The Jewish-American Dichotomy

I was recently asked how it felt being Jewish right now.
After careful thinking, I realized that being Jewish within the current state of the world means to exist as a dichotomy.

I am grateful to be Jewish and carry that identity with strength outside my home.
We even display that strength on our home.
I am fearful that it makes my family a potential target.

I am moved that my son freely wears his Star of David necklace everywhere he goes, even to school.
But I am worried that the bullying he’s already faced is just the beginning.

I have clarity on the fact that evil and terror must be confronted and dealt with to make the world a safer place.
But I am confused by people or groups who espouse vile tropes while being part of a demographic that would be targeted themselves should they go to that region of the world.

I feel hopeful when reading about hostage returns and rocket interceptions.
Yet I feel helpless knowing my nieces and nephews get woken up by sirens in the middle of the night.

I am aware enough to realize that there are people who don’t know me or my family but wish to do us harm.
But I am naive enough to think that through interaction and discussion, that can change and the world can be a better place.

I take pride in the recent actions of America to support Israel, the only nation that is a guaranteed safe haven for me and my family.
But I worry what happens if that support wavers or if that safe haven is no longer safe.

I am visible in my identity, in my rituals, in my pride.
And I feel invisible when pain in my community is dismissed, minimized, or ignored.
When the world looks away as if it isn't real.

I am strengthened by our history of survival.
And I am tired of always having to survive.

I am told I am part of a privileged group.
Yet I am hated for the power others imagine I hold, regardless of my reality.

I am comforted and grateful for the enhanced security at Jewish institutions.
But I am angry that it’s even necessary just to keep us safe in our own spaces.

I believe in peace. I believe in dialogue.
But I also believe in being prepared, because we’ve learned what happens when we’re not.

I am grateful to live in a country where I can speak freely and practice my faith.
But I still glance over my shoulder when walking into a synagogue or even through a parking lot.

I love my people and I celebrate their resilience.
But I grieve how often we’ve had to be resilient.

I want to believe things will get better.
But I know that history doesn’t promise us that.