10 Things Non-Jews Will Never Understand About Being Jewish

And that’s perfectly fine.

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There’s something about being Jewish that resists translation.

It’s not just a religion, not just a culture, and definitely not just a set of dietary restrictions that leave you explaining for the 400th time why pepperoni pizza is off the table.

Jewishness is a tapestry of inside jokes, unspoken rules, and an inherited sense of history that sits somewhere between profound and perplexing.

For our non-Jewish friends: This list isn’t here to gatekeep — it’s just to say that sometimes you have to live it to get it. And that’s perfectly fine.

1) We measure time differently.

If you invite Jews over for dinner at 6:00 p.m., expect them at 6:30 p.m., maybe 7:00 p.m.

Jewish Standard Time is a very real, deeply embedded phenomenon. And if you mention this tardiness, you’ll get a shrug and a “What? We’re here now.”

Jewish events tend to start later, end later, and if you think you can sneak out early — good luck getting past your grandmother. (See number five: Jewish guilt.)

2) Food isn’t just food. It’s a heated topic of discussion, emotional support, and identity.

Challah? A necessity. Brisket? A lifeline. Chicken soup? Not just a dish — it’s a cure for heartbreak, the flu, and existential dread.

It’s about knowing that rugelach from your local bakery doesn’t hold a candle to the ones your aunt bakes from scratch. It’s the existential debate over whether gefilte fish should be sweet or savory (and why it exists at all).

It’s the joy of walking into a Jewish bakery and smelling fresh challah, only to leave with three loaves because you couldn’t decide. And yes, there’s always someone pushing more food on you, insisting, “Eat, eat — you look thin!” — even if you just had a full meal.

Shakshuka can spark family feuds. Should it have onions? Should the eggs be fully cooked or runny? Is there such a thing as too much garlic in a Jewish kitchen? (No.) And if you’re lucky, there’s a secret recipe somewhere in the family that’s been passed down for generations, but good luck getting exact measurements. “A little of this, a pinch of that” is as precise as it gets.

Food in Jewish culture isn’t just sustenance; it’s love, memory, and a bridge to the past. Sharing a meal is sharing history, and every bite carries a story.

3) Our holidays are complicated — and deliciously intense.

Explaining Jewish holidays is like trying to describe a plot-twisty thriller.

Passover: We celebrate freedom by eating unleavened bread that breaks your teeth. The seder alone is part meal, part theatrical performance, complete with props (bitter herbs, anyone?), symbolic foods, and four glasses of wine — or more, depending on how you’re feeling about the plagues section.

Hanukkah: We light candles for eight nights to commemorate oil that lasted miraculously, but really it’s just an excuse to fry everything in sight. Potato pancakes, sufganiyot (jelly donuts), and anything that can be submerged in oil is fair game. Somehow, this is considered both a religious and culinary achievement.

Purim? Think Mardi Gras meets Halloween with a side of political intrigue. Costumes, loud noisemakers, and triangular cookies filled with jam or chocolate called hamantaschen dominate the festivities. It’s a celebration of narrowly escaping annihilation, so naturally, we drown out the villain’s name (Haman) with as much raucous joy as possible.

Then there’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement — the ultimate paradox of a holiday. We fast for 25 hours to reflect and repent, and then immediately break the fast with enough food to feed an army. If you’ve ever been hangry and spiritual at the same time, you’ll understand the mood.

Jewish holidays are immersive experiences: equal parts ancient tradition, family reunion, and food festival. If you don’t get it, just enjoy the food.

Hamantaschen cookies for Purim (photo: Sheri Silver/Unsplash)

4) Trauma is generational — and so is humor.

To be Jewish is to inherit not just stories and traditions, but the echoes of past trauma. It’s in the collective memory of grandparents who fled persecution, in the whispered recollections of names and places long gone. This generational trauma is carried quietly, sometimes wrapped in humor as a protective shield.

Jewish humor isn’t just dark; it’s survivalist. We laugh because sometimes it’s the only way to process the weight of history. It’s why jokes about mishaps at seders, overbearing relatives, and existential dread resonate so deeply. In many Jewish households, humor is woven into even the most serious conversations.

Humor becomes a release valve for the pain that could otherwise overwhelm. It’s not that Jews trivialize suffering; it’s that we reframe it, finding light in the darkness. The ability to laugh at misfortune, and at ourselves, becomes an act of defiance against despair.

In this way, the generational trauma is never forgotten, but it is softened by shared laughter, turning even the hardest stories into something we can carry forward.

5) Guilt is a birthright.

Catholic guilt? Adorable.

Jewish guilt is an art form, honed over millennia. It’s not just about what you did; it’s about what you didn’t do, could have done, and why haven’t you called your mother today?

Go. Call her now.

6) Arguing is a sign of love.

In many cultures, heated debates signal discord.

In Jewish families, they’re an affectionate pastime. Disagreeing passionately about politics, theology, or whether the challah should have raisins is practically a bonding exercise.

If we stop arguing, that’s when you should worry. The Jewish People wouldn’t be the Jewish People without one of our favorite sayings: Two Jews, three opinions (sometimes even four).

The Knesset (Israeli parliament) is where arguments are on full display. (photo: Rafael Nir/Unsplash)

7) Everyone is a ‘cousin’ — even if they aren’t.

Jews have a remarkable talent for finding distant connections.

“Oh, you know the Cohens from Miami? I think we’re second cousins through my step-aunt’s neighbor.”

Even if there’s no real relation, they’re “practically family.” And you’re expected to act like it.

In Israel, this phenomenon is amplified tenfold. With such a small country, the degrees of separation shrink dramatically. Every third person seems to know your childhood best friend, former teacher, or that guy you once met at summer camp through the Jewish Agency for Israel.

8) We’re constantly perplexed by antisemitism — but also, not surprised.

Non-Jews often ask, “Why is antisemitism still a thing?”

Jews ask that too, but usually while shaking their heads and muttering: “If we really controlled the media, is that why tiny Israel is constantly painted as the big, bad satan of the world?”

There’s a certain paradox to Jewish existence that non-Jews might find baffling. Picture this: You’re at a dinner party, and someone casually mentions that Jews control Hollywood. You blink, half-wondering if you missed the memo about your invite to the secret board meeting. (Seriously, if there is one, let me know. I’ve got some film ideas!) Then, in the next breath, the same person might complain that Jews are perpetual outsiders. So, we control the world and we’re mysteriously on the fringes? Fascinating.

Here’s the thing — antisemitism is like that one extremely persistent app you keep deleting, but somehow it reappears after every software update. We try not to let it dominate our psyche, but every now and then, history decides to tap us on the shoulder with an “Oh, by the way, it’s happening again.” And somehow, we’re both shocked and absolutely not shocked at all. It’s the most paradoxical emotional state: the eternal readiness to be blindsided by something you saw coming.

It’s not that we sit around expecting the worst. We’re optimistic! We book vacations, we open businesses, we overcook for Shabbat. But we also have this quiet, inherited wisdom that tells us, “Keep your passport up to date.” Just in case.

Non-Jews might find this a bit melodramatic. (And fair enough, our knack for dramatic flair is a core feature.) But it’s a finely tuned survival mechanism. Imagine if your great-grandparents fled pogroms, your grandparents quietly switched their last name to land a job, and your parents reminded you to wear a Star of David inside your shirt, just in case. This delicate mix of pride and caution is practically in our DNA.

So yes, we’re perplexed that antisemitism persists in the modern world — and we’d be more surprised if it didn’t. It’s the Jewish version of the weather forecast: mostly sunny, with a 20-percent chance of inexplicable hatred.

But hey, we’ve got good humor, better food, and the resilience of a people who know how to make the best of any situation.

9) Jewish languages express things no others can.

There are things you just can’t say in English. Or French. Or even Spanish, which prides itself on having a word for everything, including emotions so specific you didn’t know you had them.

But in Jewish languages? Oh, they have the word.

You know that feeling when you’re anxiously waiting for news, pacing around your house, pretending to clean, but really just rearranging the same three books on your coffee table? There’s a Yiddish word for that — tsuris.

Then there’s the Hebrew word “nu.” Nu is the verbal equivalent of a raised eyebrow. It can mean anything from “So?” to “What’s taking so long?” to “You’re really wearing that?” Picture your aunt waiting for you to explain why you haven’t called in three weeks. She’ll stand there, arms crossed, and just say, nu? And somehow, you feel like you owe her an entire novel of excuses.

And let’s not forget “lefargen.” A Hebrew gem, lefargen means to genuinely feel happy for someone else’s success — a rare emotion in the wild. Imagine your friend gets a new haircut, so you tell him “teetchadesh” (another creative Hebrew word) for getting a cool, new, great-looking haircut. That’s lefargen.

These words are more than vocabulary; they’re culture in shorthand. They express feelings we all experience, but with a distinctly Jewish twist. Because sometimes, only oy vey truly captures the moment.

And the best part? You don’t need to be Jewish to use these words. (We’re generous like that.) Just know that when you say them, somewhere a Jewish ancestor is nodding in approval, whispering: “Nu, you’re getting it.”

10) Survival is a celebration.

Every Jewish holiday, as the joke goes, follows the same pattern: “They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat.”

But beneath the humor lies a profound truth: Being Jewish means finding joy even in the face of adversity, celebrating existence itself. Non-Jews may not fully understand this resilient optimism, but they’re always welcome to the table.

So if you don’t fully understand what it means to be Jewish, don’t worry. Sometimes we don’t either.

Now let’s eat.

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