I Was Hesitant To Raise My Hand

“Has anyone visited Israel?" 

That was the question my professor asked to the class as we were discussing 

cultural differences.

The question seemed innocent. Academic. In good faith. 

Then someone laughed. 

Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just enough.

A few others joined in. 

I was hesitant to raise my hand.

but I did anyway. 

I was the only one in my class that did.

Maybe the laughter didn’t mean anything, I thought to myself.

Or maybe it did.

Even though I knew I was safe, I felt the mood of the room shift. 

I was now visible to my class.

Not as a student. But as a Jew. 

The University of California, Santa Barbara has a strong population of Jewish 

students. 

Students who understand my identity. People who will be there for me when it’s 

sometimes difficult to be open about my religion. 

Except, I don’t go to UCSB.

I go to the City College not far from it. 

Where there aren’t as many students who resonate with my background. 

Where there is not a circle that I feel understood. 

Where I have to explain myself to my classmates who are unfamiliar with my religion.

Religion?  That’s something studied, debated, and historical.

Not lived. 

And definitely no discussion about God, unless it's ironic. 

Religion feels outdated here. 

Discussion feels embarrassing. 

No one says anything to you directly,

But you notice. 

You notice what gets laughed at.

You notice what gets dismissed. 

As I scroll later in the night,

I see clips of a random podcast.

AI generated videos.

Conspiracy theories.

All with millions of views. 

That would have been enough.

But the comments fill the rest. 

I have always felt secure. 

I walk on campus and speak freely.

Yet, there is an awareness that comes with being Jewish.

Jewish history is filled with places that once felt permanent.

Comfortable. Integrated. Flourishing.

Until they weren’t. 

I don’t say that dramatically.

I say it humbly.

Because to be jewish is to carry a memory. 

Not fear. 

Memory.

That does not make me want to hide. 

If anything It gives me the strength to stand up straighter. 

To wear my Magen David louder. 

To raise my hand higher.

That laughter in the room clarified that I don’t raise my hand because it’s easy, 

But because it's true. 

I have been to Israel. 

I am proud of my identity. 

I welcome the Shabbat Bride.

I show up, even in the dark.

Being one of the only Jews that go to my college can feel isolating, but 

Judaism has taught me that my culture has never been dependent on numbers. 

It has been dependent on continuity.

Lighting candles.

Asking questions.

Being with the community. 

I'm not sure what the world will look like in 50 years.

Nor will anyone.

But I know Judaism has not rested on comfort. 

It rests on commitment.

Commitment most days can look small.

A personal prayer.

A simple Shabbat meal with your friends.

Or a hand raised in a classroom.