By Karen Klein in Los Angeles
A few days ago, I attended a book talk for On Being Jewish Now, a collection of essays reflecting on Jewish life after October 7. About 50 people had gathered inside a posh clothing store in Beverly Hills, and before long the conversation gave way to a familiar ritual of trauma bonding and story telling. Personal accounts of fear, identity, and all the difficult ways our lives have changed over the last 20 months.
One woman shared that she had recently moved her son to a Jewish high school. The young man was there and confidently chimed in about how much he loves his new school, relieved to no longer worry about harassment or having to hide who he is. The room applauded in support. Moments later, a public school teacher described students drawing swastikas on their art projects. When she intervened, she quickly discovered that many of her students had never knowingly met a Jew. They were surprised to learn that she was Jewish. She admitted to considering leaving public education to teach at a Jewish school, where she wouldn’t have to transform her middle school art curriculum into impromptu Holocaust education.
A voice from the room interrupted.
“No,” it said. “We need you in public schools.”
The room applauded again.
For the rest of the talk, I found myself stuck on the duality of those moments. Within minutes, the room had expressed support for two very different ways of responding to the same reality. First, the path of seeking refuge and turning inward. Then, the insistence that Jews belong in American public life. Both drew support, and both felt true.
I am a product of Los Angeles public schools. I went to school every day well aware that I was different, but never that I didn’t belong. I was chocolate spread in pita among peanut butter and jelly on white bread. I never felt the need to hide, nor was I burdened by the responsibility of representing anyone other than myself. I was Jewish and Israeli, and just as boring and typical as everyone else.
I did not go to school in an atmosphere of antagonizing antisemitism or anti-Zionism, and we did not have digital spaces laced with anti-Israel propaganda. In my reality, I wasn’t compelled to explain myself, defend my people, or become a Holocaust educator. Every spring, the matzah came out of my brown lunch bag. I probably traded “weird crackers” for neon-hued marshmallow Peeps and jelly beans. Whatever my classmates might remember about school, none of them could say they had never met a Jew. They knew me well.
This kind of ordinary Jewish life in America cannot be taken for granted anymore.
Increasingly, many Jews in America find themselves living in between. Between seeking safety in our own spaces, where Jewish identity need not constantly be explained or defended, and the desire to fully participate in the American pluralism that many of us deeply value.
Living in America as Jews has become a negotiation of boundaries between how much of our daily lives unfold in shared spaces and how much we choose to organize around Jewish ones. Schools are only one example. Neighborhoods, workplaces, universities, grocery stores, friendships, hobbies and communities all become part of the calculus. In nearly every sphere of life, there are tradeoffs between participation and protection, and costs for both the comfort of Jewish spaces and the unpredictability of shared American ones.
As the group dispersed into quiet conversation and warm embraces, I left thinking less about either response and more about the reality that has made both feel so reasonable.
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Karen Klein holds a B.A. in Communication Studies and an M.A. in Government with a specialization in Counter-Terrorism from Reichman University, where her thesis research examined the intersection of media and terrorism. This article initially appeared on the Times of Israel website.