In the days leading up to my semester-long study abroad in Madrid, my parents started giving me “the talk.” I knew it was coming – the talk about how to handle myself as a young Jew abroad, especially in a country with an intolerant past toward my people. The reality is that being openly and unapologetically Jewish can spark a spectrum of unprecedented reactions – from heartfelt to hateful. Justified fear of the latter is what prompted my parents to urge me not to take my Magen David necklace with me to Spain.
But hope for the former, while aware of the possible consequences of outward Jewish expression, is what prompted me to take it anyway. Perhaps it’s worth noting that my Magen David, my Jew-o-metric shape – as I like to call it – often goes unnoticed, even among most Jews. Three-dimensional and somewhat unidentifiable, usually only those who know what it is call attention to the ball of triangles hanging around my neck. Which is why I was so surprised when the young woman behind the cash register of a Madrid-based café abruptly pointed it out.
I had just finished paying for my salad when she fixed her eyes on my necklace. With a perplexed gaze, she reached over the counter without warning and held its pendant in between her fingers. Yet it wasn’t this gesture that stunned me at first. After all, this is Spain, the country without personal space and overt bluntness, where my boss gives me two kisses on the cheek when I meet him for a meeting, where we speak our minds and emote without resistance because life here is lived better honestly and candidly.
Rather, it was what she was reaching for that took me aback. Seeing past my blanket scarf and oversized denim jacket, an apparently unknowing Spaniard was calling attention to my discreet Magen David – the one I wear daily and twirl absent-mindedly on the Metro. And instantly, my parents’ cautionary tales came to mind as I ran to conclusions, feeling sheepishly naïve: perhaps it is best not to express my Judaism so openly - just in case.
The thought stayed in my head as I attempted to keep conversation neutral when she asked me what my necklace was, her hand still stretched over the register and around my pendant with confused interest. …A star, I said. A meaningless substitute for this Jew-o-metric shape that has rested next to my heart for the past four years.
The thought stayed in my head when she asked me what country I bought it from. And this time, I decided not to shy away from the embrace of my heritage. After clear hesitation, I answered: Israel - because I shouldn’t fear saying the name of the country where I bought my jewelry. The name of a country that has become so politicized that I felt relieved when her co-worker chimed in, having put two and two together to excitedly boast his knowledge of Judaism and Judaica. I felt like this was him leveling with her when he mentioned that what I simply called “a star” was actually a religious symbol. That this was him getting her on my side, to accept my answer – as if my honesty calls for acceptance. But why did I feel so threatened by her curiosity, as she continued to look at my necklace and ask me what it means?
Why did I feel the need to add that while my necklace resembles a Jewish star, it’s really “just a Kabbalah symbol!” That’s true, by the way, but I don’t tell that to anyone else who asks. I don’t even practice Kabbalah. I bought this necklace because to me, it’s a Magen David before it’s a Merkaba. One that I feel proud to wear. Yet I didn’t share this piece of my culture with her. I couldn’t even pretend to feel comfortable being open, even though I was in Madrid. In España. The land of friendliness, touchy gestures, and open dialogue. Maybe because I was always trained to see this sort of dialogue as closed.
I know I am not the only one who receives “the talk” from their classically-concerned Jewish parents. Jews around the world have been conditioned to steer toward the side of caution. We have seen discrimination, expulsion, persecution. Year-round, we observe holidays that celebrate our resistance and courage toward those who wanted us gone. Being defensive runs deep through our veins, passed down from generations before us that have kept our people here – strong and resilient. This past is what makes me proud to be a Jew, it’s what makes me feel connected to the Jewish community of Madrid – one that has faced so much adversity, yet has still bounced back. It’s what impels me to wear my Magen David here, openly and unapologetically, in typical Spanish fashion. But how am I supposed to embrace this necklace, my familiar Jewish identity, if I can’t feel comfortable talking about it?
Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate my approach, to reconsider if I always want to be on the defense or if I want to proactively embrace our narrative with confidence. I know anti-Semitism exists; beyond the myriad of incidents on American university campuses, Jews are the targets of violent and non-violent anti-Semitic attacks worldwide. I understand the cautionary parental advice.
But simply avoiding conversation perpetuates the lack of knowledge - the root of the problem so many generations of Jews have been trying to avoid. Judaism incorporates the notion of hospitality and inclusion – a mitzvah, or good deed, embraced not only in scripture, but most obviously on Jewish holidays such as Sukkot, when it is encouraged to welcome strangers into one’s home and life. It’s an opportunity to be open out of the sheer desire to be inclusive to all, because everyone deserves our belonging and respect – and that should extend beyond the confines of our personal lives and into our mundane, daily conversations. Subtle actions often go unexpectedly noticed, and that mustn’t be taken lightly. It’s okay for others to ask about what they don’t know, and it’s even more okay that we share, because this is how we learn and connect, in the purest of ways. The more we know, the better equipped we are to inform others, make educated observations, and open our minds to new ideas.
I have been fortunate in Spain to have encountered open-minded people, even when I had trouble being open-minded myself. And I have been lucky to have found a community of young Jews – Spanish Jews, international Jews – who also wear their Judaism with pride, embracing their colorful Jewish heritages loudly and proudly, together – in Spain, of all places. After all, holding back thoughts out of the fear of someone else’s reaction just hurts both parties and stunts a connection that could have been: The connection between me and my non-Jewish classmates, as I explained bits of Jewish culture outside an ancient synagogue in Toledo. The connection between a Jewish friend and her waiter in Barcelona, who wore a hadaya around his neck. The connections spurred on by the open-minded and the shameless, the curious and the willing.
If not for our own sake, then for everyone else’s: let’s ask the hard questions, answer with honesty, and stop letting the unknown prevent us from seeking or providing the truth, because it’s these pursuits of knowledge that keep us connected and moving forward.