As a high school student in Berlin during Israel’s 2021 war in Gaza, with anti-Israel protests sweeping the city, I made a promise to myself: I would wear my Star of David necklace proudly, never hiding who I am, no matter what.
It took three years and a move back to New York City before I had to reconsider that decision.
I was returning home from an empowering three days at the AIPAC Campaign Training Institute in Washington, D.C., where I felt a deep sense of belonging and purpose learning how to bring my pro-Israel outlook to work on congressional campaigns. Back in New York, on the uptown express train, I settled into a seat near the door.
Like I always do, I kept only one AirPod in so that I could remain aware of my surroundings. Still, I was absorbed in reading an article when I suddenly heard someone shouting. As a regular subway rider I was not phased — until I heard, “You are a filthy and disgusting Jew.”
I looked up to see a woman standing in front of me and staring directly at me. “Yes, you heard me right. You are filthy, scum, and a terrible person,” she continued. Instinctively, I grasped my Magen David and tucked it into my shirt — something I had promised myself three years ago I would never do.
I had always imagined that if someone were to scream “Free Palestine” at me, I’d respond calmly with “From Hamas” and move on. But nothing prepared me for this encounter. I don’t know whether it was the intensity of her words or just the shock of the moment that truly got to me. As I sat there, in a subway car full of people avoiding the situation and staring in silence, I briefly considered speaking up. The woman continued her tirade, pointing at me, shouting, “Everyone should know, she is a filthy, disgusting person.”
As we approached my stop, I stood up, moved away, and tried to steady myself. Shaking, I texted my parents to let them know I’d be home soon. The woman kept screaming, and everyone else kept silent. It felt like it was taking forever for the train to finally pull into the station.
I was upset — not just because I was yelled at, but because I was scared, had tucked in my Magen David and didn’t react. At home, I burst into tears, overwhelmed by disappointment — in the world around me, and in myself.
Growing up in Berlin, I never experienced antisemitism. My neighborhood was safe, and I lived a two-minute walk away from both school and my synagogue. Yet despite spending the first 18 years of my life there, I never felt fully comfortable, fully safe. There was always a disconnect, a difficulty in feeling at home in a country with such a painful history.
After high school, I spent a year and a half in Israel, a place where I felt more at home than anywhere else. But safety was a constant concern. More than once, I narrowly avoided a terror attack, to the degree that I had to say Birkat HaGomel — the Jewish blessing for surviving danger — more times than I’d like to remember.
In January, I moved to New York, where my family had recently relocated from Berlin, and with time, I realized that I had begun to feel comfortable, almost at home. Being Jewish in New York was easy — until it wasn’t.
Ultimately, this experience has left me with more questions than answers. I am left questioning my safety everywhere I go, and wondering where my true home is. Yet it has also reaffirmed my commitment to my identity, even in the face of fear and uncertainty. In a world that often feels indifferent to the struggles of others, my Magen David remains a symbol of resilience and pride. I promised 17- year-old me that I would never hide who I am, and that promise still stands.
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