It’s a complicated time to be Jewish – even more so if your heritage is not instantly obvious to others
The other day a stranger approached me in the road and asked whether I was Jewish. In 42 years of life, the question had never been posed to me by someone I didn’t already know. My first wild instinct was to offer congratulations in reply, perhaps a prize for observational skill. I don’t look the part. My father was Scottish, gingery and freckled, and my mother is the stuff of Hitler’s nightmares: a blond, blue-eyed Jew. “I thought so,” said the stranger, their hunch confirmed. We went on to have a confused, uneasy exchange. It was late. The stranger was smoking something vibey and I was suddenly sober, a bit drained, trying to gather my wits to equivocate and bring the conversation to a close. The whole thing lasted a couple of minutes and afterwards I felt as if something overdue had happened, the end of an easy ride.
It is a complicated time to be a British Jew, or a Jew of the global diaspora, shaped by different cultures with allegiances and affections that lately have been pulled wider apart. I’m not describing all Jews or even most Jews. But there are lots of us, I know, who hover on margins, whose adherences are not quickly definable, even in this time of disorder when the natural tendency is to try to neaten positions and make pigeonholes for beliefs. There have always been agnostic kosher-keepers. There have always been observers of the Sabbath who’ll sneak away after synagogue to watch Saturday football. (Hi, Grandpa Bernard.) There are loads of Jews like me who can go for weeks at a time in a sort of nondenominational trance. There are Jews who slip beneath notice, who defy the general understanding of what a Jew is.
Continue reading… It’s a complicated time to be Jewish – even more so if your heritage is not instantly obvious to othersThe other day a stranger approached me in the road and asked whether I was Jewish. In 42 years of life, the question had never been posed to me by someone I didn’t already know. My first wild instinct was to offer congratulations in reply, perhaps a prize for observational skill. I don’t look the part. My father was Scottish, gingery and freckled, and my mother is the stuff of Hitler’s nightmares: a blond, blue-eyed Jew. “I thought so,” said the stranger, their hunch confirmed. We went on to have a confused, uneasy exchange. It was late. The stranger was smoking something vibey and I was suddenly sober, a bit drained, trying to gather my wits to equivocate and bring the conversation to a close. The whole thing lasted a couple of minutes and afterwards I felt as if something overdue had happened, the end of an easy ride.It is a complicated time to be a British Jew, or a Jew of the global diaspora, shaped by different cultures with allegiances and affections that lately have been pulled wider apart. I’m not describing all Jews or even most Jews. But there are lots of us, I know, who hover on margins, whose adherences are not quickly definable, even in this time of disorder when the natural tendency is to try to neaten positions and make pigeonholes for beliefs. There have always been agnostic kosher-keepers. There have always been observers of the Sabbath who’ll sneak away after synagogue to watch Saturday football. (Hi, Grandpa Bernard.) There are loads of Jews like me who can go for weeks at a time in a sort of nondenominational trance. There are Jews who slip beneath notice, who defy the general understanding of what a Jew is. Continue reading… Life and style, Judaism, Religion, Family
