I own a lovely little Magen David pendant. My grandmother bought it for me in Israel many moons ago and I don it around my neck at the start of every year’s High Holidays.
A ritual I have.
A ritual I keep.
And at the end of Yom Kippur, I take my star off. I don’t hide it – I never hide it – I simply put it away for safekeeping until the next High Holidays.
At the end of Yom Kippur 2023 I didn’t take off my star. Not knowing why, but I had this feeling that I needed to keep it on. I needed to have my faith, my traditions, my heritage and my identity as close to me as I could. Having the star around my neck made me feel so much more connected to Jews around the world and to Jews throughout all time, and to Jews yet to come.
I wanted my son, who hadn’t turned two yet, to see the star around my neck for a little longer.
To finger the corners with his sweet digits, to pull on the chain, to try and claim it as his – as he does with all my belongings.
I didn’t know why but I didn’t take it off; I couldn’t take it off.
When the news of October 7 started to unfold, when I started to understand or thought I had an understanding of what was happening in Israel, my star felt heavy around my neck.
Heavy and big.
As though everyone could see it and it was the only thing about me they could see.
Except, I wanted to be seen. I wanted others to know what was happening to me, to my sisters and brothers, to my aunts and uncles… to my clan.
The horror of October 7, the grief and the heartache, the dismay and the disbelief, they all felt short lived. I found myself consumed with two equally desperate situations: the return of hostages and the global turn to antisemitism. As hundreds of men, women and children were held captive by the monsters who devastated kibbutzim and a peace loving music festival, radical protesters – who debase what freedom of speech is actually for – yelled “gas the Jews”.
All so sudden, it felt.
All so cruel, it was.
The tsunami of antisemitism gathered at incredible speed. The wave rose and continues to rise higher and higher. It’s not the usual suspects, not the usual antisemites who are forcing us to climb the tallest trees away from the rising ocean waters, away from the ocean monsters. The collective of hate is diverse and heart wrenchingly includes our former allies and friends. And while we Jews throw each other lifejackets and ropes, our hostages are still not home.
Of course many stand in support of Jews and Israel. Many have spoken against using our nightmare as the greenlight for a deafening blast of antisemitism. And there will be many who, despite their political or social or even religious leanings, will always condemn the barbarism of October 7; however, the antisemitism linked to the savagery of October 7 took me by surprise.
It felt weak to be surprised. Hadn’t I prepared for years, wholeheartedly believing that it was my generation’s time to hear and see and feel and try to survive yet another atrocity on our people?
But what can prepare one for the slaughter of Jewish children and the rape of Jewish bodies and then swiftly vilifying anything Jewish?
The only thing I ended up preparing for was saving myself from asking how and why could this ugly, unfair, uncalled for hatred happen. The answers for Jews were, are and will be, because we’re Jews.
My city, the city I have so proudly and faithfully called home, isn’t safe for me, for my family, for my friends, or for my tribe. I tell myself I’m exaggerating and I walk with my star out in the open.
My son and I went to the beach in the warmer months of 2024, and a man sitting by the sand noticed my necklace. He said, “It’s good you’re wearing it.”
I replied why shouldn’t I… I have nothing to hide.
He said, “People don’t realise it’s complicated.”
I agree.
People don’t realise that post October 7 everything is different, is what I should’ve said.
Maybe he could’ve explained to me why hateful posters were and are plastered on my childhood streets. Or why bitter and maddening social media posts, cloaked in virtue signalling and the hypocrisy of selective social justice, are made by my employer.
Maybe he had seen and had something to say about the antisemitic propaganda around the corner from my son’s daycare. Perhaps he’d help my friends and their children in neighbourhoods where Jews were and are more vulnerable than the neighbourhood where we had our short interaction.
Perhaps… At least, at least, he thought “it’s complicated”. That was generous.
When the one year anniversary of October 7 ticked over, I took stock of the deep, exhausting sadness I had felt throughout the year. I reflected on moments I felt broken for and with fellow Jews. Friends confessed they were tired of explaining and defending Israel and Judaism and Zionism. But our strength, the collective strength of Jews, after thousands of years of persecution is that we go on, we strive and yes, we thrive. Those same friends, despite their battle wounds, took a moment, and then were back to advocating and standing up for our Jewish identity and our existence. It’s what inspires me, even as I write this.
And so do those who aren’t Jewish but see the situation with moral clarity, truth, and humanity. I gain strength and wisdom from those who talk and write and do the work of resistance and resilience for being Jewish or for supporting Jews.
I’ve never lived through a more fragile and uncertain period for my tribe. Hence, I remind myself that keeping my sanity and my heart open are both vital. Debilitating grief, fear, rage, even revenge are not who I am nor who the Jewish people are.
Thus, I hold on to my faith, which is now deeply palpable within my soul.
I intensely hope for the return of hostages.
I’m determined to imagine, reimagine and materialise peace in Israel.
There’s even trust that many will come to their senses, in their minds and hearts, and be pulled away from their hate.
In this very moment, wearing my star, lighting Shabbat candles, recalling Jewish jokes, gathering for festivals or just because… those are my acts of connection, defiance, and joy. And for those, I’m incredibly grateful.
