I have faced more religious hatred in my life than a “typical American Jew”–whom I define as wealthy; established, having been in this country for several generations; and proud of his or her religion. I can’t help but resent him for his pride and confidence in the Jewish culture and people. It’s intimidating in a way, it makes me feel as though I am missing something very important in my life.
I was born in the Soviet Union, into a world of haters and anti-Semites. I didn’t feel the hatred then, because I was young and didn’t know what religion I was until I immigrated to the United States. In fact, I didn’t even know there were different religions until I came to this country.
Years after my family immigrated to the States, my mother told me about the 1,500-year anniversary of the establishment of the city of Kiev in the mid-1980s. There were rumors that a pogrom would take place on this night. My parents spent all day and night with close friends, afraid to sleep in their own house. Every knock on the door made my mother’s breath clump in her chest as she pictured herself being torn away from her children and dragged to execution.
It wasn’t always this bad. Usually, Jews just couldn’t get jobs or be admitted into universities unless they knew someone. The worst part is that the hatred wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t in the newspapers or on television. People didn’t talk about it. It just slithered through society like a camouflaged snake. Nobody saw it coming, but they sure felt the sting of its poisonous bite.
It was for such reasons that until I was seven or eight years of age, I observed Christmas–presents under the tree, Santa Claus, the whole deal. Although I know it was for my own good and for my family’s safety, it hurts just as bad. Today, my mother doesn’t understand my hostility toward this holiday. She feels it is comforting (probably to her more than to me) to remind me that we weren’t celebrating Christmas, we were celebrating New Year’s. But to me, it doesn’t matter what we were celebrating, because it definitely wasn’t Chanukah.
For years, we had been unable to leave the Soviet Union because of various political reasons that my family was not even aware of at the time. Then, eight years after my birth, the Soviet government began allowing more Jews to leave the country. My immediate family was given permission to immigrate to Maryland, where my father’s family had been living for 10 years. Upon arrival, my brother and I were immediately immersed in our religion and culture. Since we had missed so many years, we had to catch up quickly. The feeling one gets when immersed in cold water, the choking feeling, is how I felt back then.
It was summer, so we were sent to Jewish day camp. We had no clue what Judaism was. “Who are these people? What are these songs and prayers that they sing?” we wondered. I vomited on the school bus every morning on the way to camp. I used to think that it was carsickness, but now I realize that it was really my nerves. Everything was foreign to me, overwhelming me so much as to make me physically sick.
Every summer, for six years, my brother and I were sent to a three-week-long Jewish sleep-away camp. This is when I began to realize who I am and how I am different than the “American Jew.” I learned about Judaism, its prayers, history, and culture. The more I learned, the more I craved the feeling of belonging. I knew that I was different than most of the other kids, but I felt in my heart that the one thing we had in common, the most important thing, made us brothers and sisters. I felt that for once somebody loved me because of my religion.
From this point on, I wanted to do everything Jewish. I had to catch up to the rest of the Jewish people. I had to become as “Jewish” as the other kids. I began resenting the fact that I had to learn from scratch something that should have been a way of life for me. I resented American Jews, my parents, communists, Nazis, and others, I’m sure. I thought that becoming more “Jewish” would ease some of the conflicts I had within myself. Am I a Jew, an American Jew, a Soviet Jew, an outsider on the inside? Though I was finally part of a strong Jewish community, I felt like I didn’t belong here either, because there was always something different about me, a past that other Jewish kids would never understand and never even have to.
No matter what I did, I always felt like a traitor, exhibiting pride that didn’t really exist in my heart. That, and the fact that I could not categorize myself, made my enthusiasm for the religion fade. I was tired of constantly reaching out and learning to think like an “American Jew.” It was much easier to deny my religion and new culture, but I felt extremely guilty for doing so.
My guilt was heightened a couple of years ago when I was in love with a man who looked me in the eyes once and said, “I could never bring a Jewish girl home.” As my heart fell from my chest and shattered into millions of pieces on the ground, I was shocked to be bitten by this poisonous snake. I thought that I had left the hatred behind in the Soviet Union. This doesn’t happen in America, I thought. Instead of hating him, though, I hated Jewishness, and hated myself for that. I was afraid that all people felt as he did and I wanted to hide my Jewishness, to sweep it under the rug.
So many years had passed since I came to this country; I thought I was beginning to come to terms with my Jewish identity. I was an outsider on the inside, I had decided. But I realized that I had come full circle from where I had started. Once again, I was the little girl from Ukraine, searching for her Jewish identity.
I knew that all these things in my life happened for a reason. I was being tested, as my people have been all throughout history. I knew I had to make a choice. I would either surrender to everything that my family and ancestors had fought against, or I would continue their battle. Eventually, I decided that the battle would continue. It would be a tough battle, though, because I would be fighting myself.
