Written by Preston Neimeiser
When I left Israel in December of 2010, I left in tears. I made a promise to myself, sitting on the floor of Ben Gurion airport surrounded by four months' worth of baggage, that I would return to this place I had begun to think of as a second home. In my time away, I continued to learn about Israel's history from an external perspective, and developed my Hebrew as best as I could without the advantage of immersion. Every year away from Israel, I somehow felt closer, my desire to reconstitute my love for the land grew stronger and I imparted that love and desire on anyone who would listen. Even now, in the throes of a moral quandary, I describe Israel as a proverbial fairy land, where a Jew can truly be a Jew and any man or woman can live his or her life, free and able to grow and develop in their personal path. I still believe this, but returning as a twenty-one year old man has necessitated a recognition of the nuances that make Israel the country that it is. For instance, the student village which we've been living in for the past month is located in East Jerusalem. Although Har Hatzofim has been under Jewish rule since the inauguration of Hebrew University in 1925, kfar hastudentim is outside the 1948 armistice line; from various windows in my apartment I see drastically different narratives unfolding. When I look west, I see the old city in all of her glory -- I don't know if I could ever conceptualize an Israel without her. To the east is the Arab village of Isawiya, and I can't help but be struck by the obvious contrast between the two areas. Right outside my bedroom window, I can see a "settlement" which seems to always be under construction. Before I came back here, this is the issue I thought would consume me the most, just as it consumes the media: "the conflict," borders and people who can't seem to get along. But honestly, the most cognitive dissonance I've been feeling has been deeply introspective.
Leaving here, I felt my Jewish identity was stronger than ever, ready to brave the acculturating diaspora. When I got home, I was President of my youth group, as well as the Religious and Cultural Vice President of NFTY's Southern area region. I worked in Jewish summer camps, helping kids shape their own Jewish identities. I worked for Hillel, a face for the Jewish community on my campus. Coming back to Israel was supposed to be invigorating, but every day I feel one particular challenge weigh on me more and more heavily. Am I Jewish?
I never questioned it before, despite having been exposed to the contrary opinion for as long as I can remember. No, I don't have a Jewish mother, but I owe an apology to her. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry that I'm so insecure I have to lie about who you are, that that lie helps me to appease strangers whose world view I don't share - for the most part anyway. It feels ironic, that on a program for Jewish leaders I have to question something so basic. Growing up in a reform synagogue I felt empowered to use the parts of Halakha that made sense to me, that I thought would help me to be the best person I possibly could be. I loved learning and discussing Torah, I loved Jewish culture and Israel and I engaged with them all on a daily basis so that I could "be a blessing" - I always thought that was more important than who your mother is. In the Shoah, I would have been murdered like any other Jew, without a moment's hesitation. If I wanted to move to Israel, I could do so easily, but if I wanted to get married here it would be impossible without converting to a religion I've espoused since I was old enough to conceptualize myself. I'm tired of being defined by other people. I'm tired of feeling like I somehow have to prove myself worthy of the identity I never thought I could lose in the first place. It is me. It's who I am. But is that enough?
