The Questions People Only Ask Jews
Nowadays, Jewish identity so often triggers lines of questioning that no other identity seems to require.
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This is a guest essay by Vanessa Berg, who writes about Judaism and Israel.
You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.
The setting was predictable: San Francisco, one of the most “progressive” places on planet Earth, where tolerance is celebrated.
Until the conversation turns to Jews.
I was at an engagement party speaking with two people: a man who, in his own words, only says he is Jewish to keep his parents happy, and a 38-year-old Turkish immigrant who had been living in the United States for about a dozen years.
I asked the Turkish gentleman a simple question: Did he prefer Turkey or America?
His answer was as fair as anyone could ask for. “I love my country,” he said, “but I have more opportunity in the U.S.”
I never once wondered whether he had “dual loyalty.” I never questioned his patriotism. I never assumed his affection for Turkey somehow diminished his commitment to America. It was a nuanced answer, and I accepted it as such.
He then spent the next 15 minutes talking about Turkish politics, criticizing the country’s president (whom he described as “the equivalent of Donald Trump”), and lamenting the influence of what he called “religious cults” in Turkey. He never once mentioned Islam by name. Everyone knows Islam is the predominant religion in Turkey, but that was his choice, and I didn’t pry.
Eventually the conversation drifted toward the Middle East. I mentioned that I know the region fairly well, having spent months at a time in Israel and visited the country more than 50 times.
“So you’re Jewish?” he immediately asked.
That was my first clue. I hadn’t asked whether he was Muslim when he told me he was from Turkey. His first instinct, however, was to identify my religion. “Yes I am,” I replied proudly.
His entire demeanor shifted. “I don’t really understand Judaism. Can you explain it to me?” he said. I laughed and told him, “You’d probably get a more complete explanation from ChatGPT than from me at an engagement party on a Friday night after a couple of drinks.”
Then came the inevitable question: “So what do you think about the situation in Israel?”
Notice what was happening. I hadn’t brought up “the situation in Israel.” I hadn’t volunteered my political views. The mere fact that I have a relationship with and connection to Israel transformed me from another guest at a party, into someone expected to explain an entire country, an entire conflict and, somehow, my own legitimacy.
Before I could answer, the other man jumped in. “I’m technically Jewish,” he said, “but I’m not Israeli. I have nothing to do with Israel” — as though having “something to do with Israel” were embarrassing. Imagine someone saying, “I’m technically Turkish, but I have nothing to do with Turkey.” Or, “I’m technically Irish, but please don’t associate me with Ireland.” No one talks that way.
Only Jews are expected to distance themselves from their own people to earn social acceptance.
I told the Turkish man I wasn’t going to answer his question.
After all, I hadn’t asked him what he thought about “the situation” in Turkey. I didn’t ask him to defend his authoritarian, even oppressive government. I didn’t ask him to explain Turkish military presence in Syria. I didn’t ask him to justify Turkish politics and its growing relationship with the Muslim Brotherhood and affiliates like Hamas — because it would be rude to assume a random person at a party owes me a political briefing simply because of where they come from.
Yet somehow, when the person is Jewish, those social norms disappear.
Think about how strange this social ritual has become. A Chinese-American isn’t expected to explain the Chinese Communist Party over appetizers. An Iranian isn’t immediately asked to defend the Ayatollah. A Turkish immigrant isn’t expected to justify every action of Ankara. A Catholic isn’t routinely asked to account for every abuse committed by the Church before dessert.
But tell someone you’re Jewish, and suddenly you’re expected to pass a political oral exam before you’re allowed to exist as an individual. That’s not curiosity. That’s a double standard.
Then the conversation shifted again. “So are you religious?” he asked. “I am,” I told him. He responded with a familiar line: “I think all religion is nonsense.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure ‘Honor your father and mother,’ ‘Do not murder,’ ‘Do not steal,’ ‘Do not commit adultery,’ and ‘Do not covet your neighbor’s possessions’ aren’t nonsense. And these commandments began with Judaism.”
“They’re common sense!” he fired back.
It’s a convenient response. Judaism is dismissed when it’s alive, but universalized once its ideas have shaped civilization. The moral framework that underpins much of Western law and ethics becomes “common sense” only after thousands of years of Jewish influence. The contribution disappears precisely because it became foundational.
The pattern isn’t unique to Judaism’s ideas. Time and again, Jews have helped build institutions, industries, charities, universities, companies, neighborhoods, and even nations. Our labor, ideas, philanthropy, and innovation are welcomed while they’re needed. But once those contributions become part of the landscape, we’re often taken for granted, or forgotten altogether. The very people who benefited from Jewish contributions begin speaking as though Jews were never essential in the first place.
Now, to be clear, I don’t think this man necessarily woke up that morning intending to be antisemitic. Many people never stop to think about the assumptions they make around Jews. But intent isn’t the only thing that matters. There’s nothing wrong with asking sincere questions. I’ve spent thousands of hours answering questions about Judaism, Israel, and Jewish history. I enjoy those conversations.
That said, curiosity seeks understanding. Interrogation seeks confession. One begins with, “Can you help me understand?” The other begins with, “Explain yourself.” Those are not the same conversations.
If you ask questions you would consider offensive if directed at yourself, your religion, or your country, you should at least stop to ask why those questions suddenly seem acceptable when directed at Jews. If you would be offended by someone demanding that you defend your homeland because of your ethnicity, don’t demand it of Jews. If you would find it insulting for someone to interrogate your faith at a cocktail party, don’t do it to Jews.
The standard shouldn’t change because the person standing in front of you is Jewish.
Here’s the larger point: Jews do not owe anyone political disclaimers. We do not owe anyone ideological purity tests. We do not owe anyone explanations for every headline coming out of the Middle East. We’re allowed to attend an engagement party without becoming defendants in a kangaroo trial.
If people want to disagree with Israeli policies, so be it. If they want to ask questions about Judaism, go right ahead. If they want to engage in honest debate, be my guest. But if the moment people discover someone is Jewish their instinct is to make them explain their religion, their people, or Israel, then perhaps the first person who should be answering questions is them.
Jews don’t need permission to be Jewish. We don’t need to apologize for our history. We don’t need to distance ourselves from Israel to make strangers comfortable. We don’t need to earn the right to participate in polite society by passing ideological purity tests that no other people are asked to take.
The next time someone discovers you’re Jewish and immediately pivots to Israel, ask yourself a simple question: Would they have asked this of almost anyone else? If the answer is no, you’ve learned something far more important than whatever answer you could have given them.
How many times do we think this Turk has been asked to account for the Turkish genocide of up to 2 million Armenians, or their continued suppression of the Kurds? As Fran Drescher was fond of saying, “ talk to the hand.”
“The next time someone discovers you’re Jewish and immediately pivots to Israel, ask yourself a simple question: Would they have asked this of almost anyone else?”
No! You already know the answer, so there’s no need to ask yourself. Instead, ask THEM the question. That’ll either shut ‘em up or show them up.
Please, let’s stop talking to ourselves, stop asking ourselves. It’s long past time to aggressively push back.