To reach the ripe old age of 102 years is no mean feat. But to reach it without a partner at your side must be even more of a challenge. Around a year ago, I asked my wonderfully eccentric great aunt if she had any regrets as she entered her second century. With a melancholic smile, she uttered: "I wish I had a family".
Curiosity beat sensitivity and I probed whether Nancy ever had the chance. She spoke of a few men who had tried to entice her along the way, but the relationship that interested me most occurred when she was my age. During the interwar years, she fell in love with a non-Jewish man who proposed to her. She shortly claimed that memory failed her and she couldn't remember much of the relationship. Even so, I recognised a sadness within her that didn't manifest with any of the other relationships she spoke of. She explained that "back then, if you were with a 'non-Jewish', the whole town knew about it." Fearing the way her friends, family and community would react, she politely rejected the proposal. How different things might have been if she had just said yes.
Feeling sad, disappointed and almost angry at my aunt for not following her heart and wedding this lovely man, I wondered if my reaction would be any different.
Having been brought up in a loving, tight-knit North-London family, having spent summers in the National Youth Theatre surrounded by other actors from a wide variety of backgrounds, having attended Bristol University where I was one of two Jewish girls in a predominantly privately educated set, surely I'd feel no reservations about going out with a non-Jewish boy?
Or maybe not. A huge wave of reluctance engulfs me after contemplating the possibility. Yet when thinking logically, I cannot pin down one specific reason to justify this. If it was due to a firm belief in God and a strong connection with the Torah, I would feel more confident with this sense of reluctance but in all honesty I commonly question the rules penned all those years ago. As a prawn-eating, twice-a-year synagogue attendee Jew, why should the law of marriage carry any more weight than the other 612 rules?
Perhaps it's due to a desire to fit in. If a fresh-faced, young non-Jewish man came round for Friday-night dinner (which, in our house, is not entirely conventional - Dad likes to finish the meal by singing John Lennon's Imagine), I'd feel on edge. How does one begin to explain the incessant need to overindulge, the loud debates, the difference between kneidlach and lokshen, the prayers for wine and chollah and what they even mean? I love the feeling that, on a Friday evening, all the daily stresses take a pause. No matter where you are in the world, as a Jew you know there will be a small community with their door wide open and a plate piled high with food waiting to be savoured. Why, though, the need to fit in? Being an actress, I wouldn't describe myself as shy. I love to provoke and stand out, so why am I reticent about bringing someone new to the table? It could be because it is easier, less of a risk. Marrying someone Jewish means we already have a common language, most probably a similar background, we're likely to have a hefty amount of shared friends on Facebook. The chances of finding out, years down the line, that he has a history of drug abuse along with string of illicit affairs wrapped under his belt would be far higher if we didn't share the Jewish connection (mainly because word would spread like wildfire and Mum would have ended the relationship before our first drink).
When discussing this with friends, the old argument is always raised: we come from a race which has been ushered out of most countries so isn't it natural that our subconscious reminds us to stick together and protect one another?
Yet, in my 20-odd years of existence, I am thankful to admit that I am yet to experience an antisemitic attack, argument or petty jibe. So maybe this safe excuse is slowly and fortunately becoming redundant.
Or maybe I need to admit that I just don't have the guts. Like Great Aunty, I'm scared of how my own community would react. Whether friends and family are in support or not, the fact that my boyfriend is "not the same", will be a ripe subject for discussion. Would friends stop inviting me out for dinner? Would my family worry that alongside an unstable career, settling down with a gentile would be another example of their daughter straying from the well-tested conventions?
Even if that is the case, does that simply reflect a narrow-minded community that needs to re-evaluate its viewpoints to genuinely care about the happiness of their members, whatever choices they make? As an actor, I constantly do things that scare me. So why should a sense of fear stop me? It might lead to a more exciting relationship that breaks through the barriers of North-West London. Some say to succeed you have to take risks and step out of your comfort zone, so why should my love life be any different?
These arguments consumed my thoughts for quite a while before I began to ask others if they felt the same. With two wonderful collaborators (director Rosy Banham and writer and actor Karla Crome), we interviewed people in their 20s who had been directly affected by interfaith relationships. I met young ambitious men and women who were stuck in a series of hopeless J-dates even though they admit to have previously fallen in love in hushed relationships with non-Jews. I met a Cambridge graduate who clearly had his heart taken by a bright young Christian women - yet he continues to search for love within his community as his "parents would disown him" if he strayed.
Of course, these stories are not mutually exclusive to Judaism. We spoke to Sikhs, Muslims and Christians, too, all of whom were battling with logic, family ties and their own identity. This is how Mush and Me was born: a show about a Muslim boy and a Jewish girl (played by myself) who are united by a love for hummus yet divided by faith and traditions. We premiered the play at the Edinburgh festival and after most performances at least one audience member stayed behind to say they had been directly affected by a similar situation. This led us to perform at the Bush theatre and, at the beginning of next month, JW3 before we transfer to Australia. Perhaps we will see that people on the other side of the world are battling with this social dilemma, too.
It might be of interest to note that Mush and Me has a rather ambiguous ending; the play raises a series of questions leaving the audience to debate the answers.
As my old principal at drama school never tired of telling me, theatre is the medium to expose oneself, so I don't think it is a coincidence that the production has unanswered questions. Perhaps a second instalment of Mush and Me will be made once I have found my own answers to the furore that surrounds marrying out.
Until then, come along and make your own judgment.
