threads of identity
An Inheritance of History
by Amina Malkin
When talking about religion, my father will sometimes talk about “the chosen people,” a title that Jewish people have historically adopted as a way to reference being descended from those chosen to be in a covenant with God. Despite my dad’s self proclaimed substantial and life-long assertion of atheism, through his birth and rearing in Judaism, he has an indisputable claim and connection to being Jewish, and all the history, humor, and culture, that comes with. There are so many similarities between me and my father, not just the way we look, but the way we speak and often the way we think. We both hold firm atheist conviction, but unlike him, I often find that my atheism isolates me from even the somewhat-secular cultural elements of Judaism that I have been raised with.
The matrilineal passage of Jewishness is a well known and commonly discussed element of the Jewish culture and religion. Despite the profound influence my dad and his traditions and beliefs have had on me as I was growing up, because he is my only Jewish parent, being a patrilineal Jew is like a constant unseen parentheses after I tell anyone that I’m Jewish.
Photo: PickPik
To call myself Jewish is in contradiction to a central tenet of the culture, but to shirk that identity feels like a disservice to my family, and indeed to myself and my own lived experiences and connection to that identity. I never learned Hebrew, never went to temple, or had my bat mitzvah. The absence of these religious aspects of Judaism feels like a void that keeps me separated from not just the Jewish religion, but the Jewish community as a whole.
The two threads I do have that connect me to this part of myself, are the stories and holidays I observe with my immediate family. The joy, and celebration of these holidays ties me to the community and my history and makes me want to defend that side of my identity. But as someone raised and familiar with the stories that inspire these holidays, their morbidness stands out in my mind.
The ongoing quip about Jewish holidays is that most major celebrations can be summed up with the words, “they tried to kill us, they failed, let's eat!” No holiday better exemplifies this phenomenon than Passover, a holiday commemorating a shockingly brutal story about Jewish people's freedom from slavery in egypt. According to the Passover story, God, responding to the prayers of enslaved Jewish people, sent ten plagues down onto the Egyptians, culminating in the Angel of Death, passing over to kill every firstborn Egyptian child.
Passover Seder plate — Photo: Yosef Silver, CC 2.0 BY NC ND
Passover is celebrated with a ceremonial meal, ripe with symbolism in every bite. From bitter herbs symbolizing the bitterness of slavery, to parsley dipped in salt water to represent the tears of enslaved Jewish people. But despite having such a dark story as a backdrop, Passover is meant to be a happy holiday. A commemoration of survival, and a promise to not forget the past. It has always been remarkable to me how so much joy could be brought from such suffering.
My dad shared this tradition with me, and although we hold no belief in the God that supposedly performed these miracles, we still constructed the seder plate and repeated the same words that generations before have said. Although we may not believe, we also will not forget. We remember and we celebrate just as they did. This was my connection to them, even if there are elements of faith I cannot share. To claim the resilience that they showed as part of my lineage, even if only through half of my family tree, is a way to honor that strength.
The notion of being a member of any group that deems themselves as divinely chosen could be perceived by some as a symbol of superiority, but throughout history, this concept has been used as an anchor or a guiding beacon for Jewish people who were suffering. I personally do not believe in the idea of a God sending down plagues to save people. In fact, a large percentage of American Jews consider themselves non-religious and yet still use these passed down stories and holidays as a way to bridge the gaps between generations. This has too, been my experience, that while I feel an ever present detachment from celebrations tied to worship and faith, my connection is through my memory of my family, and my desire to continue traditions to honor them.
The relationship I have with religion and culture and the way it connects me to my past and present family is complex. The Jewish stories I’ve grown up with feel like a reminder to take responsibility for carrying on the strength and resilience that my ancestors showed and celebrated, despite not ever being formally initiated into the faith. It is a responsibility I feel to my distant ancestors, and the family that I still have to celebrate with. The stories that move me forward and I feel chosen by, are not those of the Old Testament, or the wrath of God, but the stories of those who came before me; my grandfather, great grandfather, and distant ancestors. They may have believed in an all powerful deity whom I know longer worship, but what I choose to believe in is the stories of people who found joy in the hardest of times.
Header Photo: Hagit Rivka Alkalay