A Light on the Path to a Better Way
Following our Jewish strands
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I am a light on a glimmering strand that spans the planet in the Jewish diaspora.
The strand emerged more than two decades ago in Central Park, the first time I became mindful about keeping kosher for Passover. As I opened a foil-wrapped matzoh slathered with cream cheese, I felt a new kinship with other Jews around the world who had planned ahead for their midday snack to be Passover-friendly. Sitting in Central Park that afternoon amid strangers, I felt connected to the 0.2 percent of people on this planet who are Jews. What were the odds I’d be one of them?
That connection grew brighter each time I moved toward my faith. Preparing Shabbat dinners, a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, I conjured the presence of my grandmothers from the shtetl: They hovered in the corner of my 21st-century-kitchen, noting how I adapted the recipes that had been passed down for generations.
Soon, I saw that my grandmothers too held a place on this strand that glimmered with the inner light of Jews marking the onset of Shabbat. The strand was becoming crowded, filled with others from my past, including my relatives, the many who never made it out of the shtetls of Eastern Europe. As I learned about my family’s history, I discovered that some were shot and killed in Odessa, while others were killed as partisans in the Resistance. One partisan did make it out; he’s buried in Tel Aviv. Each had a place on my strand, bringing more light, but also sorrow.
The strand sputtered and jolted on October 7. I didn’t know anyone at the Nova Music Festival, but I sobbed in the hair salon as I watched the details emerge on Instagram. Whenever people in the salon walked by my chair, I turned my sobs off, as if I weren’t reeling. Was I protecting the strand? Or myself? It was hard to tell, but the moment marked the beginning of a new awakening. Maybe the people who—just moments ago—had been my community were, in reality, not. Maybe they too hated Israel as much as the barbarians who slaughtered the beautiful young people dancing at the festival. I resumed my weeping whenever I thought no one could see.
Knowing how this might unfold in the media, I texted a friend, an editor at a daily paper.
“Please be careful with your headlines, and watch for bias,” I wrote.
“What are you talking about?” he replied. He had not yet read the news. He was not plugged in, as I was, to my points of light, my satellite, which stood on high alert.
Meanwhile, my strand was expanding to include not only my grandmothers and the Jews flung across the diaspora, but also every Jew who has ever walked this earth, dating all the way back to biblical times. Their stories, the ones you read in the Bible, no longer seemed theoretical, no longer seemed like parables. The slaughter on October 7 was a 21st-century version of the barbarism I shudder over in the ancient texts. Suddenly, the ones who bore witness to the violent attacks of previous millennia stood too as points of light on my strand, spanning deeper and deeper through time and space.
The next time I was at the salon, both the owner and my hairdresser rushed over to me.
“We had no idea,” they said. “We were so appalled.” I was awash in gratitude, secure in allies, secure in community, at least here in Port Washington, New York.
That’s not the case everywhere: antisemitism on campuses and on the streets is rising at an alarming rate. In my sphere, we note not only this deafening hatred, but also the silent indifference of those who look the other way.
Maybe it’s unfair to expect those outside my sphere to understand the impact of October 7. It’s a complex world, and there are far too many things I have not wrapped my head around—the war in Syria, the conflicts in Africa. Maybe I too am limited, restricted, where more humanity is required.
That’s where perhaps others could help by getting to know their individual points of light: The people who connect with them now, and the ones who stood before them.
Sometimes, I see a galaxy filled with strands of light, mine included, all of them bursting with wisdom, zigzagging around the planet. If only everyone tapped into them. Maybe we would find our way to a better path.
Adina Genn is a writer and published author, whose novel-in-progress is nearly complete. She recently graduated from Gratz College with a Master’s Degree in Jewish Studies, and is now a graduate student in the iFellows master’s concentration in Israel education. Her Substack,
, focuses on Jewish expression.This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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