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Wednesday, December 19, 2018

Jewish Journey, World Expanding | by Natalie Katz

I grew up as a secular Jew in a sheltered corner of Suffolk County, Long Island where everyone I knew was either Jewish or Catholic, and almost everyone was white.  Unlike most Jewish families on Long Island, my family did not belong to a synagogue.  My parents were secular – Jewish by culture and identity, but not religious.  We attended a Jewish cultural school on Saturdays, where we studied Yiddish, music, bible studies, and current events.  Our education explored the rich history and traditions of our ancestors.

One of my teachers, Ruth Minsky Sender, was a Holocaust survivor from Lodz, Poland.  As a young teenager, she survived imprisonment in Auschwitz because her poetry uplifted the spirits of the other women in her barracks.  In her soft Polish accent, she explained to us the horrific circumstances, sharing her experiences in the ghetto and the concentration camp, and delicately answering our questions.  This was not the cold facts of a history book but rather the very real experiences suffered by someone who stood before us and whom we held dear.  Mrs. Sender explained how Jews in Germany had become an integral part of society.  Many had become educated professionals – teachers, doctors, lawyers, bankers.  To them, it was unfathomable how, all of the sudden, they were treated like pariahs.

We learned about the Exodus from Israel and Egypt and the search for safety.  Jews had migrated north into Europe and around the globe, seeking a home free of oppression. My great, great grandparents and my great grandparents escaped from Russia in the late 1880s and early 1910s in response to violence against Jews.  In the 1970s, we talked about the question – Are we Jews forever safe in the United States?  Or is this one more stop along the journey?  Should we feel comfortable and a part of American society?  Or are we getting complacent and blind to future dangers?  For my first 45 years, I felt very comfortable here.  I felt like we belonged and that America valued diversity.  Parents and teachers taught us that the United States of America welcomed and valued the tired, poor, and huddled masses yearning to be free.

But in the last few years, I have seen things in this country that I never would have imagined: desecration of Jewish cemeteries, and shootings in a Black church, a gay nightclub, a Jewish synagogue, and many, many schools.  Murders of people who are dark skinned, or Muslim, or transgender.  Snatching away of immigrant children from immigrant parents.  Open hostility towards people who are disabled or different in any way.  My head is spinning and my heart aches.  I question whether the US is our “forever home” or our “100-year stopover.”  I know that walling myself off from these horrors, or running and hiding, isn’t the answer.

My daughter and I participate in experiences through Interfaith Philadelphia, including Walking the Walk and Visionary Women, to connect with other people and deepen our own understanding.  We have new friends who are Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Episcopalian, and Baha’i, and new friends who are African, African-American, Hispanic, Indian, and Pakistani.  We have come to appreciate how our contemplation during the Jewish High Holy Days is similar to the introspection our Muslim brothers and sisters experience during Ramadan.  We have seen how Sikhs revere the “Guru Granth Sahib” (the Sikh holy book) the way we value the “Torah” (the first 5 books of the old testament).  An attack on one is an attack on all.  We stand together.  In the words of Rabbi Hillel, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  If I am only for myself, what am I?  If not now, when?”  I know that I still have a lot to learn. I have many more questions that answer.  I am grateful to learn and share in this safe, accepting, and diverse community.

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Neither this nor that: "How Walking the Walk helped me escape my double life and embrace my true identity" | by Arisha Syed

I grew up in a moderate, Muslim-American family—first generation American on my dad’s side, second generation on my mom’s. Both of my parents hoped that raising their three daughters in the U.S. would bring us a comfortable life, and, by the grace of God, we have a roof over our heads, food on the table, money for college, and we even go on the occasional vacation. However, September 11, 2001 drastically changed my family’s sense of comfort in the U.S. and altered the way we looked at the world.

After 9/11, my family wasn’t comfortable identifying openly as Muslim and operated by one simple rule: culture is for the world, religion is for the home. Even though I felt like an outcast as one of the only brown kids in school, I was encouraged by my parents to embrace my Indian/Pakistani heritage. However, I was also told to always conceal my religious beliefs from the public.

It never made sense to me, even as early as a 6-year-old. Why could Christian kids freely celebrate their religious holidays (let alone get an entire winter break around Christmas) yet I had to quietly take a day off in order to celebrate my religious holidays? Although it didn’t seem right, I did what I thought I was expected to do by American society—I embraced the dominant Christian culture that was, in a way, forced upon us. Sadly, the media’s portrayal of “dangerous Muslims” caused my parents to be more comfortable with me and my sisters decorating Christmas ornaments in school rather than talking about our own religious holidays. In a post-9/11 world, it just seemed “safer” to seem Christian. Despite this, our parents made sure to teach us about Islam and our own culture as soon as we got home from school each day. Essentially, I was living a double life. I was neither this nor that: neither truly “American” (a.k.a. Christian) nor openly Muslim.

This changed, however, during the fall of my junior year of high school when I was introduced to Interfaith Philadelphia and joined the Walking the Walk Youth Initiative. Little did I know this interfaith youth group would go on to change my entire life in the best way possible. Suddenly, my story of living a double life seemed a little more normal. I realized that there were so many teens going through that same struggle, whether they were Jewish, Hindu, Baha’i, or Quaker to name a few. As a part of the “out-group” in American society, we were all forced to be aware of religious and cultural diversity very early on in life whereas Christian kids had the luxury of choosing whether they wanted to be aware of it since society catered to their identity. For me, Walking the Walk wasn’t just about engaging in much needed interfaith dialogue but discovering and embracing my own true identity through listening to the stories of others. The more I learned about different faiths, the more I realized how strikingly similar the basic goals of many religions were: to spread peace and harmony, treat one’s neighbor as you want to be treated, avoid ignorance by pursuing education—by daring to understand. And just like that, I felt so much less alone.

Walking the Walk gave me the confidence to embrace my religion in public just as much as at home. Even now, in 2018, with overwhelming political tension targeting Muslims and people of color, Walking the Walk has given me a sense of safety and the ability to embrace my religion without feeling alone. It taught me that there’s nothing to be ashamed of because those shaming me for being myself simply need to be educated. Humans aren’t born hating certain groups of people; ignorance is the cause of hatred. We are only afraid of the unknown. That’s why I advocate for interfaith and intercultural dialogue and believe it’s never too young to start the conversation. After all, if a 6-year-old has the capacity to feel marginalized because of their faith, race, or gender then they have the capacity to learn how to change that too.