As my family and I sat across from a lavender field in Provence last spring, sipping red wine, I began discussing my Jewish practice. As I continued, my cousin grew visibly agitated, and finally interrupted me: “Why do we have to talk about being Jewish?” he asked. “Why is that information relevant?”
Embarrassed, I changed the subject and we all returned to our lavender and wine-induced stupor. But my cousin’s reaction gave me a preview of how differently the word “Jewish” was understood in France.
I have known for a long time that my Jewish identity is largely determined by context. Its expression varies based on whether I’m at school or at home, whether it’s the High Holidays or final exams, and what country I am in. But when I studied abroad on the other side of the Atlantic, I felt, for the first time in my life, reluctant to publicly identify as a Jew.
As a child in Western Massachusettes, I proudly saw Judaism as something different—and, therefore, more interesting—than Christianity. I loved sharing the traditions with my non-Jewish friends, and even convinced two of them to fast during Yom Kippur.
When I began college, and Judaism began to take up more and more space in my life, I found other reasons to be proud of my Judaism. As an active—and activist—Jew on campus, I constantly identify myself as Jewish, and never hesitate to do so.
But when I arrived in France, I found myself in situations similar to the dinner at my cousin’s. And though I know that French Jews have experienced a rise in anti-Semitism since the most recent Palestinian Intifada, my ambivalence about identifying myself as Jewish did not come from a fear of anti-Semitism or anti-Zionism.
Instead, the French had an equal-opportunity approach to their disdain for religion, whether it be Judaism, Hinduism, or even Christianity. The widespread support for the ban on the veil in public schools testifies to the same anti-religious sentiment, there manifesting itself as a reaction against Islam.
At home, mentioning my Judaism has little effect in in the middle to upper-middle class worlds I inhabit. “Jewish” can mean so many different things, and unless the conversation brings in my religious practices, my eating habits, or my political beliefs, saying “I am Jewish” doesn’t really say much.
After a few months in France, though, I started thinking twice before bringing up my religion. If asked directly, I readily told people, but if the subject was not broached—which was usually the case—I avoided it as one hesitates before discussing one’s sex life, or preferences in bathroom literature with a relative stranger. The topic of Judaism was better avoided.
I started to see that discomfort with Judaism is an essential aspect of French identity. Since the days of Napoleon, being French has demanded a commitment to the nation before all else. The emergence of nineteenth-century French nationalism coincided with the first acceptance of Jews as French citizens, on the condition that they were French first and Jews second. Generations later, I realized that my declaration of my Jewish identity questioned this hierarchy. I made myself suddenly suspicious and introduced a barrier between me and the rest of France.
Whereas the average American does not adamantly separate religious beliefs from national commitment, French people relegate religion to the private sphere. Unlike our own God-fearing president, French politicians do not mention how their personal faith informs their political life. In such a context, my free expression of religious beliefs implied that they were of unusual—and therefore uncomfortable—importance.
While also helping to refine my palate, my semester in France taught me that in some places, religion, like bathroom literature, is better kept to oneself. Doing as the French do involves more than just tasting their wine; it also means speaking their language.
