When I was younger, I thought that everyone was Jewish. Having had attended a private Jewish elementary school, I was constantly surrounded by Judaism. Every weekday, our school participated in Israeli dancing and learned songs that depicted stories from the bible. Every Friday we wore white, celebrated Shabbat, and hosted a celebration of faith for community members and our parents to attend. Writing cursive in Hebrew was easier for me than writing cursive in English.
Every year, I looked forward to high holidays so I could see all of my temple friends, and we could plot ways to escape the boring services for the kids. I've been in way too many plays depicting Jewish history to count. I know more than five songs about falafel, I still habitually hum Debbie Friedman songs under my breath on a regular basis, I've been to all the relevant sleep-away camps, and there is still leftover gelt in random corners of my house. Everything about my life was Jewish. Everyone I knew is Jewish. My family, my teachers, all of my friends were Jewish. Even the owner of my dance studio was Jewish. But when I arrived at UC Davis, I quickly learned that I was a minority, and even perceived negatively by a vast majority of my peers, something I had never experienced before.
For me, Israel and Judaism were always one and the same. And despite those who try and convince me to believe otherwise, my faith and my commitment to Israel are still unwavering. I grew up knowing never again. I had pen pals in Israel who I still communicate with to this day, and they are now serving in the army. I memorized the Hatikvah before I knew the National Anthem. I could tell you how to say random words in Hebrew, the history of the Western Wall, and why Israel is located in the Middle East. And even though my secluded world was a warped version of reality, it was my reality and I am thankful for it because I grew up knowing that the Israel story is a Jewish story. In a nutshell, my life was essentially a sheltered bubble full of pretzel challah, sing-along services, and unconditional devotion to Judaism, and the Jewish state. And I loved it.
I took Jewish day school very seriously because I knew from an early age that, as a Jew, I have a responsibility. The Holocaust murdered six million of my ancestors. Today, there are as many Jews in the world as there are Latinos in California. We are a dying race. 16 million strong. It seems like a big number, and yet we only make up 0.2 percent of the world's population. It is up to my generation to rebuild, restore, and reignite the flame of our faith, and attending Jewish day school fortified my enduring dedication to this cause. Hitler wanted us gone, but we are survivors.
Every time our people are faced with a challenging and even life-threatening situation, we carry on and pick up the pieces. We survive. I couldn't be prouder to hold membership in such a strong and beautiful community of humans, and having grown up in the Jewish safe haven otherwise known as the San Fernando Valley, my love for my religion was never tested. Why would it be? Undoubtedly, I was aware that history has blamed Jews for almost everything bad that has ever happened throughout time. There are terrorist groups whose sole purpose is to obliterate Israel from the map. I knew not everyone liked us, but for me, such groups seemed to exist hundreds if not thousands of miles away. Little did I know that my university would serve as a headquarters for people who didn't like me because of my heritage and my historical roots to congregate and openly express their disproval of everything that makes me who I am. Everything that I grew up believing was the norm.
Yet on the campus of UC Davis with approximately 27,000 undergraduate students, I am one of 2,700 who are Jewish. However, I am only one of 500 who chooses to identify as Jewish. Students on my campus have been bullied, silenced, and made to feel invalidated. And to every Jewish student reading this, you are not alone. We've all been there. I have been there. I've had protesters yell directly in my face, telling me that I am wrong when all I strove to accomplish was instigate a meaningful conversation. I've been told that my ancestors are ruthless and heartless murderers with no shred of humanity. I've been told that Hitler had the right idea. I've seen Iranian ballistic missiles fired into Israel that read, in Hebrew, "Israel must be wiped off the map." I've seen swastikas graffitied on the walls of Alpha Epsilon Pi.
Within my freshman year at UC Davis, a self-proclaimed defender of the outspoken, I have been told that my voice has no place here. And if you're still with me, I know you probably feel as though you have no reason to keep the faith alive. No reason to identify as Jewish and Pro-Israel, no reason to submit yourself to ignorant hatefulness and blatant anti-Semitism. But I am here to tell you that it's OK to be Jewish.
It's OK to call a "good deed" a mitzvah.
It's OK to believe for your heroes to be the Maccabees, the IDF, and in the spirit of Passover, even Moses.
It's OK to spend your summer on Birthright, and when you're there, it's OK to cry at Yad Vashem and feel immense pride when you climb to the top of Masada.
It's OK to stand behind a country that is internationally criticized simply for defending itself. I mean, if rockets were flying down in New York City, America wouldn't just stand idly by. You better believe that we would do something.
It's OK to defend a nation that receives little to no media attention -- positive attention, that is.
It's even OK to criticize Israel because even She isn't perfect.
It's OK to be an advocate.
It's OK to be a tribe member.
It's OK to celebrate Shabbat, sing the Shema, and be proud of who you are and where you come from.
It's OK to believe in God.
It's OK to be Jewish.
This past weekend, the Jewish people celebrated Passover, a story of the liberation of the Jewish slaves in Israel, and their 40-year quest through the desert in the hopes of reaching the Jewish homeland. In this profound story, we see multiple signs of God's protection. We witness heroism and sacrifice. We are introduced to the holy testaments. And we recognize that, like every other Jewish story, this is a story of survival. Jews survive. Its just what we do.
Personally, I am so proud to be Jewish, and I am proud to be an activist for the American-Israel relationship. I know where I came from, I know where my ancestors came from, and I know what is at stake. As Senator Robert Menendez said when addressing the AIPAC Policy Conference this year in Washington DC,
There can be no denying the Jewish people's legitimate right to live in peace and security in a homeland to which they have a connection for thousands of years."
Loving Israel and loving Judaism are one and the same, and the importance of doing so cannot be stressed enough. In times like these, it is crucial for us to stand tall, united, and hold an unbreakable front against those who wish to tear us down. The best revenge is happiness, love, and pride.
I know what I am asking of you is scary, but join us and you'll see. Despite the efforts of those trying to break us apart, we are a strong, motivated, and proud group of students. The Jews are vibrant, accepting, passionate, and intelligent people. We are the movers and shakers. We are the future. We are the Jews, and we are for Israel. It's OK to be Jewish. In fact, it's more than OK. It's a blessing, and it is one that I do not take for granted.
