Being Jewish has always been a part of my identity. My late mother Rabbi Janice Garfunkel, may her memory be a blessing, instilled in me from a very young age to be proud of my Judaism… and Israel. As an alumna of Sycamore High school, I played an active role in our Jewish community. I was heavily involved in BBYO, spent my summers at Camp Livingston, went on a semester abroad at Alexander Muss High School in Israel and the list doesn’t end there, but this isn’t about what I’ve done in the States. Now I am a university student at Royal Holloway University of London (RHUL) in the UK, and my whole outlook on Judaism and Israel has been brought into question in a way I never thought would be possible.
I moved to London in 2022 to continue my studies at Istituto Marangoni (an Italian fashion school) in Whitechapel, London. Neither Whitechapel nor fashion school stuck with me for very long, and other than one Chabad rebbetzin reaching out to me, my Jewish identity didn’t go much farther than high holiday services that year at a reform temple in Essex. It wasn’t until I switched to RHUL where I realized what it meant to be a Jew in the UK.
I am in my second year (roughly translated to a mash of sophomore and junior year in the states) now and am an Emerson fellow for StandWithUs UK, but before I touch Israel or antisemitism, it is important to note that Judaism itself is not the same here. We have it good, we Cincinnatians. We take for granted our close knit communities, the JCC and a relatively comprehensive Kosher section at Kroger. Apart from North West London (primarily Golders Green), Jewish communities are far and few. I live in Egham, Surrey (even though Royal Holloway is a University of London school), and there is no synagogue in Egham. There is one orthodox shul in Staines (a 40 minute walk, or 20 minute journey by public transportation ) or a reform synagogue in Weybridge (roughly an hour away by public transportation), and the closest conservative/masorti shul is in North West London, which is an hour and a half away (by public transportation) for us students.
The mere distance alone is not the only roadblock for Jewish students here, although it does not help. Judaism here does not have the resources that American Jewry has. Of course they don’t have the space to have many Jewish summer camps that kids can go to all summer, but I’ve noticed that Jewish culture is just that…Jewish. At Sycamore, if I threw the word “kosher” somewhere in conversation to my gentile friends, they would understand what I’m saying, because America is simply just more Jewish. There are more of us there, and our communities are established. Here, when I wrote the word “goyishe” in a short story of mine for class, I was met with uncomfortable peers not knowing how to navigate the situation, reverting to telling me to take the Jewish stuff out because “they didn’t get it.”
That said, a kosher section or summer camp aren’t the only two defining resources that American Jews have that British Jews don’t. We cannot take for granted the special relationship that America has with Israel, and what that means for Jews on a day to day basis in the states. I’m not talking about the extreme environments for Jewish students, like Columbia and other Ivy Leagues, rather the response (or lack thereof) Jews get in Cincinnati when you mention that you went to Israel in the summer. The last time I lived in Cincinnati was when I was a student at Sycamore, and other than one antisemitic incident which was written about in the Cincinnati Enquirer, my time at Sycamore was a blissful Jewish bubble, where teachers knew about the high holidays, and I could wear my IDF hoodie to class.
Now, as many people my age do, I decorate my laptop with stickers. I have a collection of five: An Air Jordan logo, A picture of a potato, an #OUOyVey Hillel sticker, A Consent is Kosher sticker and a tiny heart with the Israeli flag inside of it. No matter what class or café I am in in England, I find myself wanting to take it off when people are sitting next to me — but I never do. Why should I? Why can people have stickers that say “Boycott Israeli Apartheid” on a Palestinian flag, but I can’t have a tiny reminder of where our people are from? Every time I feel my hand rise to cover it, I have to ask myself what I am covering and why? That, in a nutshell, is my understanding of British Jewry. If you are surrounded by people who so loudly oppose your existence, with no community and no resources nearby, overtime you will reach to cover up your identity.
To make matters more complicated, Jews in the UK put a large emphasis on the ethnicity aspect of Judaism, but this in itself isn’t inherently a problem since, afterall, it is true. The problem goes hand in hand with what my friend calls my “yidlife crisis.” As of right now, gun against my head, I would say I am a Conservative Jew, although living in the UK has made me bring that into question. In the UK, it seems as if there are only two options: Reform or Modern Orthodox. Conservative is called Masorti here, which was previously mentioned, but it is not the same (more on that later). And naturally, there will always be a Haredi presence, but from what I gather is that there is not much middle ground. So, where is my problem? My problem lies in the fact that if we see ourselves as a different race and you can either be Orthodox or Reform, you run into the shame that I mentioned earlier. Let me elaborate. You either are a Jew who has grown up religious to an extent (either Reform or Orthodox), and you know everything that that denomination has to offer, or you are ethnically Jewish, have no interest in being religious but are still told you are committing genocide or that the Nazis should have finished you off, whereas in (most of) the states if you are secular, you can still take pride in Israel and your ethnicity.
This is all to say, however, that my experiences are completely different to others. I arrived in the UK a naive American, thinking that the world held the same respect for Jews as they do back home, but for the first time I am fighting for my identity. When my knee-jerk reaction is to tuck my Star of David necklace into my shirt, a second voice pops up saying that this is just my test like every generation that has come before me, with no right or wrong answer. The symptoms of antisemitism are here, but thankfully I also have the diagnosis: Jews are not the problem, but we can help with the solution. As the president of the Jewish society at RHUL and an Emerson fellow, to try and break down the antisemitic walls between Jews, Israel and the rest of the world. How? I’m not so sure yet, but every day brings me closer to an answer, whether it be responding with a “I actually celebrate Hanukkah!” to a “Merry Christmas!”, turning towards my fellow Jews with open ears, or handing out a simple definition of what Zionism actually means, but more on that later.
