Embracing Judaism in High School

My hands now fidget with my hostage dog tag, cool metal against burning skin, reminding me that this twisted reality is far more than a satirical nightmare. I will never be able to return to the innocent naïveté that existed before October 7, 2023. Black and white images of the Shoah suddenly were reimagined in terribly vivid color, my beautiful Jewish community burdened with weights we knew not how to carry. My mind will forever be scarred with infamous images of bloodied sweatpants, screenshots of last words, the eerie silence of the Nova festival grounds; silence… so much silence. Silence from peers, silence from my immediate community, silence from admired celebrities, and silence from many I had looked up to all my life.

On October 8th, a weight was placed on my shoulders, the very same burden still resting on every Jew, Israeli, and ally. The weight is realized in accusations of “colonizing Zionists,” “inhumane Jewish characters,” and “90 seconds left;” my teacher announces this at the end of class, and all I can think is how lucky I am that I’ve never been forced to run for my life in 90 seconds. I hug the preschoolers I teach each Sunday at my synagogue close because all I can see is 5-year-old Ariel Biba’s striking red hair. I take care to open social media in private spaces, praying not to find heartbreaking memories of fallen heroes or other victims of a terror attack. “Yitkadal V’Yidkadash Sh’mai Raba,” begins my evening routine, and a final check of WhatsApp update channels concludes it. Red signs and yellow ribbons and blue flags and thin metal dog tag chains have, and will continue to, define my last two years leading up to adulthood.

To put it plainly, myself, along with much of the Jewish community, is terrified. Again, silence. Recently, pleas of “I’m not Jewish,” ring in our ears from Amsterdam’s attacks. “This is Never Again!” we cry, yet the world's lips aren't moving with ours. Too much noise, too many notifications, too many sirens, too many accusations, too many, too much, from the left and the right, peers and friends. “Next year in Jerusalem” is now countered with “will the holy land remain a year from now?”

Yes, this is an atypical teenage experience. A majority of my school peers cannot begin to imagine receiving rocket notifications in the middle of class, nor should they have to. As one of few Jews at my public high school, it is hard to relate experiences of tokenization, isolation, antisemitism, and more to peers and adults alike.

But I am reminded every day that this is not a burden I would ever give up. Growing up in a large Reform synagogue that felt more like a family than a religious institution, the values of tikkun olam, ruach, and b’tzelem elochim were carved into me at a young age. Bagels for breakfast, shakshuka on special nights. Babka and black-and-white cookies take me back to post-shabbat service onegs as a small girl, always topping my pile of dessert with one more treat when my mom wasn't looking.

I’d grown up encountering antisemitism as well, although it wasn't as obvious to me as the joy for my heritage. The first time I was told I would go to hell for being Jewish, I was six. My middle school memories are clogged with visions of paper swastikas meticulously folded and slid onto my desk, interrogations demanding I show my peers where I “hid the Israeli bombs,” and tasteless attempts at Holocaust comedy. I had no idea how to respond – what 12-year-old does? But as I aged into high school and innocent ignorance transformed into intentional malice, I realized I no longer had the liberty to not take action over rhetoric used against me and my community.

I began speaking at school board public commentary sessions on my experiences as a minority, recommending programs and presenting insight. I applied for more advocacy and education-based programs, gradually understanding that this was a fight I felt called towards. This past year, after becoming a Tikvah scholar and StandWithUs Kenneth Leventhal High School Intern, I have no doubts in my mind over my intentions to go into Jewish and Israeli advocacy.

This fight is something that I feel called to, a field I know that I, alongside so many others, can truly make a difference in. The more lectures I give, the more presentations I prepare, the more programs I plan, the more the idea cements that this is where I am meant to make an impact. Never do I feel more dynamic nor purposeful than in front of an empathetic crowd willing to learn, whether they’re audiences at events I organize via aforementioned programs, live podcast recordings, or in-person lectures.

As I prepare both for my future in this sphere and my future in education, all of the same fears remain on my mind. As many of our non-Jewish peers excite themselves with college applications, my Jewish friends and I are researching college campus climates and their policies on BDS, and Title Six. Many rising college freshmen are already planning dorm decor, while I am debating the risks of hanging a mezuzah on a dorm door.

Yet, as with all facets of Jewish life, where there is fear, there is also so much hope. I cannot wait to explore Jewish life on campus. I can already imagine group havdalah under dark skies, leading songs and prayers in proud voices, carrying my childhood tunes of Oseh Shalom, Shema, and Hashkeivenu with me. I’ll wear my tallit, carefully laying it over my shoulders, feeling the generational weight and comfort. Maybe I’ll even bring my siddur from home, and trace the gold Hebrew font carved into the hardback cover. I’ll look down to see my Magen David necklace lying across my chest; in this world, I no longer have to wear the hostage dog tag. 

It is in these moments that I feel most grateful to be a part of our community. Yes, it is intricate and it is difficult. Yet again, I would never give it up. The lived experiences of the international Jewish and Israeli community continue to give more nuance to the phrase Am Yisrael Chai. We will not only live and prosper safely in our ancestral homeland, but we will all truly live, our culture celebrated, our peoplehood strong, our community united. This is the future I am working and will continue working for—a world where our community thrives and where Am Yisrael Chai isn’t just a statement of survival but a testament to our vibrant and beautiful heritage.