22 September 2025
What it feels like to be Jewish.
Have you ever stopped to think about what it feels like to be Jewish? What it means to you, how it has shaped you in a way, what circumstances would have made you feel less or more Jewish?
These days, very special holy days, the Jewishness of your being might be raised to the foreground. The Jewish holidays have a double effect; first effect is that they often describe events we as a Jewish society had to endure. The following passage in the Novel ¨Foreskins´ Lament¨ sums it quite sharply:
¨When i was a child, my parents and teachers told me about a very strong man. They told me that he was capable of destroying the entire world. They told me he could move mountains and separate seas. It was important to keep the man happy. If we did as we were told, the man would like us. He would like us so much that he´d murder everyone that didn´t like us. If we didn´t do what we were told, he wouldn´t like us. In fact he would hate us. Some days, he would hate us so much that he would murder us; other days he would have other people doing the murdering for him. Those days are what we call ¨holidays¨. With Poerim, we commemorate how the Persians tried to murder is. With Pesach, we commemorate how the Egyptians tried to murder is. With Chanoeka, we commemorate how the Greeks tried to kill us.
– Blessed is he, we prayed.¨
Rosh Hashanah is of a different nature than most Jewish holidays since it is marks the creation of Adam and Eve. Indisputably a very important day for all humans, nevertheless only celebrated by us ¨chosen¨ ones. I wouldn´t say that I feel very connected to the story of Adam and Eve myself. It doesn´t help that the Torah describes two narratives. The first one we all know, is the one where god quite distantly creates things. ¨´Let there be light´; and there was light. G-d saw that the light was good, and G-d separated the light from the darkness.¨
Then the second one, a little messier, where g-d is more like a gardener/caretaker looking for company and entertainment: ¨G-d planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the Human who had been fashioned. And from the ground G-d caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and good for food, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and bad¨. And later on ¨They heard the sound of God moving about in the garden at the breezy time of day; and the Human and his wife hid from G-d among the trees of the garden. God called out to the Human and said to him, ´Where are you?´¨
These stories of Genesis are really not the flame that lights my higher state of Jewishness just before and during the first days of Elul. Perhaps they are too distant and too general; Christianity and Islam both agree on Adam and Eve, yet they do not celebrate Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
So what is it? Why am I more Jewish today than in June or July? Perhaps – it is the second effect Jewish holidays exert on my being: They are coupled to my own history, the other 25 times I was at this point of the year. Some of those spent alone, recent ones spent in collective horror, but many also spent in a sweet and blissful togetherness.
My first memories in the Netherlands often take me to a specific group of Jewish expats my dad found in Dutch Language class back in 2003. Many of these people had kids. Kids with names like Noah, Or, and Daniel. Kids who just knew that the apple was supposed to go inside the honey. Kids who spoke at least two or three languages, but all would agree that lemonade is just ¨miets¨ and Mozes is just a weird Dutch name for Moshe¨. All would know some family member also named Moshe. Most probably, this family member was old and wise and would give marzipan to kids whilst snacking on sunflower seeds himself. None would have to think twice when the collective singing began, none questioned that being a boy equalled putting on a kippah, being a girl equalled lighting candles, and all knew when they had to say amen.
Later on, aged 10-12 a Dutch child like me will typically have its first interaction with WWII in the last chapters of whatever book was chosen to teach ¨history for elementary school¨. Whilst teachers would get awfully tactful and sweaty about the whole thing, not knowing how to deal with this child that might have above-average difficult questions at this point of the class, I was getting painfully aware of the fact that eyes were directed at me. ¨How does it feel for you to read about this Ruth?¨ – the teachers would ask, being quite proud of their first real-life contribution to an inclusive society.
And that is it right there. The duality, the light and dark. The two sides of the story. One caused by how we see ourselves, almost primal, we don´t have to think about it, its in our names, our songs, our family members, our language, and memories. The other is the external. The way we are seen by others, understood or misunderstood, a painful reminder of what humans are capable of doing to other humans.
Arnon Grunberg wrote a column in de Groene Amsterdammer called ¨The jew is defined by those that hate him¨. He states ¨A positive identification of the Jew is possible, but outside the domain of religion, and perhaps also within it, only as a literary matter.¨
Although I highly recommend reading the column, I have to disagree with its main message, I won´t let it be up to others to decide what makes me Jewish.
About the writer
Hi, I’m Ruth. Once a week, I sit down to write a column about being Jewish, modern, young, and eager to learn. Some weeks, I might invite someone for a talk. Other weeks, I might dive into research, introspection, or just find some other way to write something meaningful for people like me — trying to enjoy being Jewish, modern, young, and eager to learn.
Hope to see you here often!
