I used to hate being Jewish. This is what I didn’t know.

"Here, people do not ask you if you are Jewish — they presume it, and that assumption became a powerful experience."

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“I am not Jewish,” I used to plead with my Jewish parents during the late-teenage and early-adult years of my life.

After my Bar Mitzvah and before I took the free trip to Israel called Birthright in 2013, at age 24, I thought of my Jewish identity as a burden, something to downplay rather than cherish.

I grew up in Los Angeles, where cultural identity is more of a buffet than a fixed label. I could pick and choose the parts that fit my taste, and I was happy to fill my plate with American pop culture, current trends, and whatever made me feel connected to the mainstream.

Jewishness? It felt like the mushy, lukewarm side dish I tried to push to the back of the table. Being Jewish did not seem to add much flavor to my life. It felt foreign, distant, or at worst, vaguely inconvenient. I did not understand why it was relevant, and the effort to learn or celebrate it felt uninviting.

To me, Judaism was mostly associated with Hebrew school homework, long synagogue services, and a persistent sense of outsider-ness. Jewish holidays, while sometimes fun, just did not feel relevant in my life, especially if I had to go out of my way to celebrate them.

I found myself envying the seamless way my non-Jewish friends could celebrate widely accepted holidays without needing to explain why they did or did not follow specific traditions. At some level, I just wanted to blend in. American culture felt straightforward, cool, and comfortable; it was my primary identity, and Judaism was the background noise.

At the same time, my Jewish mother kept nagging me — in the way that only an amazing Jewish mother can nag — about this free 10-day trip to Israel called “Birthright.” I was not overly excited about the idea; at first, it felt like yet another obligation. “You’ll see,” she said, “it will change you.”

Yeah, whatever. What could Israel possibly offer me that I had not already dismissed? The “Land of Milk and Honey” was, to me, just a distant desert with too much ethno-religious and geopolitical baggage.

However, the trip turned out to be nothing short of transformative. Israel is a place that demands your attention. It is an old, gritty, kaleidoscopic land, constantly vibrating with life, where history and the present collide. This was a place where ancient stone streets meet bustling markets, where the call to prayer echoes over the ancient Western Wall, and where Jewish identity is woven into every street corner, every conversation.

Here, people do not ask you if you are Jewish — they presume it, and that assumption becomes a powerful experience. In Israel, being Jewish was not something I had to explain or hide; it was the norm. The freedom to embrace it without self-consciousness was freeing in ways that I had not anticipated.

More than that, I was introduced to a broader, richer sense of Jewish identity than I had ever known. I realized that Judaism was more than just religious practices and holidays; it was a culture, a lifestyle, a history, a language, a moral code, a philosophy, a shared experience, a people, and a country.

At first, I was intimidated by the intensity with which Israelis embraced their Jewishness. There were no half-hearted traditions or tentative cultural connections. Here, people lived, breathed, and argued Judaism with gusto. I saw teenagers in the Israel Defense Forces, rabbis arguing passionately about interpretations of scripture, and artists using their craft to explore Jewish themes. It was the first time I felt the depth and breadth of the comprehensive Jewish experience.

Visiting Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial museum, was one of the most sobering moments of the trip. There, I was confronted with the profound horror of the Holocaust in ways that I had not experienced before. Seeing artifacts from children who perished, photos of once-thriving Jewish communities erased from history, and hearing survivors’ stories made it starkly clear: The Jewish People have survived unimaginable horrors, but we are still here.

At the end of the Yad Vashem tour, visitors step out of the museum’s dark, intense exhibits into a bright, open space that overlooks a lush forest in the hills of Jerusalem. This powerful design is intentional, and it serves as a profound symbol of hope, resilience, and renewal.

Emerging from that darkness into a space flooded with light and open to the sprawling landscape of trees is like stepping into the promise of life after suffering. This forest symbolizes the rebirth and continuity of the Jewish People after the Holocaust, here in our indigenous homeland. For me, it was a reminder that, even after unimaginable destruction, Judaism can still grow and flourish.

In Jewish tradition, trees hold a special significance, symbolizing life, growth, and generational continuity. Each tree in the forest can be seen as a tribute to those who were lost, and a testament to the future that was reclaimed. The forest embodies the idea that, even when rooted in the ashes of the past, new opportunities can emerge, and with them, the promise of a future that honors memory with growth and resilience. It was an invitation to reflect on the power of Judaism as a foundation for renewal and hope.

After the 10-day trip in Israel, I called my amazing Jewish mother to tell her that I would not be boarding the return flight to Los Angeles; instead, I would be staying in Israel, finding an apartment to rent in Tel Aviv, and becoming a dual American-Israeli citizen.

She was not terribly thrilled, to say the least, but I felt a deep, almost overwhelming sense of responsibility to tap into and deeply explore my newfound Jewishness. It was not an abstract idea anymore; it was personal. My casual disregard for my Jewish roots now felt almost disrespectful to the people who endured so much.

One night, I found myself at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. It was quiet, just me and a few others, standing in front of stones that had held the prayers, tears, and hopes of millions of Jews throughout history. As I stood there, I realized that my individual life, my tiny existence, was connected to a vast, unbroken chain of people who, through all odds, kept their faith, culture, and identity alive. I felt a rush of pride, a pride that I did not know was even possible. For the first time, I wanted to be a part of this story, to carry this identity forward, not as a burden, but as an honor.

Building a life in Israel, I realized that I no longer saw Jewishness as something I had to tolerate or explain. It was no longer something “other” in my life, nor was it just a religious label. Instead, it became a core part of me, informing how I saw the world, how I connected with others, and how I wanted to contribute to the larger tapestry of humanity.

I began to see the values ingrained in Jewish culture — justice, community, resilience — as tools for navigating my life. I learned that Judaism is not just a religion; it is a way of seeing the world, a compass that provides a sense of purpose and connection even in a largely secular life.

With time, I embraced parts of Jewish culture I once ignored or dismissed. I started celebrating the holidays with a renewed sense of joy and belonging. They all took on new meanings. I started to see these holidays as opportunities to pause, reflect, and connect with both family and tradition.

I also began learning Hebrew, not just as a symbolic gesture but as a bridge to a culture that felt increasingly like my own. I began to read Jewish writers, philosophers, and poets, discovering perspectives that resonated deeply with my experiences. And I began to see the importance of Jewish community and the power that comes from belonging to something larger than myself.

What’s more, I felt the subtle yet important shift in my sense of belonging. Yes, I was still American, but now I carried with me a deeper, unshakeable sense of Jewish identity. I felt more rooted and complete. I began to see Jewishness as something I got to carry, rather than something I had to carry. When people asked me about my faith or culture, I felt a pride that used to elude me. My story now included this ancient, enduring history. I knew where I came from and felt a responsibility to keep that identity alive.

If I could go back and talk to my younger self, I would tell him that embracing Jewishness does not mean giving up on other parts of your identity. It does not mean you cannot enjoy other cultures or be part of the broader, diverse world we live in. It simply means knowing who you are at your core and understanding that this identity is not a restriction, but a powerful, expansive part of you. To be Jewish is to belong to an immemorial, revolutionary, and ever-evolving community that has survived against all odds, not through uniformity, but through adaptability and resilience.

On Saturday, October 7th, 2023, I was weirdly awoken in my Tel Aviv apartment to wailing rocket sirens just before 7 in the morning. At first I thought it was a test drill, but then I remembered that the IDF does not do test drills on Sabbath mornings. So I figured they were false alarms and went back to sleep, only to be awoken again by more sirens three hours later.

Then the news started to pour in about the unprecedented Hamas-led massacres and kidnappings, which took place just a handful of kilometers away from where I had been sleeping. Watching the sheer brutality unfold, the image of Jews being hunted and slaughtered, left me shaken to my core. It was not just the horror of it — it was the existential vulnerability, the realization that after thousands of years, this terrifying threat of annihilation still hung over our heads.

I could not shake the feeling that being Jewish, simply existing as a Jew, made me a target, marked me for death. It felt unbearable. I found myself wondering if life would be easier if I could just discard this part of myself, hide it away somewhere, and forget it existed.

But even as I wrestled with these thoughts, I knew there was something in me that could not be so easily erased. Jewish identity is not simply a label; it has been woven deeply into my consciousness, my values, my entire worldview. This faith, this culture, these people — how could I cut them out of myself?

And then I thought about my burgeoning Israeli identity, a layered and often complex part of me that also, under this sudden threat, felt like something I wanted to hide as I traveled to Europe and then Southeast Asia.

As the days went by, though, I felt something unexpected rise within me, an unshakable sense of pride. There is a strange, almost paradoxical beauty in being part of a people that has endured so much but remains unbroken, and in seeing a homeland that, while young, has carried on through hardship and danger with such resilience.

Gradually, I found myself coming back to my roots with renewed determination. This part of my identity, this community, is not defined by victimhood or fear. Yes, we are a people who have been hunted, but we are also a people who have persisted, who have rebuilt time and again.

And that tenacity — borne out of suffering yet refusing to be defined by it — became something I wanted to carry with me, to embody. Being both Jewish and Israeli means knowing intimately both the weight of survival and the warmth of an enduring heritage, and choosing to carry it forward despite the risks. It is a quiet, stubborn pride that does not ask for validation or even understanding; it simply endures.

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