“If Chanukah is a festival of lights, why don’t we put them on our house?” my child recently asked me.
I’ve often wondered the same question. After all, one of the obligations of Chanukah is to “publicize” the miracle of a small Jewish community successfully resisting the surrounding, oppressive culture. The Talmud, one of the most sacred sources of Jewish wisdom, argues that a menorah should be placed outside of one’s home, ideally at the busiest time of day. This way the general public will see the candles and learn about the miracle. The Talmud builds in a backup plan. For Jews living during times of persecution, they should light a menorah inside their homes, where it isn’t visible to outsiders.
I wish I could tell you that this precaution is antiquated and no longer necessary. But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case. In fact, over the past ten years, the number of antisemitic incidents in the United States has increased by almost 900%. I feel far less safe publicly showing my Jewish identity now than I did when I was a kid growing up in Centennial. At that time, my fear was of White Supremacists. This past summer’s attack in Boulder, however, illustrated that threats exist from both the far right and the far left. While I do not believe that everything anti-Israel is anti-semitic, it is a very nuanced and blurry line, often with overlap.
Every time I consider wearing a shirt with Hebrew on it, or a yarmulka in spaces other than synagogue, or responding to strangers who wish me “Merry Christmas,” that my family actually celebrates Chanukah, I calculate whether or not these actions are safe. To be sure, this caution is not restricted to Jewish people. Rather, all minorities calculate how to show up in the world to stay safe and most face far greater physical danger than the Jewish community.
I’ve always assumed my neighbors knew the additional mental and emotional gymnastics required to be Jewish in a culture rooted in Christianity and White Supremacy. But the past few months, it’s become clearer to me that my well-intentioned neighbors likely don’t know the added stress that Jewish people carry.
This fall, I launched a new Jewish group in South Denver called Karov. As our numbers have grown past the size of gathering in homes, I’ve started reaching out to local businesses about renting space. In these conversations, I request that the host please not post anything online about dates we are holding Jewish events in their venue to prevent the possibility of someone doing harm to our group. At which point the manager will say something like, “I am so sorry you have to think about such things. I had no idea.”
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Driving away from the church, it occurred to me that most non-Jewish people wouldn’t know this insider view because it’s not often shared. I’ve been happy to expose my friends of other faith traditions to the beauty of Shabbat and holidays, but I’ve saved my fears about being Jewish for those within my community. And, thinking about depictions of Jews in pop culture, Jewish characters are not portrayed as deliberating over whether it’s safe to wear a Star of David necklace.
There’s an expression in Hebrew, “HaMevin, Yavin,” which essentially means, “When you know, you know.” My hope as we enter this holiday season is that by sharing some of my fears that stem from my Jewish identity, my non-Jewish neighbors will now know some of the added weight I and my community carry year-round but especially during this time of year.
Amanda Schwartz is a rabbi in Centennial, where she also grew up. She is the founder of Karov Collective, a burgeoning egalitarian Jewish community in Southeast Metro Denver.
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