An ode to October 6, 2023

This blog post is more personal than others, as I want to share my feelings, experiences, and concerns as an American Jew since October 7.

These do connect to the broader geopolitical happenings in the Middle East and their reverberations globally. I hope you’ll read this with an open mind and consider that my feelings, which happen to be echoed by many other Jews I’ve spoken to, are honest and shouldn’t be eyerolled away.

The Uncomfortable Jew: 1985 - 2006

For most of my life I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my Jewishness, which probably stems from the fact that I’m not biologically/ethnically Jewish. I always thought that I’d be ‘taken more seriously’ as a Jew if only I had the dark brown curly hair, the brown eyes, the last name ending in -berg, -witz, or -stein. (As if Jews are a monolith.)

I spent most of my life adding an unnecessary qualifier when I’d tell people I was Jewish: “I know I don’t look Jewish, but I was Bat Mitzvahed!” or “I’m not ethnically Jewish, but I did Birthright!” or the clear winner, “I have a bagel blog!”

At the end of the day, my own inferiority complex was mostly self imposed, but it was also external. No Jewish person ever asked me to explain “how” I was Jewish or made me feel ‘less than’. In reality, any doubts came from the outside (goyim) who expressed confusion at how I could be Jewish because of XYZ.

Nevertheless Judaism has always jived with me. It was my old Jewish relatives’ biting humor and quick wit. It was my Rabbi’s sermons that promoted reflection, self-improvement, and how to handle real-world problems with the invisible hand of Judaism as a guide. It was another Chicago-based Rabbi who explained that ‘God is like the force in Star Wars’ which actually made 100% sense to me. It was Seinfeld; bagels; apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah; the shofar; meeting Holocaust survivors.

It was the balancing act of self-deprecating humor with sorrow for our history, the love of life and the utter lack of emphasis on the afterlife. It was the Jewish grandma aesthetic: the bold jewelry, the over-abundance of black clothing, the colorful and loud artwork.

It was the mazel tovs, the l’chayims, and the scandalous Yiddish words. It was the realization that it’s more than a religion, it’s a tribe; a ‘portable suitcase’ a la Rudy Rochman. It was Never Again.

The Motherland and beyond: 2006 - 10.6.2023

My 2006 Birthright trip was when I finally made peace with my Jewish imposter syndrome while camping with a Bedouin community (which I highly recommend if you ever find yourself in a position to do so.) At night, our Birthright leader had us wander into the desert alone. It was then—admiring the after-hour desert vibes while also low-key panicking that I’d wander off too far because I couldn’t see jack shit—that I realized it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, that my relationship with Judaism was my own and didn’t require explanation.

This trip to Israel was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and intense experiences. I entered the country unsure of whether I believed it had a right to exist; I navigated my time there confused by Israelis’ mix of bluntness and emotional depth and sensitivity; I left considering making aliyah.

I experienced the most intense relaxation after a Bedouin meal in the desert and I experienced the country’s turmoil in the aftermath of a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv, which had struck only one day after I had left by bus for Eilat.

Photo by Adam Jang on Unsplash

My Judaism felt like a natural propeller for my genuine interest in geography, history, and people. I’ve always been fascinated with meeting people from other countries, which probably explains my lifelong obsession with learning as many languages as possible. To me, Judaism seeks to understand while acknowledging that we don’t always have the answer. It has taught me to be curious and empathetic; to be a good person (which I’m sure I fail at often.) To try to make the world a better place: tikkun olam.

Up until October 6, I had gone through my what-kind-of-Jew-am-I journey while also having my own experiences with anti-Semitism, both directly (being called a dirty Jew, being the butt of Jew jokes growing up, etc.) and indirectly (witnessing the rapid increase in anti-Semitism after Donald Trump took office.) I always hoped for a world that could be free of anti-Semitism, but I also understood it as something we would most likely always contend with. But ultimately I felt safe as a Jew in a world that at best didn’t care about Jews one way or another or actively wanted to exterminate us at worst.

The day time stopped

I was at my neighborhood block party when I saw the first clips of the Nova music festival being attacked. At the time, I couldn’t really process what was happening. It was such a horrific thing to watch unfold, akin to watching a livestream of Jews making their one-way walk into the gas chamber while wondering why a chimney is puffing smoke on a summer day. In the days and weeks after October 7, I felt like an open wound. I was angry, sad, disgusted, and disappointed. The attack itself was bad enough, but the utter silence from the world spoke defeaning volumes.

To this day, I can’t figure out if Americans haven’t connected the dots between the massacre in Israel and Jews in the U.S.; if they don’t care, or if they simply don’t know what to say. At times, it has felt as if expressing any sort of empathy or support has been avoided lest it appear to be a political statement. I hope I’m wrong.

I have periodically posted stories to Instagram trying to explain how Jews feel: how we should be able to hold multiple, albeit conflicting and complex, truths in our head at once; that nuance, while incredibly uncomfortable, is so important to carving a path forward; that Jews need to be heard when we say that anti-Semitism is a major problem, not just for us, but for everyone; that non-Jewish or non-Palestinian Americans, while hopefully well-intentioned, should value listening over yelling; that, perhaps as a response to America’s disastrous post-9/11 foreign policy in the Middle East, people on the far left are over-correcting in such a way that will only lead to more strife, conflict, and death in a region they will never experience firsthand; that it’s easy to participate in online armchair activism, contributing to a slow buildup of rage, resentment, and anger that will never put you in harms way.

Since October 7, the way I understood the world and the Jews’ place in it has done a complete 180. I firmly believe that Israel lost the war the day it began. Knowing how terrorists operate, Hamas has won the war from a public relations point of view, which is incredibly important for its ability to proliferate. Hamas leadership essentially has to do very little (except not be killed and try to keep some hostages alive to use as leverage…which apparently is not so much of a priority, considering the amount of deceaseed hostagess that have been recovered this week), knowing that the majority of the world empathizes with Gaza and sees Israel as the overly-powerful aggressor. At least, this is my perception.

Existential dread

Yes, I can be hyperbolic. I have a flair for the dramatic. But when I say that, since October 7, I have had a low-grade sense of existential dread, I am not exaggerating. I am incredibly concerned by what we’ve seen happen on college campuses. Certainly I believe most protests have been peaceful, uneventful, and motivated by legitimate concerns. But that can’t excuse or justify some of the very 1930s Germany-style vitriol seen in the encampents. Nor can Jews overlook the fact that multiple European countries have recognized Palestinian statehood; this in itself I have no issue with, but I do have issue with the fact that it came on the heels of the worst slaughter of Jews since the Holocaust.

I have questioned whether to remove my mezuzah or my gefilte fish magnet from my car. I’ve wondered if my kids would be better off simply not knowing they’re Jewish. I’ve tucked away my chai necklace when I’ve gone into certain places. I’ve hidden the fact that I’ve been to Israel in the middle of conversations about the Middle East, unrelated to the war. I know Jews who have considered changing their last name to use Uber or Lyft, just to avoid harassment or worse.

These are things no one should ever have to do, especially in a country that promises religious freedom. These are things no one should ever have to even think about doing. They are things I never in a million years would’ve thought I’d do living in the U.S.

What I have done is try to make sense of it all. To try to practice tikkum olam in a climate where so many people are angry, outraged, and ready to point fingers at the other side. I have extended a hand to my Muslim neighbhors, making it a point to tell them that I reject Islamophobia and want them to know they have a friend in me, that they should always feel safe in our neighhorhood. I have tried to check in on people I do know in Israel, who I sadly can’t get a hold of. I have written long-winded notes, only to delete them because they feel too raw, too scattered. I have talked to myself in my car. I have found solace in the few other Jews I know who do, for better or for worse, know exactly how I have felt. At the end of the day, only Jews understand how it feels to be Jewish in this period and all we can do is support each other and try to be good humans.

Glimmers of hope

What does give me some shred of optimism is knowing that, despite the insane amount of toxicity on social media, there are people who are tirelessly advocating for peace and understanding. People who see the humanity in both Israelis and Palestinians and understand that, in essence, they are family. In the wake of Raisi’s death, I see hope for the people of Iran who have been held hostage by their theocratic government for decades. That, if they can take back their country, perhaps they can also help the people of Palestine, Israel, Yemen, Lebanon, and Syria. I see the possibility of a landmark agreement between Saudi Arabia solidifying Israel’s right to exist in the Middle East, after countries like Jordan, Egypt, the UAE, Bahrain, Sudan, and Morocco have normalized relations over the years.

At the end of the day, history plays out in realtime in a chess-like manner, being shaped by a combination of citizens’ free will, leaders’ calculations, natural disasters, and the random act of God. The reason I love being a student of history is not just understanding the past but using it to inform what could happen in the future. I believe history repeats itself as generations pass and the triumphs and atrocities of the past shift from being firsthand accounts to oversimplications in a textbook (do students use those anymore?) I also believe that, sometimes, humanity can avoid repeating its mistakes when brave leaders advocate tirelessly for progress against repressive regimes (e.g. Ahmad Massoud v. the Taliban.) But time will tell what unfolds in the Middle East. The winds of change have been turbocharged as of October 7 and they won’t just be confined to Israel and Palestine. If the pandemic taught us anything, it’s that we are all more interconnected than we think, so we must all take a step back and make thoughtful decisions about how we engage with each other, lest those conflicts will arrive at our doorstep, too.