When I went on my Birthright trip to Israel 2 years ago, they asked us if we would ever hide our Jewish identity for our own safety. I believe the context was that we were going to be visiting Yad Vashem (the Holocaust museum in Israel) the next day. I thought about the question, and I thought back to my own experiences.
About a year before that trip I was spending a summer in Columbia, SC to work as an RA for a summer program. That was the same summer the Confederate flag was removed from the top of the State House. Groups in opposition to removing the flag gathered in protest. Such opposers included KKK, Neo-Nazis, and white supremacists. Knowing that these people harbored hate in their heart for me, just because of my faith, I made the decision to continue wearing my Star of David, exposing my identity despite the hate just down the road. I understood that choosing to wear it while those kinds of people were around could have consequences. But I refused to give into the fear they thrive on.
The question of hiding one’s identity came back to me in the summer of 2017, when the rally in Charlottesville turned violent. It was jarring to read the anti-Semitic language that was being hurled by protestors and magnified on large posters. I asked myself, “am I safe?”. Obviously, I was physically safe from any violence and hate from the Charlottesville protest. I was in a completely different state. But I began to worry about who else might be emboldened by such hatred, and whether they were around me. After all, I was living in a city that had previous problems with intolerance. I wondered if mine was a legitimate fear, would someone actually confront me? And could my non-Jewish friends understand, would they react if they were a witness? Despite these worries, I knew I would continue to choose to wear my Jewish Star – it is my identity and my right. Just that small act felt like defiance and strength.
I think about the question of hiding, of safety, now, after the tragedy in Pittsburgh. Those innocent souls probably felt safe. They might not have thought twice about the potential of being a target when they entered their synagogue to celebrate a life that Shabbat morning. Honestly, why should they be concerned, or timid to practice their faith on their day of worship?
I have also been thinking about my own experiences in places of worship. I note the police cars parked outside our synagogue some Shabbats and always on high holydays. Sometimes the sinister thought that we needed their protection would lurk in my mind. But usually I just told myself they were there for traffic control.
I’m grateful the officers are there, if they are truly there as a safety precaution. I just wish we didn’t need to be protected.
In my processing and reflecting I’ve turned to my parents. I was moved by what my dad said. He told us that when we went to services for this year’s high holydays, he first checked to see if we were near an exit in the sanctuary. Then he pondered the potential obstacles in our escape route, maybe a locked gate surrounding the playground? Next, he considered his course of action should the shooter enter the sanctuary. How he would try to protect me and my mom with his own body. As I sat listening I was faced with the thought that today in 2018, when we’ve come so far, when we as humanity have lived through so much, terror and hate still runs through our community.
I so desperately want evil and hatred to be exterminated from our country. But these days I’m struggling to see how.
How can I continue to act kindly, to treat others the way I want to be treated, when hate always seems to be lurking in the shadows, and now testing the light of day? I hope that I won’t have to live in a country where places of worship, and places of education, are flanked by a team of armed personnel. In my eyes we’re turning institutions that should be warm and inviting into cold, guarded compounds. Armed guards surrounding safe havens looks eerily like a military state governed by fear.
Through it all, I find myself thinking back to a conversation I had about identity my first year at school. I was discussing a prayer card with a friend. It was the Hebrew traveler’s prayer. We were discussing the prayer, and the context, and the faith and eventually persecution. He told me that as an African American man he could relate to some of the persecution Jews had overcome over the years. I nodded but mentioned that unfortunately, anti-Semitism was still an issue, it had never really gone away. It was at this moment another boy interjected. He told me that anti-Semitism really wasn’t a big issue anymore, not in recent years.
To that boy, and those who don’t believe anti-Semitism is a problem, I would like to point to the newspaper article I read this morning. The title reads “Rampage Kills 11 at a Synagogue in Pittsburgh”. One subheading reads, “A Grief Deep and Wide Fills a Shattered Jewish Neighborhood”. And another subheading reads, “Suspect in Custody Has a History of Anti-Semitism”.
I read these and I think about the fact that anti-Semitism never really went away, after all these years, after all these battles. And I think about my own Jewish identity, and my own experiences. I am worried about the climate of this country. I’m tired, and often a little scared.
Despite that, I’m choosing love over hate. I’m inspired by others who do the same, and I’m grateful for the compassion shown by so many.
I’m praying for the individuals who were senselessly slain by one hate-filled person. And I’m hoping that we all as a community will reach for love instead of hate, and extend a hand instead of grabbing a gun.
