Stories of Return

I decided to show up for something different: a Chabad Young Professionals Encounter Shabbaton in Los Angeles.

I found out I was Jewish when a girl on my street told me I was a “dirty Jew.”

Until quite recently, my knee-jerk reaction to organized religion was resistance. Hundreds of miles from home that I discovered where I truly belong.

Feelings of intense despair washed over me, and I began to sob.

The closest Jewish community was six hours away in Brisbane; I didn’t believe I had ever met a single Jewish person.

Elina had a typical Soviet childhood, immersed in an atheist culture with little understanding of her Jewish identity.

I loved being Jewish, but I had no real concept of what that meant.

We knew that if we were to continue our journey in Judaism, we must tackle the scary hurdle of finding a community where we could learn and feel accepted.

I yearn to learn—to be Jewish not in name only, but as one who respects and fully embraces my religion and heritage with love and gratitude.

Some non-Jewish neighbors called us ‘dirty Jews,’ and I felt that we were different.

I stood in awe of the people who knew exactly what was happening. Everyone seemed at ease, familiar with each step of the ceremony.

Julia’s diagnosis didn’t discourage her from studying Torah, as well as learning and observing Jewish customs. She believed that each day offers an opportunity to get closer to G‑d, family and friends.

We don’t have to be anyone special to have a sacred task. And yet, somehow or another, our acts might have consequences that we cannot even begin to imagine.

Under the guidance of the Rebbe, Chabad women were investing in their traditional roles as women while also going out into the public domain to change the world.

Levi is a shliach in Edgware, England, and he was the last person I expected in the midst of a global pandemic, but I was happy to see him.

On the windowsill stood a silver candelabra large enough to hold nine candles and a box of tall candles. I understood I was being initiated into a rite I hadn’t known existed until that moment.

We can count the number of apples on an apple tree, but we can never know how many trees will grow from the seeds hidden in each apple.

My new name held a softness to it, yet lent strength to my effort to heal and begin to live life again as a whole, and wholly new, person.

One day, as I was washing my grandmother’s hands before eating challah, Svetlana smiled and said that she, too, was Jewish. I was surprised because she often mentioned her Greek Orthodox beliefs and wore a crucifix around her neck.

I had always felt like a fraud in a church, quite torn, but didn’t know how to begin to live life as a Jew. So I slogged along, well into middle age, not knowing where to begin.

While living in Greece, Irini had a Jewish friend in high school and was required to study the Old Testament in theology classes. This gave her some basic knowledge about the Jewish people.

What is 770? What is Eastern Parkway? You’re born and raised in Brooklyn, a 30-minute drive from there, but you have no idea that place exists or why it does.

I saw not only the beauty that Judaism has to offer, but slowly, the hand of G‑d in life’s little details. Little did I know that G‑d was setting in place the tools I would desperately need in my life, more than I ever could have imagined.

My journey to find my Jewish reality is fairly recent and in the beginning was quite tentative. When I began to seek out places to go to services, I had no idea how healing that would be.

My mother and I needed to choose my first destination. It needed to be a country that would open its doors to a 15-year-old Chinese-born girl.

My parents were secular Muslims who respected their religion; we all prayed and observed the holidays and some of the fasts. I turned out to be the most religious of the four daughters

I stumbled a lot just looking for a place to be part of any group that would give me a jumping-off point.

In the light of that small shining candle, I saw his smile, which came easily, and often, and lit up the lives of those around him.

The intimacy and grace of this shared Shabbat—my very first true celebration of Shabbat—cannot be adequately expressed. My husband and I were welcomed into this observant household with no preconceived expectations. We were simply welcomed.

No one knows how we’ve been able to survive for 2,000 years, scattered among the nations of the world. Yet today there is an undeniable connection between the Jewish people, regardless of their language, background or social status. What kept us together, separate, “chosen” for more than 2,000 years?

I know why I am here. Why I became the woman that I am. How I was guided to this incredible life. It was my grandfather’s Shema.

Recently, I had my first experience preparing kosher food.

I thought that when I discovered Torah Judaism 12 years ago, it would fix me.

The idea of not driving or working on any Jewish holiday was not something I grew up with. Finally, in 2017, I decided that I would no longer work on any Jewish holiday. Of course, until I ran into a major roadblock …

My husband is with me on this journey, and although we are different, we are now working together, as unique individuals with common goals.

Since we were clearly visitors, people made room for us and guided us to the front so we could see through large, tinted windows.

Though she is 13 years my junior, after every one-hour learning session with her, I leave feeling reinvigorated, ready to dive deeper into Judaism and to take on more mitzvot.

I decided that whatever was done in my husband’s home to yield such strength, we would do in ours. So when he said, “I want to keep kosher and Shabbat”—traditions many European Jews keep—I replied, “Show me what to do.”

My family and I stood at the foot of my great-great-grandmother Mathilde Weil's former home, installing a Stolperstein (“stumbling stone”) in her memory.

So what about me and others like me, the “boring” converts? Should we take advantage of the fact that our secret is safe?

When I joined my mother for the weekly visits to the church, I felt something wasn’t right.

I let too many people who had once helped me become strangers.

I stumbled upon Chabad seemingly by accident shortly before I finished university.