"Every one of us has to fight for or against something."
A guest post by my friend Tal Asher shares their Jewish identity.
Tal Asher is a Hebrew phrase using the combinations of Tal (meaning “dew” or “rain”) and Asher (meaning “happy,” “blessed,” or “fortunate”). Together, this phrase loosely means “Dew of Happiness” and signifies divine blessing and renewal. The author of this essay chose this name while writing their story of Jewish identity, and I am honored to share it with you here. As always, please share your affirmations with the author in the comments section below the guest essay.
I will add this for context: I know my friend well, and they would not disagree with anyone’s statement about the right for Palestinians to peacefully share the land. This is simply their story, and I wanted them to have the agency to share it in a way that was true to their experience. I felt a responsibility to honor that. So there, of course, is always a lot more to every story and there are always two sides. We worked on this essay for months to get it to a place where the political was mostly removed and where their lived experience remained.
My friend was not writing about who doesn’t belong but about their understanding of their identity in relationship to a particular place. I hope that’s evident in what you read below.
I do appreciate - always - the heart and thoughtfulness with which each of you brings to these conversations. I always incorporate what I learn from you into my understanding of humanity.
I am offering you a content warning here, because there is mention of war and the Holocaust. Please take care and if these topics upset you, feel free not to read.
Antwerp, Belgium is a beautiful city with stunning architecture: it was known as the “Venice of the North” during the Medieval era and also boasts a famous Art Nouveau quarter, due to the influence of Belgian native architect Victor Horta.
As a teenager, I walked the streets of Antwerp at night with friends from our Jewish community. We searched for a restaurant or listened to jazz in a cafe. On the ground floor of a commercially repurposed Dark Age building was one place we could never enter: The Lion of Flanders. This was a Nazi café with Hitler memorabilia and all sorts of Third Reich paraphernalia, frequented by skinheads and white supremacists. My parents (and all of our parents) warned us never to set foot in there. That said, no one in the restaurant ever came out to get us, and we never ventured inside. Instead, my friends and I rushed past it when walking along that particular street.
The Lion of Flanders cafe was like a quiet agreement that anti-Semitism existed and was kept at bay. As a child I compared this to prostitution, which was legal in Belgium: a nefarious activity, taking place in a specific area that everybody knew existed but didn’t interfere with our daily lives.
On the list of things to avoid as a Jew was never to tell anyone about our families’ employment, because people would know we were Jewish. Many Holocaust survivors became professionally successful after having lost their homes, businesses, and dignity to the Nazi regime, and my father was among those who found a way forward to provide for our family. However, the inherent fear of being identified as a Jew was so great for Holocaust survivors that their PTSD created second-generation trauma for us. Jews in Antwerp and Brussels chose to raise their children in a bubble, insulating us from the rest of the world. This was a reaction, I think, from having an entire people massacred and a byproduct of fearing anti-Semitic attacks.
An example of this type of insulation was the fact that we didn’t frequent non-Jewish communities, except for those who were involved in the same trades as our families were. I and other Jewish children attended a non-Jewish school, but there was a local Jewish school, as well. This was a parental choice based on personal preferences for the methodologies applied in the respective educational establishments. Regardless of which school one attended, everything revolved around our Jewish identity. You were either a Jew in a non-Jewish school, or you were a Jew in a Jewish school.
Although my mother and father were not observant, we were completely immersed in cultural Judaism, such as traditions, history, and culture. An important aspect of Jewish life is how we interact with one another: Jews are a network. We thrive, because despite our internal differences, what makes us so resilient is how far we are willing to go to help a member of the tribe, notwithstanding criminal activities, of course. This is a mechanism born out of survival, a skill we have had thousands of years to practice.
The darkness of the Holocaust followed every child like a shadow wherever we went. Our home library was filled with books about the Holocaust, and my father often told me stories of his youth: he was seventeen when the war broke out and he joined the French underground, saving children while still a child himself.
Years later, when I moved to New York to attend college, I felt a connection to my Jewish identity, because there is such a large Jewish population there. But that type of connection is not necessarily what I felt when I moved to Israel. Being here in Israel, I feel a notable difference: I feel it in my bones and in my soul. Judaism makes sense to me in Israel, because I now take a closer look at religious scriptures and understand the basis of what makes us who we are. A Jew can travel here while living somewhere else, but it’s not the same thing as being a citizen of this land and part of its population, with our feet on the ground our ancestors walked over 3,500 years ago. Here in Israel, I am the continuation of a people, not just a visitor.
In Europe, Judaism was a religion. In Israel, it’s a belief. I don’t have to defend my Jewish identity here in Israel.
There is a concept called the Right of Return, which is a law that says every Jew from all over the world will be received as a citizen in Israel, should they want to move here. This adds to the dimension of feeling like this earth, this land, is mine. And I don’t know that there’s ever been anything that’s been mine.
Every one of us has to fight for or against something. I have a child I have to fight for. And some people tell me I have to fight for this land. But, to me, this land has been mine since Moses lived.
It’s not a new battle. Jews have been here for thousands of years.
Thank you Jeannie and Imola and to the author who bravely and honestly presented her story here. Such a complicated story to read as unfortunately the modern day Israel story is deeply steeped in politics whether we like it or not.
I am not Jewish but have been interested in Judaism and Israel (when it came about) most of my life. My best friends growing up were Jewish and they often allowed me to participate in their holidays and rituals. Their parents were concentration camp survivors and they shared their stories with me. As a young adult and new parent I taught in a school run by a local synagogue. When my children were young we celebrated Jewish and Christian holidays. Later in life as a social worker I had the privilege of working with more survivors and/or the adult children of survivors. I respect each person’s right to make religious and cultural choices. Friends have moved to Israel.
I do believe that we literally carry in our biology as well as our psyche the scars and joys from the accumulation of our personal and family and tribal as well as global stories. I also believe that when we truly listen we often hear a longing to return to “home” whatever that may be for each of us. I am thankful that those who wish to do so can return to their “home”. I feel that everyone should have that opportunity (literally or metaphorically).
Imola, I agree with you, (with great respect for the Israeli people) that Palestinians also see this geographical area as their home and the heart of so much of their culture and heritage and I feel they should also be allowed to be “home”.
The author presented here speaks of the ability to be with like minded people sharing Judaism together as an important element of feeling at home (in Israel). For many of us we are able to experience that feeling within smaller communities, including churches and other forms of sacred spaces vs a protected geographical area. Given the long history of persecution and attempts to annihilate Jewish people I also understand why they feel the need to have a protected (sacred) space.
Such a difficult topic and I apologize ahead of time for any gaffs I may have made while responding here. Please know I come from a place of peace and love for all people and their needs. Greater minds than mine will have to figure out a peaceful path for all of us.
Again, thanks to everyone for sharing and raising this topic as it is complicated but so important to us all - even non Jewish people.
Hi, Jeannie! This was a powerful and deeply human reflection. I appreciate how Tal names identity not as an abstract idea, but as something lived, carried, and sometimes defended in quiet ways.
The tension between visibility and safety comes through clearly, and it invites us readers to sit with complexity rather than reduce it. Thank you for sharing a story that asks for empathy and courage at the same time. Amazing piece!