Remember the Shoah, Not Just the Holocaust

At the Women’s March on Washington, actress Ashley Judd made a speech which has since gone viral in liberal internet circles. In the speech, a slam poem written by a 19-year-old in Tennessee, Judd says she is a “nasty woman” — but “not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag.” She “feels Hitler in these streets” and invokes “gas chambers” to describe conversion therapy. Judd ends on an uplifting note, saying that women of all religions are birthing “new generations of nasty women,” Christian, Muslim, Buddhist and Sikh alike. But despite invoking Nazism in blatant language, she does not mention Jews.

Do you see the problem here? Does the omission glare at you, too?

Judd is right about echoes existing between Nazi Germany and America’s current political situation. Those similarities are important to point out — and many left-wing individuals are doing so, rightly. But in post after post I’ve seen decrying Trump as a fascist, warning of the rise of actual neo-Nazism disguised as the “alt-right,” almost no one has mentioned Jews. They bemoan the dangers facing other marginalized groups — Muslims, Hispanics, African-Americans, LGBTQ individuals, the poor, sexual assault survivors, the list goes on and on — but somehow, despite the fact that they’re talking about Nazism, they never consider that maybe Jews are worried, too.

I understand why many people don’t think of Jews as a population in danger. In many ways, they’re right. President Trump has crafted no policy to target Jews, unlike his proposed wall on the Mexican border or his ban of Muslim refugees. Moreover, in the U.S., most Jews — specifically Ashkenazi Jews — are white, with accompanying privilege. That classification is relatively new, having arisen only in the past 70 years, but it is true all the same. In our everyday lives, we are not discriminated against the way Muslims are, the way African-Americans are, the way any person with dark skin is. I benefit from white privilege every time I walk down the street. I’m not afraid of policemen because I’m pale as a lily, and I can trust they won’t care about my faith.

But if you’re making the argument that Nazism is rising in America, you can’t act like that won’t affect Jews.

For all our privilege now, Ashkenazi Jews are also the population most deeply affected by Nazism. Most Jews have many relatives who died in the Holocaust, and that’s not even mentioning the literal millennia of persecution we faced beforehand. I don’t need to tell you Hitler killed six million Jews: you’ve had that number drilled into you already. But I don’t think non-Jews usually know that those six million were half of Europe’s entire Jewish population, and a third of all Jews worldwide. I don’t think most non-Jews understand what it feels like to know someone tried, and nearly succeeded, to exterminate your entire people. And I really, really don’t think non-Jews realize how terrified so many Jews are now that Nazism may be making a comeback, because if you realized that, I’d like to think you’d mention it.

And you’re not. Speeches like Judd’s at the Women’s March exploit the Holocaust for effect without acknowledging its catastrophic outcomes for the Jewish people. Posts condemn the alt-right’s Islamophobia without noting its intrinsic anti-Semitism. Articles discuss the rise in white nationalism without realizing Jews aren’t included in that vision, no matter our skin color. We stand on lines between the categories that fit everybody else: we are white but not to everyone, we are European except that Europe tried to kill us, we have privilege but we are not safe.

Anti-Semitism still exists today, and Ashkenazi Jews still rightly fear it. With a president who was elected with neo-Nazis’ and white nationalists’ support, we confront that bigotry more now than we have in decades. If Nazism is, in fact, rising again, Jews will be among the most endangered.

I’m not asking you to say Jews may be deported. We have no reason to think that’s true. Nor am I asking you to prioritize Jewish lives over the many others that need more protecting. But the next time you connect the Holocaust to America today, don’t just remember how it happened. Remember who it happened to: remember the Jews whom it meant to extinguish.

And if you think my plea doesn’t apply to you, ask yourself this. Between January 9 and 18, more than 40 Jewish Community Centers received bomb threats. I didn’t see a single one of my non-Jewish friends post about it; only one even mentioned it, a week later.

If the buildings threatened had been mosques, would you have cared?


After the Apocalypse

I’ve never been afraid to be a Jew in America before.

Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve felt these fears during Donald Trump’s campaign. I’ve felt them ever since Trump told the Republican Jewish Congress they wouldn’t vote for him “because I don’t want your money.” I’ve felt them ever since he and his sons started retweeting posts and images from anti-Jew white supremacists. My fear has intensified, steadily, since Trump retweeted an image of a Star of David emblazoned over money, and reached a peak when Trump used his last campaign ad to decry “a global power structure” represented solely by Jews.

At least, I thought it was a peak. But I was wrong. Tonight, after it became clear Donald J. Trump would become the next President of the United States, I sat in my room and cried for more minutes than I can count. For the first time, I am truly afraid to live in my country.

I haven’t talked about these fears during this election cycle because, of all minority groups, I have the least to fear — and that’s saying something. My terror shouldn’t take away from the sheer dystopia facing all people of color, Muslims, immigrants, LGBTQ individuals, low-income people with government health care, sexual violence survivors, millions upon millions upon millions of people in our country who aren’t safe here anymore. I don’t expect government policy to adopt anti-Semitism, although I write that with some hesitation. But Trump has enabled anti-Semites, brought their bigotry back into the mainstream, and created a space for hating Jews that our country has not seen since World War II.

Again: I’m lucky. I’m white. I’m upper middle-class. But I am terrified for my friends, for my family, for the Jewish children I hope to bear one day. I’ve always known I would be an overprotective mother, that I would find plenty to worry about for my children: bullies, tough schoolwork, heartache. Never before have I worried that my children might be called kikes. Never before have I had reason to fear for their wellbeing because of their ethnicity and religion. Never before have I felt my family would be unsafe not just while living in America, but because we live in America.

I’ve always said with pride before that I look Jewish, and that my dad does, too. I’ve loved that with one look, maybe two, people can recognize the identity I love so deeply. Now I’m terrified. I’m terrified that with one look, a stranger will decide I am less than human. I’m terrified that they will decide the same about other people I love, too.

To my friends of color: I don’t know how you’ve made it this long, with this much fear. I’m so sorry for any way I’ve contributed to that. To however small an extent, I know your fear now. I don’t know if I have your strength to bear it.

All my life, Jewish elders have told me anti-Semitism is a cycle. You don’t know what it’s like, they said, but it’ll come back. It always does. I shrugged it off.

They were right.

I don’t want the Trump voters reading this to unfriend me or distance themselves from me personally. That’s not our way forward as a nation. But I want you to know that you have plunged my life and the lives of millions of others into uncertainty and horror. I want you to know that when — not if — someone calls me a yid, you are to blame. I want you to know that you have wrenched America away from all its claims to democracy and equality. And if you are a Jew, and you voted for a man who exploited anti-Semitism in order to gain votes, you should hang your head in shame. I pray for you, because you need it.

For that matter, we all do.

Donald Trump, Schmuck in Chief

Donald Trump is a piece of drek.

That fact has been clear throughout this entire election cycle, but it became especially obvious yesterday. You know, when Donald Trump tweeted a blatantly anti-Semitic image accusing Hillary Clinton of corruption. The poster had a background of money and a red badge declaring Clinton the “Most Corrupt Candidate Ever” — shaped like a Star of David.

As Andy Borowitz put it, right as always: “Trump doing an anti-Semitic tweet about someone who isn’t Jewish combines two of his signature qualities, racism and inaccuracy.” So meshuge.

Trump deleted the tweet, which seemed almost like an admission of wrongdoing. But of course it wasn’t! A k’nocker like Trump doesn’t apologize. No, instead Trump waited until today to tweet: “Dishonest media is trying their absolute best to depict a star in a tweet as the Star of David rather than a Sheriff’s Star, or plain star!”

That’s because it was a Star of David, Donald. Sheriff’s stars have circles on their points. Plain stars usually have five tips.

As always, Trump deliberately or genuinely just doesn’t get it. Because of that, I realized: why bother writing a column in English for this am horets? He’s earned the language of my people, the language with the best insults in the world: Yiddish.

And here’s the thing: Yiddish is the most appropriate language to write this rant in anyway. Yiddish became the language of Ashkenazi Jews in the ninth century. No matter where in Eastern or Central Europe these Jews lived, their language united them. My grandmother’s family came from modern-day Lithuania, my grandfather’s family from modern-day Ukraine. Those two countries are more than 1,100 miles apart. Yet both my grandparents spoke Yiddish. Instead of Lithuanian or Ukrainian, Yiddish was their families’ native language.

That’s because being Jewish added a formative layer to their identity. Both an ethnicity and a faith, Judaism has defined its adherents for thousands of years. It’s not the only thing that defines us: I, for example, am also a white, upper-middle-class woman from Suburbia, USA. But it’s an intrinsic part of our identities — a link that Yiddish, for more than a millennium, exemplified.

Donald Trump can’t understand what it means to be part of a persecuted minority, because he’s not part of one. He particularly can’t understand what it means to be Jewish. The poster he tweeted, whose anti-Semitism he later denied, epitomizes an old Yiddish saying, born from centuries of persecution and mistrust: Dos ken nor a goy. “That, only a gentile is capable of doing.” Only a non-Jew with Trump’s chutzpa could parrot such narishkayt.

Here’s the thing: Trump almost certainly doesn’t think of himself as anti-Semitic. His daughter Ivanka converted to Judaism; three of his grandchildren will receive B’nai Mitzvot. They’re related to him, so in theory he cares about them.

But that doesn’t preclude him from being an anti-Semite. In fact, Trump is anti-Semitic. He may not think Jews’ association with money is a bad thing — he’s tried to cultivate that same association for himself — but he does think it exists.

Let’s look at his great seykhl of the Jewish people:

  • “I’m a negotiator like you folks, we are negotiators. . . . Is there anybody that doesn’t renegotiate deals in this room? This room negotiates them — perhaps more than any other room I’ve ever spoken in.” — Trump, assuming all Jews are money-obsessed hagglers, at the Republican Jewish Coalition’s Presidential Forum in 2015.
  • “Stupidly, you want to give money. . . . You’re not going to support me because I don’t want your money.” — There he goes again with the money stereotype at the RJC!
  • “I promise you that I’m much smarter than Jonathan Leibowitz – I mean Jon Stewart @TheDailyShow. Who, by the way, is totally overrated.” — A tweet from The Donald in 2013, with his insinuations about Stewart’s Judaism plain.
  • “Black guys counting my money! I hate it. The only kind of people I want counting my money are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.”As told to John R. O’Donnell, former president of Trump Plaza Hotel & Casino. Trump probably thought this was a compliment.
  • “I don’t have a message to the fans. . . . A woman wrote an article that’s inaccurate.” — This quote would seem innocuous if Trump wasn’t defending his anti-Semitic supporters, who were sending vile, vulgar death threats to Julia Ioffe, a Jewish reporter who wrote an article about Melania Trump. Wolf Blitzer gave Trump an opportunity to denounce those fans; Trump didn’t take it.

From those five quotes alone, Trump’s record is clear: he believes in the stereotypes about Jews and money, plus a few others. Even worse, he spreads and encourages those stereotypes among his millions of followers. He bears direct blame for the neo-Nazis attacking Jews, journalists or otherwise, online. There’s a reason David Duke, former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, enthusiastically endorsed him.

Donald Trump is an anti-Semite.

It doesn’t matter that his daughter and grandchildren are Jewish. It doesn’t matter that there are some rich Jews, or Jewish accountants. Trump’s stereotypes about us remain prejudicial khaloshes. They’re garbage, responsible for millions of Jews’ deaths.

And this oyf kapores zhlob wants to be president of the United States.

Happy Fourth of July, everybody. Don’t vote for Donald Schmuck Trump in November.

Civil Disobedience, and Why the Intifada Doesn’t Count

Over the last week, I have read with mingled pride and dismay about my alma mater, Shaker Heights High School.

To honor Trayvon Martin, a black 17-year-old shot and killed by George Zimmerman in Florida, on the fourth anniversary of his death, Shaker students wanted to wear their hoods up. In doing so, they aimed to recognize Martin’s senseless murder and the injustice in Zimmerman’s acquittal. They wanted to make a statement about how little hoods should mean — that people in this country, especially African-Americans, should be judged by their character, not their skin color or clothing.

On Feb. 26, 2012, Martin died because of America’s endemic racism. Four years and dozens of innocent African-Americans’ deaths later, my former neighbors and schoolmates wanted to honor his memory.

But Shaker Heights High School has a rule against wearing hoods. The administration sees them as a security risk, obscuring people’s faces and thus allowing anyone — potentially dangerous individuals included — to enter the building. On that note, Interim Principal James Reed III gave a PA announcement Feb. 25 against the hoods-up display.

“Students are welcome to wear sweatshirts if they wish, to honor his [Martin’s] sacrifice,” Reed said, “and also to state that by having our hoods down in our halls and classes, that we are all individuals who should be seen and respected, not covered by a hood.”

But students could not wear their hoods up.

They did anyway. Students received in-school suspensions. Students ducked from administrators’ eyes in the hallway. Some students did, in fact, put their hoods down. But some students kept theirs up, showing solidarity with Martin and other victims of police violence, in a stunning end to Shaker’s celebration of Black History Month.

I am so proud of Shaker’s students. I am so proud to hail from such a politically aware school district. Following the debacle through the Shakerite’s coverage, I read with pride, gratitude and admiration about Shaker’s beautiful civil disobedience.

On that same day — Feb. 26 — I learned with horror that an activist group at my new school, Columbia University, defines civil disobedience very differently than I do. To me, civil disobedience does not just comprise a protest against the law. That protest must be civil — nonviolent. Yet under the mantle of “civil disobedience,” Columbia University Apartheid Divest, which promotes the international Boycott, Divest and Sanctions movement (BDS), includes the First and Second Intifadas.

I have refrained from speaking out against CUAD, largely because I do not disagree with them on every issue, or even most. I agree that Israel denies Palestinians in the occupied territories equal rights. I agree that Palestinians should have their own nation. I agree that the Jewish country I love departs increasingly, as the years progress, from my own Jewish values.

But I disagree that Israel within the green line is an apartheid state. I don’t think BDS will convince or force the Israeli government to free the occupied territories. And I am disgusted that CUAD insists the Intifadas were simply civil disobedience, ignoring the Palestinian role in the violence.

The disagreement stems from Feb. 11, when Barnard/Columbia Socialists promoted CUAD’s “BDS 101” event on Facebook. In their post, which no longer exists on the group’s Facebook page, they concluded their message with four words: “Long Live the Intifada.”

My friend Shoshana, the co-president of J Street CU — a pro-Israel, pro-Palestine, anti-occupation group I joined this semester — condemned the Socialists’ endorsement of the Intifada on Facebook. I did the same.

Perhaps naively, I thought CUAD might agree. I attended the BDS 101 event to learn more about the movement, and I was impressed with the CUAD representatives’ emphasis on nonviolence. They made clear that in promoting BDS, they are promoting a civil, peaceful way towards Palestinian freedom. I admire that goal, even if I disagree with BDS’ tactics and effectiveness.

For two weeks, I waited for CUAD to release a statement about the Socialists’ Intifada endorsement. As days passed and I saw none, disappointment set in. I had overestimated CUAD’s commitment to nonviolence. Still, I refrained from making any judgments or statements until CUAD gave their opinion. I wanted to let CUAD surprise me. I wished, so fervently, that CUAD would keep their nonviolent stance.

They didn’t. Instead, two days ago, CUAD and Barnard/Columbia Socialists posted an article by defending the First and Second Intifadas as “mass rebellions against terrorism” and “the popular struggle of hundreds of thousands of Palestinian people acting in civil disobedience against occupation and apartheid.”

To give the article full credit, it’s not entirely wrong. Palestinians did practice civil disobedience. During the First Intifada in particular, which lasted from 1987 until 1993, Palestinians used strikes, graffiti and boycotts of Israeli goods to show their anger — nonviolent tactics which I applaud.

But the First Intifada also included Palestinians who threw stones and Molotov cocktails. That does not justify Israel’s disproportionate, violent response, which killed more than a thousand Palestinians: I continue to deplore Israel’s use of incommensurate violence while responding to the insurrection of an oppressed people. However, the Palestinians’ weapons make it impossible to call the First Intifada a solely nonviolent movement.

And the Second Intifada, which lasted from 2000 until 2005, was considerably worse. This time, the insurrection used almost solely violent means. Shootings; rockets; stabbings; suicide bombings — all these and more lethal actions perpetuated death and injury rather than working towards peace. Thousands of Palestinians and Israelis were murdered by violent Palestinian insurrectionaries and the Israeli Defense Forces; still more thousands were injured.

Yes, Israel used its power disproportionately. Yes, more Palestinians died than Israelis, by indisputable margins. Yes, the Israeli government remains in power and ever more oppressive. But over a thousand people were killed by the Palestinians, most of them innocent. We cannot ignore that fact. The deaths and injuries on both sides only render the conflict more tragic.

Those deaths and injuries preclude the Intifadas from classifying as civil disobedience. According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, civil disobedience comprises “refusal to obey governmental demands or commands especially as a nonviolent and usually collective means of forcing concessions from the government.” Philosopher John Rawls defined civil disobedience as “a public, nonviolent, conscientious yet political act contrary to law usually done with the aim of bringing about a change in the law or policies of the government.” Even Henry David Thoreau, who coined the term “civil disobedience” in his famous 1849 essay, advocated “a peaceable revolution.”

“Nonviolent.” “Nonviolent.” “Peaceable.” The pattern is apparent and unavoidable. If people uprising commit violence, ranging from wounds to murders, they are not engaging in civil disobedience. They are engaging in a violent insurrection.

If Columbia University Apartheid Divest wants to support the Intifada, they should be honest about what they’re supporting. I cannot stop student organizers from declaring their views, and I do not want to. They have every right to release a statement supporting the Intifadas, just as I have every right to write this column expressing my disappointment with that position. But, for the sake of accuracy, they cannot call the Intifadas civil disobedience. In doing so, they distort the term.

Promoting boycotts, divestment and sanctions is civil disobedience. Wearing hoods up to mourn a high school student’s death is civil disobedience. Shootings, stabbings and bombings are not.

Confirming Old Warnings, a Brush with Hatred

They warned me.

“They” refers, in this case, to dozens of people. My parents; my aunts and uncles; older friends who have graduated; even my rabbi. All of them warned me about the anti-Semitism I would face in college. Although I listened, I didn’t quite believe them. I would go to a college with thousands of Jews, in New York City, a city with millions of them. What kind of fool could hate Jews there?

I met him today. On my way to the farmer’s market outside my school’s student center, I passed a tall man wearing a white T-shirt and a silver, fist-sized cross. He held up a large sign, screaming in red letters, “GOOGLE IT!!!” Below that, in black: “China says Jews control America.”

For a moment, I thought I had misinterpreted the man’s message. Then, he turned around, and I read the back of his sign: “CHINA IS RIGHT.”

Despite all my Jewish history — despite my knowledge about stereotypes — despite the rage and shock that boiled in my chest, pulsating harder than my heartbeat — I froze.

What could I say to that man?

He was taller than me, tanner and visibly buffer. He hated my mere existence. He was foolish enough to believe Jews hold America hostage, dangling our country alongside stolen dollars in crooked fingers. He was so convinced of his correctness, his righteousness, that he stood outside despite the heat in a heavily Jewish area to publicize his warped beliefs.

I could not change that man’s mind in one conversation — not with the few minutes I had — and could not ensure my own safety while doing so. Though we stood in a public area, surrounded by people, he could hit me. He could kick me. He could push me backward and pretend my words were the buzzes of flies.

When I first saw the man, I walked past him in silence, as everyone else did around me. The man stood right in front of my college’s entrance, apparent to all eyes, but no one spoke a word to him. Some people glanced at the sign, then looked away; they shuffled their feet faster, uncomfortable, unsure. I took my cues from them. I went to the farmer’s market and browsed the stands. I bought a pound of honey, but skipped the apples because bruises marred their skins. I signed up for the market’s list serve and chatted with the sellers. All the while, I could not forget the man. He stood feet away from me, silent, holding up his offensive sign. I saw the glaring declaration — “CHINA IS RIGHT” — under my eyelids: whenever I blinked, the writing, red as blood, glistened before me.

What could I say to that man?

As I returned to my dorm, jar of honey in hand, I passed him again. This time, words jumped out of my mouth: “You should be ashamed of yourself.” My heart raced. I looked to see if he had heard me; either he hadn’t, or he was feigning deafness. I felt the words bubble in my throat — the accusations of ignorance, the “How dare you,” the hundreds of reasons he is wrong. But I said nothing more. He never returned my gaze and after a moment, I turned away. I walked back to my dorm fighting tears — of anger, of disgust, but also of shame.

In most of my blog posts, I state my opinions. Here, I cannot do that: I do not know what I think. I am not sure I did the right thing; I am not sure, in that situation, what the “right thing” would have been. Should I have told him why he was wrong, despite the fruitlessness and danger of that pursuit? Should I have stayed silent like the other passersby, knowing my words would sail past his ears like a cool breeze anyway? Was I right to shame the man, however ineffectually, and should I have repeated myself to make sure he heard my words? What should the people around me have done, the shufflers, who averted their eyes and kept their lips sealed shut?

I doubt one solution exists for this dilemma, a problem that Jews and other minorities have dealt with for too long. I, alone, can certainly not find an answer. As such, I turn to you to use this blog’s comments feature. What would you have done in this situation? How do you think I should’ve acted? No matter your answers, I won’t be offended; that would render mute the point of sharing and considering others’ viewpoints. I want to learn from you, as I do too rarely. Whether you have faced anti-Semitism or another form of prejudice, please, tell me about your experience, if you feel comfortable doing so. Other readers, I hope, will learn from your comments as well. The intricacies of hatred — both its substance and the fight it inspires — are things we all must, as responsible citizens, learn.

The man who stood outside my college today proved adults’ resigned warnings right. I have brushed anti-Semitism now; I will confront it, and other forms of hatred, again. Next time, I want to know what to do. We all — man or woman, Jewish or Christian — must know what to do. Otherwise, the men with offensive signs will remain, bigoted and ignorant, spreading the messages that keep hate alive. I hope we can start that discussion here, below this post. I hope we all learn something from the comments, myself most of all.

Amid College Life’s Haste, a Religious Respite

By most definitions, I am not a religious Jew.

Biologically, I am as Jewish as bagels and lox. My father is Jewish; more importantly, so is my mother; so were their parents, and theirs, as long as my family has lived. Our Judaism sustained us in tiny Eastern European villages, where my ancestors survived illness, poverty and pogroms. Our faith carried us from Ukraine, Lithuania and Belarus to Canada, America and even Israel. Our Jewish heritage binds us today: we reunite at scattered cousins’ B’Nai Mitzvot, complain about our lack of grains during Passover together, sit shiva for the shared family members who must leave us.

Yet in certain key ways, some might consider me unobservant. I don’t keep Kosher — not even anti-pork Kosher Lite — and feel no guilt over that fact. I rarely attend services outside of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, the High Holy Days that even the most secular Jews honor. My support for the modern state of Israel wavers on a regular basis: I believe in Zion, but the nation Benjamin Netanyahu leads does not fit my definition of a Jewish state.

These past two weeks in college, however, I have found myself drawn to my faith in one key way. More seriously than ever before, I have begun celebrating Shabbat.

Keeping Shabbat is one of our Ten Commandments. On Mount Sinai, God ordered Moses, “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work . . . For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day” (Exodus 20:8-11).

Due to the Hebrew calendar, Shabbat begins at sunset every Friday and continues until the sun sleeps the next day. Jews begin the celebration with a dinner, usually with family, and then attend services Saturday morning and evening. More notably, Shabbat should serve as a day of rest. Orthodox Jews conduct no creative work — that is, work which exercises control over their environment. Bakers stow away their flour; fire pits contain no flames; farmers turn off their plows and let their crops grow untrimmed. In a modern context, orthodox Jews cannot write or use electronics during Shabbat. They cannot drive or travel in any motorized vehicle, hence the Jews in pressed slacks and button-down shirts you may have seen walking through rain or heat on Saturday mornings.

I do not keep Shabbat as an orthodox Jew would. Yet in a short time, I have come to hold Shabbat’s principles dear.

Although I do work on Shabbat, I pause. My first Friday night at college, I attended a Shabbat dinner at the local Hillel. For that hour, I didn’t worry about my classes or cleaning my room. I let myself enjoy my food, mouthful and morsel alike. I made friends with the other Jews assigned to my table, all strangers with one common trait. I thought about my parents, although they had snuck into my mind anyway.

Unintentionally, I followed both of God’s instructions for the Sabbath. In Deuteronomy 5:12, He ordered us to “observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” That I did: for one hour, I turned off my cell phone and computer. I appreciated the double meaning tucked within the word “present.” I enjoyed my space in time and the people, food and prayer sitting there with me.

So, too, did I remember. In the Torah, God told us to recall not just the earth’s creation, but also our historic Exodus. “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the Lord your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm,” Moses instructed the wandering Jews. “Therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day” (Deuteronomy 5:15).

As I ate my meal last Friday, surrounded by other Jews, all prosperous in a country where our religion cannot cause our deaths, I thanked God. We chorused gratitude for bread and wine in Hebrew prayer, and for the first time I understood the words I chanted. I was not just thanking God for the food in front of me, or for creating the world that bore it; I was thanking Him for the life I lead. I have never suffered enslavement; poverty hasn’t dirtied my skin. Love has never left my side, instead growing beside me in my mother’s womb and holding my hand to this day.

Appreciating the wonders of my simple existence, I thought with pain of all those who lack my ease. I bowed my head for Moses and the Jews he led to the Promised Land. I closed my eyes, respecting the empty stares that replaced Holocaust victims’ sight. I sent a prayer for the children, women and men in war-torn zones, robbed of family and peace, who could use the food on my plate as sustenance for a week.

I only spent an hour at Shabbat dinner, but afterwards I felt more centered and relaxed than I had in days. Amid the ceaseless hustle of New York City, I had found my calm.

It lasted a week. Today, I felt sensations too familiar to me. Stress; fatigue; hints of self-absorption. For the first time, I knew what I needed to do.

I gathered ingredients stored in my dorm’s mini-fridge. The meal I made was modest: a salad with apple, cheese, egg whites, tomatoes and orange peppers on a bed of baby greens. As I chopped my vegetables, I turned off my phone and put it aside. When I finished, I ate my dinner with a friend in our suite’s lounge area. We discussed her 30-mile bike ride, my plans to bake the next day and future school events. For the hour and a half in which I made and ate my food, I felt my ease return. It slipped in with my breath and stayed nestled in my chest, even when I exhaled a laugh. I felt like I was home with my parents again, sitting around the kitchen table, talking about our days and — most importantly — listening.

I attended no services and said no prayers. But in that meal, I practiced Shabbat as piously as my ancestors. I observed; I remembered; my peace restored itself.

The word “Shabbat” comes from the Hebrew letters Shin-Beit-Tav, which mean “to cease,” “to end” or “to rest.” Observing that pause with sincerity at last has taught me why Shabbat — more than even Yom Kippur — is Judaism’s most precious day. When we take any time, from one hour to 24, to give thanks for love and life, we embody the values that matter most. Humility. Thoughtfulness. Understanding. Compassion. Respect. In doing so, we become closer to God and thus ourselves — even if we’re eating with plastic utensils, sitting in a shaky chair in a college dorm.

Death to the Jews: Leo Frank, Alfred Dreyfus and the Crime of Judaism

     The summer before eleventh grade, I attended Hathaway Brown Theatre Institute, a camp that trained me to perform in one of its two musicals that season. One of our assignments was to pick a new song, practice it with a voice teacher and prepare it as an audition piece. On a staff member’s suggestion, I chose “You Don’t Know This Man” from Jason Robert Brown’s Parade, a 1998 musical about the trial, conviction and lynching of Leo Frank — a man innocent of all deeds except being Jewish.
     Frank, a pencil factory superintendent in Marietta, GA, was accused of murdering 13-year-old Mary Phagan in April 1913. As crowds outside the courthouse screamed, “Hang the Jew!” on August 25, Frank was convicted based on factory janitor Jim Conley’s testimony. That Conley’s story changed between affidavits seemed not to bother the jury, nor did the fact he admitted fabricating parts of his tale. Although Conley was an African-American in the Jim Crow South, the jury considered him more truthful than Frank, a Jew raised and educated in the North. Appeals from Frank’s legal team failed, although Georgia’s governor commuted his original sentence — death by hanging — to life imprisonment.
     However, the commutation did not save Leo Frank. On August 16, 1915, a group of 28 men — including former Georgia governor Joseph Mackey Brown, former Marietta mayor Eugene Herbert Clay and E. P. Dobbs, the mayor of Marietta at the time, as well as lawyers, bankers and county sheriffs — abducted Frank from a prison hospital. The next day — exactly 100 years ago — they lynched him. When townspeople discovered Frank’s swinging corpse, they took proud pictures underneath it: a city united, celebrating that they had finally hung the Jew.
     Today, historians agree that Conley killed Phagan to steal the pay in her pocket. Conley framed Leo Frank, an innocent man condemned less for his alleged crime than for being a Jew in an anti-Semitic society.
     Frank’s sordid tale struck a particular chord with me not just because I am Jewish, but also because of my mother. She was born and grew up as a Jew in the South. Had my mother been born just a few decades earlier, she, too, could have been framed for murder because of her religion. She, too, may have hung from a tree, a rope bruising her breathless neck.
     As I sang the song from Parade at camp, I thought of another anti-Semitic attack. In September 1894, the French army obtained a letter known as the bordereau, written to the German military attaché in Paris, offering French military secrets. Alfred Dreyfus, the only Jew with knowledge of the letter’s promised information, became an instant suspect. The army prosecuted Dreyfus without conclusive evidence as to his guilt. A handwriting expert from the Bank of France said Dreyfus’ penmanship did not match that in the bordereau, so General Mercier hired an anti-Semitic graphologist to disagree. Commandants Henry and du Paty forged a “Secret File” of documents incriminating Dreyfus under military orders. On December 22, the First Council of War unanimously declared Dreyfus guilty. Most Frenchmen believed a Jew could commit treason without question, despite his spick-and-span military career and spotless criminal record. Journalists from the popular, anti-Semitic La Libre Parole, who had felt consoled upon Dreyfus’ arrest “that it [was] not a true Frenchman who committed such a crime,” rejoiced.
     Dreyfus’ legal battle to prove his innocence continued for more than a decade. In 1896, while investigating one Commandant Esterhazy for another treasonous letter, General Georges Picquart discovered Esterhazy’s handwriting matched that in the bordereau. His superiors forbade him from revealing his discovery; when Picquart disobeyed them, giving his report to a lawyer in 1897, the army discharged him.
     Picquart’s report led to a retrial for Dreyfus and a first trial for Esterhazy. However, on Jan. 10, 1898, Esterhazy was acquitted. The crowd roared its appreciation for the verdict: “Death to the Jews!”
     However, Dreyfus and his supporters maintained his innocence. As anti-Semitic disputes roiled France, the military’s case unraveled. Reporters discovered the forged “Secret File” in August 1898; Commandant Henry committed suicide. The next day, Esterhazy fled France. A year later, Dreyfus returned to France for a retrial but, despite the new evidence in his favor, met conviction again. However, President Loubet issued Dreyfus a pardon in September 1899, which he accepted. Dreyfus remained guilty in the eyes of the law until 1906, when the Cour de Cassation gave him a fourth trial. Finally, they declared his innocence.
     Even after the 1906 ruling, however, anti-Dreyfusards and anti-Semites swore by Dreyfus’ guilt. Their sentiments haunted Dreyfus the rest of his life. He could no longer live his former existence as an upright military officer, Jewish but unobservant. Until his death, his faith and its consequences defined him.
     Alfred Dreyfus’ legal battle began 19 years before Leo Frank’s, and he avoided Frank’s grisly demise. However, history casts these two men as brothers. Both were upstanding members of their modern societies; both were framed for crimes they did not commit; both were convicted because they observed Judaism; both have been exonerated by hindsight, the great redeemer. Dreyfus and Frank serve as casualties of anti-Semitism in the Western world, and as warnings of the strife and injustice prejudice can wring.
     A common joke among Jews aims to describe, in one sentence, all our holidays: “They tried to kill us; they didn’t; let’s eat!” Although I laugh whenever someone feeds me that line, I — like all Jews, or at least most — understand the truth at its core. We are among the most persecuted groups in world history. In the Exodus, the Diaspora, the Holocaust, we have faced extinction as a people. Yet we have faced equal threats as individuals throughout history as well.
     We don’t know the name of every Jew targeted for his religion. We don’t know their faces, their families or their fates. However, we do know Alfred Dreyfus and Leo Frank. We know who they were; we know what befell them. We read their names in history books and hear their stories in musicals. We think of their faces when we hear of persecution and bemoan the years they lost because of it.
     Today, the centenary anniversary of the lynching of Leo Frank, remember the factory leader whose innocence could not save him. Remember Alfred Dreyfus, the soldier betrayed by the army he served. And with them, remember every other victim of religious persecution — millions of unknown people killed before their time, millions of unknown people who deal with slurs and violence everyday. We do not know all their names, but we can honor their lives. If we remember and eradicate the prejudice that plagued them, they have not died in vain.
     If observing Judaism is a crime, I am guilty. Luckily, in my life, it is not. We must make that the standard across the world, for all religions. The fact we have not achieved that yet shows what we still must learn from Leo Frank. Until then, his body’s shadow still hangs on a tree in Georgia: limbs tied together, his white nightshirt in tatters, unseeing eyes facing the sky.