Embracing Kindness
Finding strength in my Judaism
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.
Long ago, I became best friends with my “enemy.” Eight years old and sitting with my younger sister on the plane to Tel Aviv, I couldn’t wait for the end of the flight and the reunion with my Israeli grandparents. Restless and bored, I noticed two little girls on the other side of the aisle, and introduced myself. Before I knew it, we had changed seats to be closer to them.
We told our newfound flight friends about our trip to Israel, and they told us that they were visiting family in Palestine. My sister and I had no idea where Palestine was; likewise, the girls had never heard of Israel. None of us thought to ask our parents for clarification. Instead, during that long transatlantic flight, we enjoyed the easy intimacy that children can fall into. We had no idea that the world would expect us to despise each other.
Years later, I asked my mom if she knew the little girls we played with on the flight were Palestinian.
“Of course,” she told me. “When you traded seats, we all shared a smile. You were just kids having fun.”
I have always known that I was “different.” My father immigrated from Israel to California in his twenties, and I was one of the only Jewish kids in our suburban neighborhood. Every fall, I had to explain that I needed time off from school to observe Rosh Hashanah. I spent many winter breaks explaining why we didn’t have Christmas lights.
I was lucky not to experience overt antisemitism in my youth. I didn’t feel the need to hide my Jewishness—not that I would have been able to. My Hebrew name, “Yonit,” instantly gives me away. Anticipating confusion, I learned to introduce myself: “It’s Yo-Neat, like, ‘You’re neat!’”
As a child, my parents warned me that people might hate me because of my religion. They warned me that hatred bred isolation, and urged me to be understanding of others. Everyone was human, they often reminded me, and everyone deserved respect.
Still, I felt like I had to be the perfect representative of Judaism. The stereotypes about Jews as greedy and cheap were pervasive, so I strove to be a “model minority” — working hard in school, tipping the waiter well and always paying my share. I didn’t want anyone to hate me or my Israeli grandparents. In hindsight, I regret the inordinate pressure I placed on myself; I know now that I didn’t have the power to dispel irrational hatred. I wish I could have just been a normal kid.
But I wasn’t treated as a normal kid. When we learned about the Holocaust in tenth grade, the teacher singled me out and asked for my opinion. When the subject of religion came up in my mostly-Christian choir class, another student told me I was going to Hell.
When I was in my thirties, I encountered antisemitism from someone I had considered a friend. Amid tensions over who owned the Western Wall, I uploaded a picture of an Israeli flag to my social media. Shortly afterwards, my friend told me that I could no longer associate with him or his son. He accused me of condoning child murder—vilifying me as if I had committed crimes myself. I had known him for over five years, and he knew my beliefs—that I was committed to peace in the Middle East, and that Israel would always be important to me. Yet in that moment, he reduced me to a vile stereotype. Feeling isolated, I finally understood my parents’ warnings.
Years later, my friend asked for my forgiveness. He acknowledged that he knew I didn’t harbor hate for others, and that he hadn’t always treated me fairly. It wasn’t easy, but I wanted to let go of my anger and pain. I’m grateful every day for our renewed friendship.
I often think back to that flight with the two Palestinian girls, and our natural inclination to bond and play. I wonder if we’d still become fast friends if we met on a plane today. If they too look back on our brief interaction with fondness. If those few moments together also became a core memory for them.
As an adult, I no longer have the luxury of those innocent interactions; I’m no longer naive about how the world sees Palestinians and Jews. But through the pain, I find strength in my heritage, in my parents’ wisdom, and in the Jewish commandment to love thy neighbor as thyself.
Yonit Kovnator is an attorney and compliance officer who regularly provides advice on issues related to the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act. She has previously been published in the Los Angeles Times. Yonit currently resides in Los Angeles, California.
Instagram: @oneltldove
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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