Core Beliefs

Whether grounded in religious philosophy or the rules of the road passed down via our unique family baggage, core beliefs are hot-wired to our behavior, and ultimately define who we are. We may not even realize how committed we are to them until they're challenged.

Case in point: In the 70s, I had a best friend named Jackie who was one of the most personally content women I have ever known. One of the most remarkable things about Jackie was her Jewishness. It was her heritage, both cultural and physical -- a fact she often pointed out in reference to her genetically inherited thighs, or "clutchkies." Born in the United States, Jackie wasn't raised to be particularly religious. She celebrated the Jewish High Holidays of course, and adhered to the basic tenets of her faith, but mostly she enjoyed the ethnic foods and other social mores of an ancient civilization.

Religion notwithstanding, Jackie cherished her culture as if it were a membership in a special club. For her, life was a well-worn shawl that constantly surrounded her. In many ways I envied Jackie -- she had a culture that belonged to her...and one that by definition, she belonged to.

The fact that I was raised a Christian had never been an issue. However, during a post-dinner discussion one night, Jackie had asked, "Are your parents anti-Semitic?" Casually, I had replied, "No, they're Lutheran." Jackie had laughed till she cried. Imagine my distress when I learned there was a word to describe the hatred of the Jewish people. Even more upsetting was the fact that I'd somehow lived twenty-seven years without ever having learned it. I credited this vocabulary lapse to my own upbringing - the word wasn't in my parents' lexicon either. But it wasn't my lapse in learning that caused a tectonic shift in our relationship...it was a trip to Dachau.

Jackie's husband had been born in a concentration camp in Hungary, but had been in the US since he was a small child. We decided to make the journey to Europe to visit his relatives, and it was during this time that Jackie had her epiphany. Budapest was a dreary, dismal place during the winter of 1978 - even more drab because it was still under the thumb of Communism. The cold of winter amplified the harsh realities of people living in a Communist country during those days, particularly for the Jews.

The stories we were told were unthinkable to us. For these folks, it wasn't acceptable to be Jewish -- it was something one either had to forget or hide. Jackie took this information as a personal affront, and consequently, her attitude began to change. By the time we landed in Germany as part of our return voyage, she was withdrawn and untrusting -- not only of the Germans we encountered, but of me, as well.

The visit to Dacchau pushed Jackie over the edge. Every step we took through the concentration camp altered her perspective, changed the lens through which she viewed her life. None of our group was immune to the visceral emotions dredged up by the horrific photos of the carnage, but Jackie took on the memories as if she owned them.

Sadly, that trip to Hungary and Germany was the genesis of the end of our friendship. When we returned home, Jackie was suddenly unavailable. Something stood between us - something powerful and illogical that forced us apart like opposing magnets, and much as I tried, I couldn't reverse the polarization. After years as friends, we were no longer able to share the same space easily.

Jackie's explanation was simple: Her people had nearly been annihilated, and coming face to face with this reality had exposed deep core beliefs about who she was. Her life had been irrevocably altered, and to make peace with her feelings, she had resolved to practice her faith as an orthodox Jew. I did not share her faith, and in her mind, did not belong in her world - in fact, she said, I could be a liability.

To say I was devastated would be a gross understatement, but I couldn't dissuade her. Jackie was convinced by her own newly uncovered convictions that all non-Jews were potential if not inherent enemies and therefore, could not be associated with. Jackie pointed out that if they ever came again for the Jews, I would be on their side. I could be a traitor - a betrayer - the other. Jackie's membership in her culture's special club gave her a connection to her beliefs that I could never challenge. My own homogenized ancestry had not been threatened with extinction. Though I am horrified by the atrocities of the Holocaust, I am not Jewish, and cannot claim that I would have been one of its victims.

This incident occurred over twenty-five years ago, and I have since made friends with observant Jews - so I know such multiethnic, multi-religious friendships are possible. My husband of nineteen years is an Israeli, and despite our different backgrounds and upbringing, we are raising our children in a Jewish home. However, the loss of my friendship with Jackie continues to plague me. I will always feel remorse that I couldn't breach the chasm between us...that there was no wiggle room in her core belief script for the possibility of a friendship across those beliefs.

Forging harmonious multicultural, multi-religious, and multigenerational societies is the grand dilemma of the present and foreseeable future. How can different branches of the human tree resolve their differences and make the world a better place when the definition of better is a subjective concept? Is there a standard format that all systems can recognize? Based on the battles being waged in the world today, it has apparently not been discovered.

The unnecessary disconnect two former best friends suffered because of a difference of religion, is a haunting snapshot of the larger picture of our society and the challenges we face; the danger of stereotypes, the conviction of blind faith, and the sheer power of core beliefs.