I hadn’t really planned to write a blog post about Judaism or my Jewish identity this week, but after the devastating event that took place in Pittsburgh a little over a week ago, I’ve been thinking a lot about how important the Jewish community has been in my life. This post, therefore, feels both natural and relevant.
My family’s experience with Judaism has always been a bit complicated. My parents grew up in the former Soviet Union (my mom in what is present-day Russia and my dad in present-day Kazakhstan). Practicing Judaism at this time in this region was difficult, to say the least. Anti-Semitism was rampant; if you were Jewish and wanted to attend university, you had to have the right connections, otherwise your application would be thrown out. You could be refused a job or treated unfairly at work if anyone found out you were Jewish. Going to synagogue and practicing your religion was strongly discouraged, if not explicitly punished.
After years of facing anti-Semitism on a daily basis, my parents eventually decided enough was enough and applied for citizenship to Israel, the only Jewish state in the world and a place where they could practice their religion freely. My parents, along with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and some other extended family, eventually received citizenship and restarted their lives in this new country. My parents and older brother lived in Israel for about ten years, and in the latter half of those years, I was born. Then, in 2001, my family moved once more, this time to the United States, in search of better educational and career opportunities.
In the U.S., it was the Jewish community that helped my family integrate into a new society and culture. The first job my mom got was working in the preschool of the Chabad Center (a particularly religious synagogue chain) in Natick, which I also attended for about a year. Though the members of the Chabad congregation were a lot more religious than my family had ever been—and a lot more religious than most Israelis today really are—Chabad was integral to our transition to living in the U.S. because it provided a familiar culture in an otherwise completely new setting. After about a year or two of working at Chabad, my mom began working as a preschool teacher at Temple Israel of Natick (a conservative synagogue*), where I spent my final year of preschool and would eventually go on to attend Hebrew School.
Though my family was never particularly religious, I felt a strong connection to Judaism from a young age because I was born in Israel and spent so many years in Jewish preschools. My family only really attended synagogue on the High Holidays, but even as an elementary school-aged kid, I felt immense pride in being Jewish, both in the religious and cultural sense. In my public elementary school, there were only a handful of other Jewish students. I felt special coming from a culture that not a lot of people knew about. Whenever someone would ask me why Santa didn’t come to my house on Christmas or why I couldn’t eat bread for eight days over Passover, it made me excited to explain to them what it meant to be Jewish. I took every opportunity I could find to proudly share that I was from Israel, a country for other Jewish individuals like me, that was made all the more unique because most other students in my class didn’t even know it existed.
But as special as it was, being Jewish was also expensive—literally. Starting in kindergarten, I began attending Jewish Day Camp every summer, and would continue to do so, first as a camper and then eventually as a counselor, for thirteen summers. I was fortunate to receive a scholarship each summer from the Jewish Community Center, otherwise my family would have never been able to afford to send me to camp. And even with the generous scholarship, I could only attend camp for six weeks each summer (the number of weeks my mom worked at the Temple Israel preschool’s summer camp), instead of the full eight weeks, because it was so expensive. Each summer, my mom would also consider sending me to a Jewish overnight camp—an experience a lot of Jewish American children have growing up—but that was ultimately out of the question financially.
Most of the Jewish kids I knew started going to Hebrew school around kindergarten or first grade to eventually prepare for their Bar Mitzvah. For most of elementary school, however, my family couldn’t afford the annual synagogue membership fee, so I didn’t attend Hebrew School like the rest of my Jewish friends. I remember visiting my mom at work at Temple Israel on early release school days a few times and seeing the Hebrew School students studying in class or playing outside. I would feel ashamed each time I saw them that I couldn’t—for lack of better way to put it—be as Jewish as they were by studying Torah and learning about all the religious traditions of Judaism at Hebrew School. In fourth grade, I received an incredibly generous scholarship to attend Hebrew School for the first time at Temple Israel in preparation for my Bar Mitzvah. Though I was already a few years behind the other students, I was so excited to finally have a chance to learn more about the Jewish culture. I worked really hard to catch up. I went from having almost no knowledge of Hebrew to being in the advanced class in just two years, and in no time I also picked up on more of the religious traditions that I had known very little about before because my parents did not practice Judaism much or attend synagogue regularly.
Seventh grade—three years after I first started Hebrew School—was probably the peak of my connection to Judaism. It was the year that I turned thirteen and was set to have my Bar Mitzvah, the Jewish ceremony of transitioning from childhood to adulthood. It was also the year that my dad died, almost exactly one month prior to my scheduled Bar Mitzvah date. In the midst of this tragic and difficult time for my family, it was the Jewish community that stepped in more than anyone else to help. Members from synagogue—some of whom we didn’t even know—stopped by our house every day for almost two weeks, bringing food and organizing prayer services in my dad’s honor. Friends from Hebrew school came to my house several times to hang out and cheer me up. All the moms whose kids were in Hebrew School with me came together to help my family organize the logistics of my Bar Mitzvah. Whereas originally my family had planned to just have a small religious ceremony with no reception or celebration, the Hebrew School families helped us organize catering for a brunch after the ceremony, a photographer, and even a small party at a nearby mini golf place to celebrate the big day. They helped me design and send out all the invitations, and they even ordered yarmulkes with my name and Bar Mitzvah date printed on the inside to give to guests during the service. I felt so proud to be Jewish that year. I was part of a community that selflessly came together to support me when I needed it most.
More specifically, seventh grade was also the year I felt most spiritually connected to Judaism. I attended countless Bar and Bat Mitzvahs that year, and as a result, went to synagogue on Saturdays more than I had ever gone in my life prior. I found praying to be relaxing. It was a good way to reflect on what was going on in my life, make plans for things that I wanted to change, and be thankful for the good things that I did have.
In high school, my experience with Judaism changed once more, this time in a different direction. I began to distance myself a bit more from Judaism those four years. It wasn’t because of anything ideological—I still really valued the traditions and history—but because amidst a busy academic and extracurricular schedule, I just didn’t have much time to go to synagogue or keep up regularly with the Jewish holidays. I continued to attend Jewish summer camp and still went to synagogue for the High Holidays, but other than that, my Jewish identity mainly took a backseat to my identity as a student. I also hadn’t visited Israel in over five years by that point, so my connection to the country I had been born in was also starting to fade. I was proud to be Jewish culturally and ethnically; I just didn’t really practice the religious aspect of Judaism much in high school.
In college, I have continued to have a similar experience with Judaism as I did in high school. I’ve been involved with Harvard Hillel some: I went to several events my freshman year, travelled to Mexico for a Hillel-sponsored alternative spring break volunteer trip freshman spring, and went on the Birthright trip to Israel last winter. But I haven’t been nearly as proactive about going to services or attending weekly Shabbat dinners as I used to be in middle school. Part of this is due to a lack of time; my classes and other extracurricular activities keep me pretty busy. But another part is simply how I’ve come to view my Jewish identity over time. I used to believe that to be truly Jewish I had to practice the religion regularly: attend synagogue, celebrate Shabbat, read from the Torah. That’s why I wanted to attend Hebrew School so badly and why I felt the most Jewish—if Jewishness can even be quantified—in seventh grade. But lately, I’ve begun to understand that being Jewish is a lot more than keeping a specific set of traditions. The religious element of Judaism is just one piece of a much larger identity. I am Jewish because my family is Jewish; because I relate to the history of the Jewish people; because I know that when I need them, prayer and spirituality will always be there to help guide me through difficult times; because I value being part of a community that prioritizes chesed—acts of loving kindness—and tikkun olam—repairing the world. I am not Jewish simply because I have met some quota on the number of times I must attend services or pray.
This past week has made me think a lot about my Jewish identity and all the times that the Jewish community has been an important part of my life. My parents left the Soviet Union so they wouldn’t have to face anti-Semitism anymore. After hearing the news from last week, it is heartbreaking to know that it still exists, today, only 500 miles away from us. Though I did not know any of the shooting victims myself, reading their biographies online—which mentioned just how friendly and always willing to help out others these individuals were—reminded me of the many generous people in my own Jewish community who helped my family integrate into a new culture, find educational and work opportunities, and overcome tragedy. To see a part of the Jewish community broken up by one man’s hatred is devastating. At the same time, to see the resiliency of the Tree of Life Synagogue’s congregation is inspiring. Witnessing other Jewish communities around the world step up to offer aid and support makes me proud of my culture and my tradition, which shape so much of what I value today.
I am saddened by the recent events in Pittsburgh, but I am also as proud as ever to call myself Jewish. May the memories of the victims of the Tree of Life Synagogue shooting be a blessing.
On Ariel's Mind 
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