We Hope. We Love. We Survive.
We Hope. We Love. We Survive.
We are Jewish, and we teach our children to have faith.
This past week, a story was told in three different voices. The first voice told of a young boy who was afraid to wear his kippah to the bus stop. While surrounded by friends, caring grownups, and familiar voices, he still hesitated to put it on - preferring to wait until he was ensconced in his seat on the bus. Another voice told of two teenagers walking down the street. What would have otherwise been an uneventful stroll up the block to synagogue, ended with racing hearts and running feet. As they strolled in their all-too-familiar neighborhood, they were approached by three other boys - just about their age and spat at,
“You dirty Jews, Zionist genocide supporters - you should kill yourselves.”
A third voice told of a young man standing in a local park, wearing his kippah and tzitzit, and being attacked - for no other observable reason. Echoes of voices - including my own - tell their sons to wear baseball caps rather than kippahs because there are people here who don’t like Jewish people.
Why not? comes the inevitable question. What have we done to them that they hate us so much? Indeed, what have we - a nondescript family minding their own business - done to people who chant for our death, and spit in our faces? Why is our parade - one of dozens that take place over the course of the year -the only one in New York City that needs airport-level security? Why is it that over the last few weeks, my messages have been filled with request from heartbroken parents whose children were rejected from internships, jobs, and social groups because they are Jewish? Israeli? Belong to a synagogue? identify as Zionist? Why is it, that even within our own institutions, we cannot agree that feeling connected to Israel is something that we should be proud of- where we can’t even have conversations that don’t end in tears?
We are all asking ourselves - and each other - these questions. We are telling stories of fear and hate to each other at the playground, as our children squeal gleefully in the sprinklers. We tell them to each other in the carpool lane, as we also nervously gaze to make sure we aren’t holding up traffic. We tell them to each other in text messages, WhatsApp groups that would otherwise be just about youth groups and meal trains, over lunches and dinners, and in hurried whispers at the supermarket. We tell each other these stories, while also being weary of others who might hear us. We look over our shoulders, pull our children tighter, and close our circles. We look carefully at our list of social-media friends and professional networks before we post about our trip to Israel, our Jewish identity, and our horror at mainstream media’s portrayal of our pain. We wonder - what would these people think if they knew how much we were afraid?
These stories are not new stories. Versions of these stories have been told so many times since October 7th, that they have folded in on one another and grown to be one amorphous cloud of dread. In truth, these stories stretch back far beyond October 7th, 2023. They stretch as far back as 2014, 2005, 1967, 1948, to 1897, to 481 BCE. These stories stretch back as far as Jewish people - the smallest minority in the history of the world - have existed. Raising proud, joyful, open Jewish children in a world that insists on sending them messages of hate becomes more and more challenging with each decade. Events like the horrendous, unimaginable, despicable attacks of October 7th - and the gut wrenching waves of antisemitism that echoed out from it - reignite questions in the minds of Diaspora Jews (Jewish people that live outside of Israel) about whether they are safe where they are, and maybe it is time to think about moving (back) to Israel. Some of us even start to look around at our coworkers and neighbors and think, would they hide me?
I often think about the fact that in order for the world to believe that the carnage and destruction of October 7, 2023 actually happened, we’ve had to invite people to take tours of the ravaged areas. We are the only nation in the history of the world that has to indulge the world’s fascination with scar-gazing just to justify the existence of our wounds. In order for Anderson Cooper to believe, he had to go and see - the hours of footage provided by the actual attackers weren’t enough proof. In order for the United Nations to decry the use of violence against women, and sexual violence - Sheryl Sandberg had to make a documentary. We are force-fed images of people celebrating the deaths of our brothers and sisters. Still, a few of the hundreds taken hostage are found alive, our people weep with relief, hug strangers, and dance with our children.
Thunder rumbles in the background as I write this post - Shabbat fast approaches, and the sounds of the oven ticking into Shabbat mode, and my two older children getting themselves ready fills the house. My baby snoozes on my lap, blissfully snuggled in between my body and my laptop - her usual position when I write these posts. On the outside, this might look like a typical Shabbat eve in a Jewish home - one gazing in through the window of the den might not see that in our preparation, we are lighting extra candles for hostages still missing, for loved ones departed, and for soldiers far from home.
Someone peeking into our dining room as we light candles, might not hear that we are still - some two hundred and too many days into a war we didn’t want - praying for hostages to go free, and for soldiers to come home safely, and for peace to settle. Someone pressing their ear to the door might not notice the thousands of years of pain that exist in the lyrics of our most essential songs, prayers, and blessings. They might not understand why every Shabbat, parents pray over their children, and ask God to keep them safe. They wouldn’t know that every single day since the start of this war, our children have prayed with their teachers and classmates - and heard stories of loss, fear, and deep pain. They wouldn’t even realize that some of those teachers have themselves gone to the front lines - or have children still there.
Don’t our children deserve to walk down the street in their religious garb without fear of being hated? threatened? beaten?
Don’t our children belong in spaces where all children belong?
Why is hate and bigotry not okay - until it’s about us?
Why does it have to be #MeTooUnlessYou’reAJew?
The storm intensifies around us - the rain splatters our windows, and the voices of demonstrators marching down city streets calling for our deaths reach unfathomable peaks. It would be easy for us to fall into desperation, to get lost in the endless headlines that demonize Israel, to feel the gut-punch every day. It would be easy to hide under baseball caps, not raise our hands when asked if we are Zionist, and hide in the shadows. It would be easy - because each and every one of us has a story of being afraid to be Jewish in public. For some of us, myself included - those stories include people hurting us, telling us that we are dirty, and “punishing” us for who we are. Every new headline is another direct lightning strike into wounds that we just can’t heal. That we aren’t allowed to heal.
How do we cope? We hold each other’s arms tightly as we close the dance circle around our children, for whom we want to preserve the sparkle of the music. We belt out songs with them about love of country, and hope for peace - to drown out the shouts of protests just outside our doors. We create spaces for our children to thrive, to freely love and live Jewishly, and we invite others to join us in these spaces - to choose love over hate.
This past week was the holiday of Shavuot - it is one that I both love and less-than love. I love the fact that the ethos of this holiday is one of learning together, often in large community gatherings, receiving Torah, and eating lots of dairy. I less-than-love that all of this happens while staying up all night. As the youth director in our synagogue, I get to host an overnight Tikkun Leil - an all night learning for teens and tweens (that is anyone aged 10 -18 for those who wonder). Every year, I fret over last minute registrations, buy way too many snacks, and line up a kick-ass group of speakers and teachers who come just to teach our young people. Every year I wonder - do the kids even want to learn? - and every year, I am joyfully surprised by the dozens of teens and tweens that lumber through the door, spread out in our youth group rooms, and come prepared to learn. This year was no different - except that perhaps there were even more of them, many of whom identify as being on the fringes of Jewish observance, or not even at all. This year, we had more 10 year olds than ever - eager to connect with their older peers, and learn from our community’s teachers. I promised everyone I would leave after 30 minutes - but at 1:30am, I was still standing in awe of these incredible young people being joyfully Jewish in this space.
These very same kids had the week prior marched with their schools in solidarity with Israel. Many of these kids have attended rallies, given of their time, resources, and energy to help with lovingkindness. Some of these teens have written articles, spoken in front of politicians, and held their heads - with kippahs - proudly in the face of angry demonstrtions. Some of these kids were still wondering how to help, and used this space to ask their peers - how did you know what to do? Some of these kids don’t interact with clergy much during the year, but on this day stayed up until dawn to ask questions, and wonder, out loud - what does it mean to me to lean into my faith?
Shabbat is less than an hour away now, and the storm is passing. The sky is still cloudy, and the air misty with the memories of rain. Lightning no longer forks across the sky, but we can still hear thunder rumbling in the distance. We know that this moment of stillness is ephemeral, and yet we play our simcha (happy) music a little bit louder. The storms are never far, and yet we still lean into moments where we can celebrate life. In every law that we follow - some stricter than others- there is always a contingency about times of war. We must celebrate holidays - even in the depravation of death camps. We must sing louder, dance faster, and create more spaces for our children to be happy Jews. Even as my son’s Kindergarten teacher taught him about the Iron Dome defense system, they still gathered in a circle and danced to a song about the people of Israel living and thriving. Even as we hire security guards, arm our schools with police officers, and train one of our eyes to be constantly vigilant - we learn Torah, sing together while hugging, and celebrate life after life.
We teach our children to have faith, to believe in love and hope over hate and despair, and that even though their fears are real, and yes there are people who hate us for being Jewish - we are so damn lucky to be here.
Pass the leftover cheesecake.