To be an Israeli Mum

By Lihi Lapid

To be an Israeli mum is to see how your foetus (already, when the doctor says “It’s a boy”) grows to be a soldier in uniform, with road dust in his hair, a rifle on his shoulder, and his eyes full of innocence. And to start being worried.

To be an Israeli mum is to teach your daughter not to show weakness in front of her third-grade classmates, because she will have to be strong in front of her tough commander at age 18.

To be an Israeli mum is to complain about your country quite a bit, but always tell your children it’s the best place in the world.

To be an Israeli mum is to be scared when the sirens go off, but to remember it’s more important that your children don’t stress out and aren’t afraid, so you take a deep breath and tend to them first, like you are super-cool.

To be an Israeli mum is to be involved, to “consume” the news like a drug addict, to protest for or against, and always feel responsible for what’s going on here, because it’s yours. It’s your state, and it’s your children that will protect it. And to know that you don’t have the option to be indifferent, not in this country. And, sometimes, to agonise that you didn’t protest more.

To be an Israeli mum is to know about the situation no less than the chief of staff. And if you meet him, let him know what you think should be done.

To be an Israeli mum who lives by the border, near Gaza in the south or near Lebanon in the north, is to be part of a chain of wonderful brave Israeli women, for whom guarding their homes means guarding their country. And to hope this time will be the last.

To be an Israeli mum is to see uniforms hanging on the laundry rope, and to know that the mother or father who will fold them might shed a small tear and say a prayer that comes from deep within their heart.

To be an Israeli mum is to look at photos of our killed soldiers and try not to think about how much they look like your own son. And to think about it anyway.

To be an Israeli mum these days is to see a bereaved mother and feel her sharp pain in your chest, to run out of air. It’s to know that that bereaved mother is not someone else; she is a mom exactly like you. And that it could have been you. To feel you are soul sisters, and hurt with her. To want to hold and hug her, but at the same time know you will never be able to actually ease her pain, and that there are no words.

To be an Israeli grandma is not to believe that both your grandson and granddaughter are being drafted to the army. After all, you were the one who told their grandpa, when he went to war, that by the time you had grandchildren this would end. And to wonder whether it will ever end.

To be an Israeli mum is to know that all you want to give your children is security, and to realise that this is the one thing you cannot actually promise them. And still know for a fact that Israel is the best place for your child. (I know this cannot really be explained to anyone who is not an Israeli.)

To be an Israeli mum is to want peace, but not be willing to give up safety or security. It’s to get through the current month in Israel and to know that an Israeli mom deserves to grow her children quietly. It’s also to know that one day peace and safety will come.

Because peace is the promise of the Israeli mother. And even if it looks so far away now, trust her. It will come. Because being an Israeli mum is to be someone that never, ever gives up.

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Lihi Lapid is an author, journalist and activist. She has written three bestselling novels: On Her Own, Secrets from Within, and Woman of Valor. She lives in Tel Aviv with her husband, Yair Lapid, the former prime minister of Israel, and their two children

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Judaism: 5,000 Years of #Diversity

By David Christopher Kaufman

I was recently asked a question so many Jews must also be asking themselves right now: How do we move on from here? How do we reconnect with the progressive groups and causes that Jews and Jewish institutions supported for so many years that have so disappointed us since the Hamas attack on October 7?

My answer was: You don’t have to. Many groups have benefited from the generosity of Jewish advocates and donors yet failed to reciprocate in our hour of need. Jews who are wondering how to rebuild bridges and re-establish alliances must accept that some are permanently severed. And that’s OK; there are many alternatives within Judaism and the Jewish community itself.

Take Canadian real estate billionaire Sylvan Adams. Last December, when American college campuses were rife with antisemitism, Adams gave $100 million to Ben Gurion University in the Negev Desert town of Beersheba. It was one of the largest gifts of its kind ever – not just in Israel – and offered a viable alternative for US billionaires outraged by Ivy League leaders who failed to take care of Jewish students.

This time has not been easy for me. I may be Jewish – very Jewish in many ways – but I’ve always been a bit of an unlikely Jew, and an even unlikelier Zionist. I’m also African American. I don’t “look” the way most American Jews are expected to look, and I’ve spent my entire life – at least here in the US – almost always as the darkest Jew in the room. I’m someone most other Jews rarely think of as Jewish. And this has hurt. Often intensely, but mostly as background noise – a cost of doing business, one might say, when the business is being me.

Due to my unique circumstances, I haven’t always been into the whole “Jewish community” thing. I was raised part of a synagogue but don’t belong to one now. I’m far more of a “Jew” than merely Jewish – part of a tribe that exists beyond the confines of space and time and memory.

But the horrors of October 7 have changed all this. Like so many Jews out there, I have never felt more Jewish. We must now lean into this heightened sense of Judaism when considering the bridge-building or reparative work that is ahead of us.

Before October 7, a collective sense of white guilt propelled many Jews and Jewish institutions into funding various other identity movements.

But we must also turn our money and attention and passions inward. I certainly have. And I’ve discovered a whole new world filled with Jews – all kinds of Jews. At a time of rising assimilation and antisemitism, assuming that Jews look or act or pray a certain way is no longer a luxury our community can afford. Let’s face it: we need all the Jews we can muster right now. And they are there to be found. Built into Judaism itself are the queers and blacks and Latinos and Asians and feminists and social- justice fanatics that we’ve supported outside of our community all these years.

And guess what? They’re all Jews, too. We don’t need to look outside of Judaism for diversity or intersectionality – we have plenty of it here already. Just look at me.

Recent estimates put the number of Jews of colour, like myself, at roughly 15 per cent of the entire US Jewish population. That’s more than one million people.

We must expand the definition of what it means to be a part of our community. It means claiming the diversity that is everywhere within Judaism today.

American Jews who are committed to uplifting and elevating marginalised voices, go uplift and elevate marginalised Jewish voices. The folks who have been standing in the background, quieter than most, darker than most, poorer than most, but are very much still Jews.

We can and should retain our commitment to inclusive principles – which are noble, just, Jewish – but apply them to Jews and Jewish environments.

Seek connection with Jews who may not look or speak like you. Ensure that Jewish institutions no longer merely reflect an outdated, Eurocentric Ashkenazi view. Make concrete efforts at getting more “seats at the table” – but also make them Jewish seats. A Jewish table.

In my case, stepping into a larger Jewish world that has not always welcomed me and often refused to acknowledge me has been scary. But also liberating. Revolutionary. An embrace of an authentic me I never knew existed. And I’ve only just begun.

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David Christopher Kaufman is a New York Post editor and columnist; a frequent contributor to Air Mail, the Spectator, the Telegraph, and the Forward; and an adjunct fellow at the Tel Aviv Institute

Scrolling on Shabbat

By Alison Hammer

It was a Saturday morning this past May or June or July. A Saturday morning “after”. I was lying in bed, awake earlier than I needed to be, so I reached for my phone. After playing Wordle (yes, still), I opened Facebook and started to scroll. I scrolled through ads and news alerts and photos of people I might know, until something stopped me. It was a nothing post, the kind of post I’d ordinarily pass right by. But there was something about the nothingness that made me slow down and take a closer look.

The friend who shared it wasn’t Jewish, and like so many others, she has been silent about everything happening on the other side of the world. When I looked at her photos from the night before, I didn’t just see a barbecue. It wasn’t the décor or the meal or the guests that caught my eye. It was a feeling. I saw what appeared to be a carefree life, a glimpse of the way things used to be.

It struck me, this strange sense of nostalgia for that easy, peaceful way of being. I was jealous that my friend could simply enjoy her weekend. That she could be happy with – out the shadow of uncertainty and the awareness that there are still more than one hundred men, women, and children being held hostage. That she could walk down the street, sit in the back of an Uber, catch up with an old friend without worrying or even thinking about antisemitism the way I have for the last two, four, six – has it really been eight months?

Then I started to think about what it would take for me to feel that way again. To feel that way now. Today. More than 200 days since that day. I knew that the only way I could move through the world without October 7 weighing heavily on my shoulders, on my mind, and in my heart was if I wasn’t a Jew. For a moment, I considered the question: whether I’d be willing to trade my heritage, my history, my religion, and my culture for that feeling of freedom. For the ability to be blissfully unaware of the fire that feels like it’s getting closer and closer.

Would I give up the beautiful sound of unified voices chanting and singing in Hebrew during the High Holy Days? The moment in my favourite prayer where everyone goes from bending down to standing straight and tall? Would I give up lighting the candles on Chanukah, breaking the fast on Yom Kippur, and making matzo brei on the first weekend morning of Passover?

Would I give up the conventions and community of my high school days in BBYO? Would I give up the sense of connection and belonging I felt the moment I first stepped foot in Eretz Yisrael? Would I give up all the lessons I learnt and the lifelong friendships I formed with my Alexander Muss High School in Israel classmates? The moment I picked my Hebrew name, Mayim, and had it written in tiny letters on a grain of rice in Tel Aviv?

Would I give up those moments of solidarity in the dark, early days when I’d see another member of the tribe? The comfort of sharing a hug and breaking the loud silence as we asked how each other was doing, sharing our worries and our fears? Would I give up the storied history of strength and resilience and badassery of all the generations that came before me?

Would I give any of that up to feel free on this Saturday morning in May or June or July? No. Of course I wouldn’t.

That certainty and deep knowing felt like a gift, like someone was shining a light on the silver lining that comes with the pain of being targeted. After all, when someone hates you for being who you are, what choice do you have other than to be yourself, but louder and with even more pride?

So I swiped out of Facebook and switched over to Instagram. I kept scrolling, but this time through the curated content of my chaverim. My mishpacha. And when I saw a post that struck a chord about the hostages or the silence or the blossoming hate, I shared it in hopes of sparking a conversation or a question or a connection with someone else, lying in bed, scrolling on Shabbat.

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Alison Hammer is half of the writing duo Ali Brady. Their debut novel, The Beach Trap, was recommended by the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal. Until Next Summer, their third book, is a USA Today bestseller. Alison is the founder and co-president of Artists Against Antisemitism

On Being Jewish Now by Zibby Owens, a collection of 75 essays, is available on Amazon for £9.99