I didn’t want to write about this again. At first, I thought, the words I published this time last year would suffice.
They don’t.
I am not here to explain war. There are people who have dedicated their lives’ work to understanding history and forming their opinions. Regurgitating facts for you here would be a limited sample size no better than the hors d’oeurvres you’ve been served online. I am reasonable enough to know we won’t get there today. I wish more people realized how much bigger this is than what they think they’ve learned in three weeks. To those trying in earnest, I say, keep going. To those looking to justify hatred, I say, you will find what you’re looking for. This conflict runs dark and deep. I will not reduce it for those seeking a more palatable plot.
Several friends sought use of this platform to share their feelings in guest posts, but the only responsible story I can offer is my own. I hope the following moves readers who hold space for empathy, something we should all be striving for, especially for every single one of the innocent lives lost and forever changed.
In January 2017, my baby daughter started preschool at our local Jewish Community Center. At the time, I remember trying to explain to a colleague how the temperature of hatred against Jewish people in America was rising along with our new president. We felt it like the early onset of a flu. He thought I was overexaggerating, until the bomb threat came in.
My daughter was 13 months old. She was too young to stay awake, let alone, understand. Building staff rushed to help the teachers in the infant room evacuate our sleeping babies. They rolled them in their cribs out through a side door.
Alongside all the firsts that took place in that infant room, our babies experienced an inevitable first: their first threat of violence for being Jewish.
We had just relocated from New York City seeking a peaceful, more predictable environment to raise a family in. Becoming a mother unleashed so much fear in me that I found it impossible to forgive our nanny for her white lies and inconceivable to trust the randomness outside of our apartment building. Our new suburb gave me the promise of that respite. One might conclude that after the threat, I learned my assumption was clearly wrong, but that’s not how it went. That’s not how I think.
With the imminent threat over, I looked around and saw the importance in what we had. The strangers willing to protect my helpless child and the parents who understood the emotional depth of what just occurred formed an instant, unspoken bond: one of a Jewish community that knew why we needed each other.
We knew who else was there.
Most of us grew up facing isolated threats of antisemitism. That wasn’t the first time. I’ve experienced them at every religious and affiliated institution I’ve ever been a part of. Most American Jewish children today are fortunate enough to compartmentalize such incidents as those when the people and things in place to protect them did their jobs. They befriend our armed guards and play games around the security bollards after school. They do not see the invisible strings of hatred weaving these acts together, while we, their parents, feel them tightening around us.
I could never normalize antisemitism, but I have become less shocked by its presence. We are one of history’s most recurrent targets, a truth etched in religious text and the recorded horrors of modern warfare. If you’ve ever stood inside a cattle car at the Holocaust Memorial Museum like I did as a young girl or any such installation around the world, you will not accept another version of the truth. We don’t learn how it feels in textbooks. We inherit a duty to feel, an alarm bell passed through generations of our will to survive. We are taught to live; and not just live but thrive. We place such value in improving our human capital that we continue to succeed in the face of repeated attempts to exterminate us. What a unique double-edged sword: to elevate ourselves straight out of the world’s sympathy.
I would not call myself a victim. Quite the contrary. In my circles, many American Jewish people haven’t prioritized our community over other aspects of our very American lives. Some would call that a privilege—to get to decide when it matters. I don’t know. When I look back over the years that I strayed farthest from this defining piece of who I am, it’s no coincidence I was looking to become someone else.
When I flew down to the University of Florida early for sorority recruitment, I knew I was different but thought for some reason they’d appreciate that. Even though Hillel fed me my first home cooked meal, I still rebuked the idea that I needed to be categorized as *Jewish* before anyone saw the rest of me. I always wanted to do things my own way—to be an exception—and expand my world view by expanding my circle of friends. How naïve. More than one house commented on my curly hair, which I straightened after round one. Another on my Star of David necklace, which I quietly removed. And yet, in the final round, I sat in three houses and still didn’t want to choose one of the predominant Jewish sororities. I’ll never forget when my sister-to-be said to me, “You can’t really fight who you are.” What a sweeping statement for someone who had known me all of 15 minutes, but she wasn’t wrong.
The most personal moments of my life are tied to being Jewish: leading the service for my bat mitzvah; standing under the chuppah at our wedding; giving my children their Hebrew names. Even in the best times, though, we might take for granted the connection. When we get caught up in the fanfare of the celebration, our customs can fall second to the glitz of it all.
Maybe that’s why our moments of sorrow are so salient. Stripped of all else, we just are who we are, looking around to see who else is there.
The last few weeks have been hard.
I hesitate to share my darkest thoughts. I can’t handle being accused of unduly centering myself in this conflict or using inflammatory words for attention’s sake. But suffice to say, the allusions to our past are no longer allusions. Our intergenerational trauma lives right now. My mind keeps returning to the bomb threat years ago—our sleeping babies in their cribs, all grown up now. Their sleeping babies, who never will.
When calls for a day of rage echoed across the world, I was scheduled to visit our JCC that day. Many parents chose to keep their kids home; another bunch pressed on but paced outside the building, nervous to leave. My knee-jerk reaction was to be frustrated with those who didn’t show, but who am I to judge someone else’s fear. The preschool gathered, like they always do, at less than half capacity. I sat with my youngest daughter as she and her classmates shared the imaginary glow of their flashlight candle, bringing in the light of Shabbat; bringing light to a darkness they don’t know. It felt so good to be there. I wish everyone was there.
The last few weeks have been a wakeup call for many, a collective push to redefine our sense of community and its importance in our lives. We’re showing up, nourishing, collaborating, and protecting our relationships. Through the horror, we have this one beautiful thing: the world always reminds us how much we need each other.
Four nights after Shabbat, I found myself at a school board meeting in town, for reasons I won’t breathe more oxygen into beyond focusing on this one point: there weren’t a few of us. There were probably 200 of us, there to speak our truth and support those who did. As each person walked through the cafeteria doors to join the audience, our collective inner strength rose. Despite being one of the heaviest evenings I’ve ever linked to my personal Jewish experience, we looked around the room, and we could see who else was there.
In this moment, we’re together. We are all here.
Sending love, light, and strength to everyone who needs it. I’m here: averagejoelle3@gmail.com.
Thank you for writing this and sharing it! ♥️
Beautifully written!