This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
Shortly after the October 7th Hamas attacks in Israel, a member of my private Jewish Writers’ Facebook group wanted to know if the war and the rise of antisemitism made us feel and act more Jewish. Had we started wearing a Star of David necklace, or a kippah? Were we going to synagogue more regularly?
The response was overwhelming. Within an hour, fifty-six women said yes! My fellow Jewish writers were using their Hebrew names, putting on their Jewish jewelry, and attending vigils and protests.
But smack-dab in the middle of the feed was my comment. No, I wrote. I didn’t want to be Jewish at all. Judaism meant terrorism and antisemitism. It meant war and death.
And there I was, amongst my own people – alone.
I am often alone as a Jew. I live in Kingston, Ontario, which has a small Jewish community. For most of my French-immersion students and coteachers I am the only Jewish person they know. Usually, being Jewish feels like a fun fact I share with students. Madame Lieberman can write your name in Hebrew! Madame Lieberman brings apples and honey in September to explain the Jewish New Year and her multiple fall absences!
This year, being Jewish felt like a burden. I wondered how to be a Jew in a non-Jewish world in a way that I never had before.
Following the October 7th Hamas attacks, colleagues reached out with hugs and asked about my family and friends in Israel. My principal let me know it was okay to take time off work if I needed it. I appreciated the support, but also braced myself for what I knew was coming: reactions to Israel’s retaliation. Some days I felt like I represented all persecuted Jews. Other days I felt like the lone symbol of Palestinian oppression. It made me not want to be Jewish at all.
Instead of celebrating Shabbat and going to synagogue – my usual Jewish activities – I watched the news and fallout on social media obsessively. In Israel one of my cousins was recalled to his tank and was serving in the Golan Heights. More immediate to my family and I, my son’s best friend had family in Gaza. Their house was bombed, and they were hiding in a hospital. My heart felt like it was going to break in so many ways.
Previously I’d been an outspoken critic of the Israeli government, but this time felt different, like a betrayal of my Israeli friends and family. I avoided both the pro-Israel and pro-Palestinian marches and vigils, uncomfortable with both, yet equally uncomfortable with not voicing my beliefs. I believed fiercely in both Israel’s right to exist and the need to end the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands.
“You are not responsible for all of Israel,” my husband, who is not Jewish, reminded me as we watched Israel bomb Gaza on the news. “Their actions aren’t necessarily your thoughts or beliefs.” While I knew this on the surface, I felt the responsibility of Kol yisrael arevim zeh bazeh–that all Jews are responsible for each other. Yet I shuddered to think of my Canadian colleagues and friends assuming that as a Jew I supported the Israeli government unequivocally.
I might have wanted to stop being Jewish, but Hanukkah was approaching, the one time of the year when non-Jews are typically most curious about my religious heritage. Colleagues wanted to know how to spell Hanukkah and to borrow my class set of dreidels. Students asked if I was going to wear my fun velour menorah dress and come to their class. I nodded and smiled, but mostly I felt like hiding under a rock.
My abstention on synagogue attendance only lasted a few weeks. Prior to the attack I had signed up to chant the Haftorah and I didn’t have the heart to cancel. I dragged myself to synagogue, unenthused about singing anything about Israel. But, I was glad I went. My rabbi, Erin Polansky, spoke directly to my heart’s brokenness. She said in this period of darkness we should try to reach out to other people, to be lights unto the world.
I grasped onto this fiercely. I couldn’t stop the rise of antisemitism or change perceptions of Israel any more than I could create a desperately needed ceasefire or the return of the hostages, but I could be a small light at school. And so during the darkness of November2023 – report card and flu season – I brought in a few small gifts for my colleagues.
I gave a coffee gift card to a friend struggling with a difficult class, and a bar of chocolate to my principal who covered a short-notice absence. Colleagues getting over colds were thankful for boxes of my favorite orange-flavored tea. My coworkers appreciated these small gifts because they were unexpected. And, like so many gestures of goodwill, I felt better for doing them.
During this time I also received numerous kind gestures from my students – not because they had to go to synagogue and hear it from their rabbis – but because they were naturally bright lights. Gabe brought me Starburst from his Halloween stash every day because he heard I liked them. Molly drew me countless pictures and wrote me sweet notes thanking me for helping her with girl drama. Emily brought me a blue elephant bracelet because she knew it was my favorite color and my favorite animal, despite me redirecting her multiple times a day to clean up her space and do her work.
Hanukkah came and I put on my velour menorah dress and taught the story of the holiday as a lesson for tolerance and religious freedom to as many students as my schedule would allow. My students made connections about human rights between Jews being denied their temple in Roman times, and the residential schools forced upon First Nations children that we were learning about in Social Studies. We played dreidel and ate chocolate coins. When I lit Hanukkah candles at my December staff meeting, several coworkers thanked me for sharing my traditions.
I felt better about being Jewish. My Judaism wasn’t only about war. It was about sending light into the darkness, spiritual practice, and the fight for human rights.
Recently I have been preparing for a leave from school to travel and write. While I was busy writing notes for the teacher who would finish the year, my students were making me a thank you book they presented to me on my last day. The kids wrote that I loved the color blue, elephants, and dancing, and that I wrote books. Almost every student included something Jewish. They drew Stars of David, shofars, and the Hebrew letter lamed, the first letter of my name. A few even took the time to look up how to write “favorite teacher” in Hebrew and copied it onto their page. I was both gobsmacked and deeply appreciative of how my students saw me – as their teacher, but also as a writer, a unique individual, and a Jew.
This, I learned, is how to be a Jew in a non-Jewish world. You fight antisemitism by being a role model, by sharing your traditions and fun foods. You hold grief and joy at the same time and try to find balance between tragedy and hope. And mostly you try to be a good human being.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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