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Family & Education

Diary of a semi-shiksa: waiting to be unmasked

'I know that there will be some Jews to whom I will never count as a proper Jew; I can live with that. The more important struggle may be learning to accept myself, whoever I am.'

March 3, 2017 12:24
A woman in a conversion court.

ByZelda Leon, Zelda Leon

3 min read

I cannot remember ever not knowing that I was half-Jewish. I knew that only my dad was Jewish and that it was a key part of who he was. I grew up on tales of “How Mamma was shot at as she escaped across the border,” and of my great-aunt’s will in which her “bequest” to my dad was “…that he shall never visit the following countries: Russia, Germany, Lithuania, Poland etc.”

Although my mother wasn’t Jewish herself, she seemed to be drawn to Jews — her two best friends, both half-Jewish Germans, had survived the war in Germany on false papers but almost starved. Other children might have grown up on fairy tales; we were told about how Lise had wept with fear and rage when her precious jar of pickled eggs was stolen from its secret hiding place.

When my (Scottish) mother raised her glass of wine, she would utter a rousing, “L’chaim!” For years, I assumed this must be a traditional Gaelic greeting (maybe it was Loch something….?). My dad said “Cheers!”, so how would I know otherwise?

At my secondary school, they occasionally put on a Jewish assembly as an alternative to the main assembly. I was intrigued but didn’t go; I didn’t feel entitled. Surely other girls would point at me and denounce me as “not a proper Jew”?