem. It was also the morning before Shabbat, Judaism’s day of rest, but a moment to ourselves was not something we got much of on this trip. Never breaking away from routine, and despite our late night out discovering Jerusalem’s nightlife, we were up bright and early to explore this wondrous city. The significance of where I was hadn’t quite hit me yet; I felt more concerned with how tired and hot I was.
Many people on the trip were really excited to see the Western Wall, but in all honesty, I hadn’t even thought about it. My mom had asked me to write a note for our family, asking for blessings, and to place it in the wall, which is what you do when you visit the site. Donning a t-shirt wrapped around my bare shoulders, I wrote my note and made my way down.
I’ve told this part of my story many times by now, and it still never fails to affect me. Once I got really close to the Wall, I was waiting my turn behind a woman as she was having her personal moment. I stopped to look around at everyone standing by me, and I felt suddenly, surprisingly, extremely overwhelmed. The energy surrounding me was so intense and I felt so connected to everyone there. It was as if a wave of emotion and insight came crashing down on me, and abruptly I had this realization: that no matter the personal beliefs of the stranger standing next to me, or how differently we live our lives, we are all here for the same purpose. Whether it’s to wish for blessings for our loved ones, or ourselves, we are all the same. There is nothing fundamentally that makes me or another human being superior or inferior to one another.
When it was my turn to stand directly in front of the Wall, I stuck my note inside and touched it, and I started shedding tears underneath my sunglasses. Before we went down to the Wall our tour guide had told us to be respectful, because we were representatives of our families. I didn’t think much of it when he said it, but nothing felt truer in this moment. My physical presence at the Western Wall was more of a blessing for my family than for myself, but the spiritual awakening I experienced meant more to me. I went into this not expecting to get much out of it, but I walked away from the Wall with something that I will never forget.
Fast forward to day 8 of our trip. That day, we were going to meet the Bedouins, ride camels and camp out in the Negev Desert. After dinner and once the sun had set, our tour guide told us all to follow him out into the pitch black that was the middle of the desert. He instructed us to each walk about fifteen steps away from each other. All alone, we were to sit or lie down on the ground and take ten minutes for ourselves to just stare up at the stars.
These ten minutes felt like a lifetime. A million and one thoughts crossed my mind. The main thought that still stays with me: how lucky we all were to be here in this place and time. I thought about how this land beneath us had been here long before us, before our parents, our grandparents and so on, and that we need to respect the Earth that we live on. I thought about how we all need to love each other and care for one another, because why else are we here? We weren’t placed on this planet to fight or hate each other.
We were all separated from each other on the desert floor, but I still felt so connected to everyone around me, and to everyone in the universe for that matter. I must admit that in these ten minutes I cried. I didn’t cry out of sadness or pain. I cried because those were the most beautiful ten minutes I’d yet to experience, moments that I’ll always treasure. People spent days, weeks, months on end wandering this desert in the blistering heat — I understood how they found their God out there. I realized how important it was to be absolutely present, to enjoy the here and now.
Now about my struggle with being Hispanic and Jewish? This trip provided me with some clarity. The person I was before I boarded the plane for Israel was not that same person who landed in the U.S.
Before I traveled to Israel, I didn’t understand fully that I was about to step foot into a place in which it’s simply ok to be Jewish. It is something to be celebrated. No one is hiding and everyone is proud to be who they are. And it’s ok if you have wrestled with doubts about God– you’re still Jewish.
Now before you start thinking that this essay is about how I discovered my Jewish faith and found my homeland, well, I’m sorry to disappoint. Yes, being in Israel helped me experience for the first time a connection to this other side of me. The Jewish side of me. And that is important.
The reality is that I am Jewish. And I am Hispanic. But I never knew how to embrace those two essential aspects of myself and to join them as one. The spirituality I had been seeking in the last year of my life was finally actualized at the Western Wall and on the desert floor. It was something I could feel in my body, and that’s powerful. That awakening helped me to understand my place in this universal consciousness that we’re all bound by, but most importantly, my acceptance of others has helped me accept myself. Just as I am.
Taglit means discovery. This can’t be coincidental.
