The Jews of Jamaica are disappearing, but few outsiders know that there are Jews in Jamaica in the first place. Today, most of the island’s ancient community lies in one of Jamaica’s many Jewish graveyards. These graveyards are hidden, tucked away in unknown places. One is behind a bottling factory in the worst slums of Kingston, but its graves date back to the mid-seventeenth century. Vandals have visited one graveyard, its tombstones engraved with the Magen David and Hebrew letters have been shattered and destroyed for their valuable brick and marble, and is home to a large herd of goats, who keep the grass short. Today, there are only about 200 Jews in Jamaica, and their number shrinks by the year.

The man who tells me about the graves and the shrinking population is David C. Henriques, brother of the lay leader who speaks at the bimah. He says it with wry, self-deprecating humor before the combination Shabbat and birthday party begins. He sits in the back of the Synagogue, though his status within the community indicates he should sit in the front. He clutches an umbrella like a cane and the way he grips the wooden handle forces his body to slump forward, making a small belly appear larger, and frowns, causing him to appear more intimidating as the shadows of Shabbat candles flicker across the wrinkles of his face. He wears a simple white shirt and dark, nondescript pants. A yarmulke sits comfortably on the back of his head.

He looks like a typical Jewish curmudgeon, the same man you see kvetching about the Mets at the local bagel shop in Long Island, with white hair and a severely receding hairline. But when he speaks, he speaks not with a typical New Yorker accent. Instead, he speaks with a lilting Jamaican accent, peppering his speech with ‘mon.’ David Henriques is an anomaly, though not on the island of Jamaica. He is the former president of Congregation Shaare Shalom, and like everyone else I have met tonight, he wants to tell me about the history of Jews on the island. Henriques, however, says it with a grim twist: the great history of the Jews of Jamaica is dangerously nearing its conclusion.  

Once, Jamaica sustained a Jewish community of thousands, beginning in 1492 when Columbus sailed the ocean blue. In 1492, Spain issued the Edict of Expulsion that forced Jews— referred to by history as Conversos, Crypto-Jews, or Portuguese— from their homes in the Iberian Peninsula following their forced conversions to Christianity in the 14th century. From there, the Sephardic diaspora of these Conversos spanned the globe. Banished from Spain, they turned to two places: Protestant cities marginally more welcoming of Jews such as Amsterdam, or the New World, where the Inquisition could not reach them.

Jamaica was an island ruled by the Columbus family, friendly to Jews. The explorer’s granddaughter married a crypto-Jew, Portugallo Colon, the Marquis of Jamaica, who gave Jews protection from the Spanish and their inquisition when asked. Jews began moving en masse to the island in 1530, coming from other ports in the New World, or Amsterdam in the old. They settled in Port Royal, at the mouth of Kingston Harbor, and Spanish Town, just upriver. They built a thriving community of merchants and made an island far from home, home. By the late 1600s, Jews owned land, were successfully trading and selling goods, and helped the English remove the Spanish presence from the island once and for all. They negotiated with pirates, petitioned kings for letters of patents, and, in 1831, and became citizens will full rights, gaining freedom from historic political disabilities.

For the next 350 years, congregations have come and gone, Sephardic Jews and Ashkenazi Jews alike have immigrated and emigrated, fire, and earthquake and hurricane have destroyed, and the Jews have rebuilt, as Jews are wont to do. This ancient and historic community has never been threatened with population loss like Stephen Henriques describes, until now— or, rather, until 1962, when Jamaica gained its independence from Great Britain.

It is almost impossible to find concise data regarding the population of the small but historic Jewish community in Jamaica. In the 19th century, the Jewish population of Jamaica grew to more than 2,500. Since then, the population has declined. In 1901, 2,400 Jamaican Jews. In 1957, 1,600. At the turn of the 21st century, there were 300 Jews in Jamaica, and today, the community states there are about 200 or so practicing Jews, though they admit that estimate is generous.

The most significant drop in numbers came in the 1960s and 70s. In 1957, there were 1,600 Jews in Jamaica. In 1970, there were approximately 600. 1000 Jews did not die in those 13 years. There are two obvious, easy explanations for the rapid decline: the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, and British Independence in 1962.

Except, that’s not an easy explanation at all.

Jews didn’t leave the island following British independence. They were not British citizens— they were Jamaicans. Because of intermarriage and assimilation, the Jews of Jamaica are not a separate entity, like white Jamaicans who descended from the Plantocracy and ruling powers of slavery. These Jews are black and white, born and converted, married to Jews and non-Jews. The Jews of Jamaica were Jamaicans first, and they were eager to develop their home island following British independence. They served in Jamaican political office, produced the first national artists, captained industry, supported the arts, and founded schools like the Hillel Academy, a large, non-denominational international school that has produced some of Jamaica’s finest scholars from all backgrounds. There is no evidence to say Jews left the island because of independence, nor is there evidence to say they left due to the founding of Israel.

“We’ve had members of our congregation at the highest levels of government in Jamaica, both under British rule and since independence,” says Paul Matalon, Vice President of the United Congregation of Israelites. “We’ve had representatives in the parliament. My father was the Deputy Prime Minister of Jamaica, Minister of Security, Minister of Education, Mayor of Kingston. He was very political. We’ve had ambassadors to Washington, ambassadors to London.” His voice is hard to hear over the sound of blasting fans and the traffic of downtown Kingston, but he is still willing to discuss the state of his community, even though the Thursday afternoon air is humid, and the white of his dress shirt is starting to darken with sweat.

“Unfortunately, in the 70s, when we had that socialist experiment in Jamaica, the Jews were the first to go. Under Michael Manley, we were almost communists. His allegiance grew so tight to Castro that all the Jews left. They nationalized our businesses, and it was just uncomfortable.” Matalon explains that as education fell apart and the newly-founded Jamaican Government moved towards communism, the Jews of Jamaica grew nervous. Matalon grimaces as he says, “So they left. They went to England, Panama, Canada, the United States… mostly North America.”

Matalon’s explanation of his history and the history of the Jamaican Jews is interrupted by a family of tourists he was guiding earlier. They explain that they’re leaving and they have some family to visit. He shakes the hand of the husband, hugs the wife, and smiles fondly at their toddler daughter. The linen of his clothes rustles as he walks back towards us, his dress shoes clacking lightly on the linoleum of the congregation’s social hall floor. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes with a charming smile. He further explains that most people who visit the congregation are tourists who have family in Jamaica but live elsewhere. Sadly, he says that most Saturdays, the Synagogue doesn’t even have a Minyan— a quorum of ten Jews— for prayer. Matalon’s own family, he explains, also only visits Jamaica occasionally, like the tourists who just left.

“My family lived in Miami. I grew up here; I was born here. When I went away to school, I went to America. I went to Vanderbilt University. My sister went to Emory. My daughter went to Elon.” His expression is wistful.  “My daughter lives in Atlanta now. She loved Elon; I loved it more than her. She lives in Atlanta now, in Marietta. My son is still here in Jamaica, but Rachel didn’t stay. She didn’t come back when she graduated. She wanted to marry Jewish, so she made the decision to not to come back. America is different, but Rachel is American, for all practical purposes.”

And, finally, Paul tells me why the Jews of Jamaica are disappearing. “That’s the unfortunate part about Jamaica; the Jews are migrating, our children are migrating. Do I see our congregation staying open? Personally, I don’t. We have 130 members, of whom 40 practice. Any day that anything goes wrong here in Jamaica, those 40 are gone.”

The Jews of Jamaica are wealthy enough to afford a better life for their children. Unfortunately, a consequence of that better life is their children not returning. Their congregation is rapidly disappearing, and with it, a 400-year-old history disappears, too. And for Paul Matalon, that’s the saddest part.

“It’s distressing that you know that all this history and all this heritage will be gone,” he says. The tone of the conversation has grown somber, and Paul can barely be heard over the whirr and rocking of the oscillation of ceiling fans.  “The more that we can make our community known internationally, the better chance we have. We joined up with overseas organizations to preserve our cemeteries because we don’t have the resources. It’s a tremendous wealth of history, but our history hasn’t been written down, that’s the worst part for me. That nobody’s really written the history of the Jews of Jamaica in the modern time. Or the sad part, not the worst. That nobody has taken pen to paper, to really write, because there’s so much to be written.”

The community is not gone yet. And during Shabbat service the next evening, there are more than 40 practicing Jews present— a lot more. They are gathered to celebrate Norma— affectionately called Norms— Mudahy’s 90th birthday. Norma is small, her skin wrinkled and weather-worn. Her hair is a puff of white, like a cloud against the bright sun. Her eyes are covered by drooping eyelids, but when she makes eye contact, bright, ocean-blue eyes pierce through. She is surrounded by her siblings, her children, and her grandchildren, and none of them have left Jamaica yet. Stephen Henriques recounts her life, her accomplishments, her faith, and most importantly, her dedication to their congregation. She is always one of the ten needed for a Minyan, whether it be a small, Friday night Shabbat or Yom Kippur.

We sing Happy Birthday to Norma and move into the social hall, where yesterday, in an empty hall, Paul Matalon told me the Jewish community is disappearing. Tonight the room is packed to the gills. Here, celebrating their matriarch, one can see how diverse the Jamaican Jews are. They are young and old, black, white, and mixed in between. They all speak English, but their accents vary from Jamaican to American, to somewhere muddled and in the middle. When Norma speaks to thank the congregation, she sounds British, unchanged from her upbringing under Jamaica’s colonial ruler.

Tonight, this diverse group celebrates a woman who has raised presidents and vice-presidents of Congregation Shaare Shalom, who has remained steadfast in her love and support for her community, who has seen the British Colonial rule come and go, who has remained in Kingston despite threats of communism, of revolt, of violence. She has educated her children on the island, nurtured its community, fed its community. She is their collective mother, their collective grandmother. In celebrating its matriarch, maybe some Jews of Jamaica are reminded of how special their congregation is. Maybe, the Jews of Jamaica find a symbol of their community’s spirit and endurance. Maybe, the Jews of Jamaica become even more determined to protect and preserve their community, their history, and their home.

Most Innovative means one advisor to see me through my four years of college, who spoke to me on Skype the summer before my first year, sees me when I’m happy or anxious or frustrated, is my biggest champion and has gently guided me towards understanding myself and my ambitions.

Most Innovative means taking 300-level courses in my first semester of college– and succeeding.

Most Innovative means traveling to Martinique for free, speaking French, and learning about our global society while making lifelong friends.

Most Innovative means proudly developing a website where I can express myself and practice creating digital content that will help me in my future.

Most Innovative means finding paid internships.

Most Innovative means going to Poland and reconnecting with my heritage. It means spending four days in Tel Aviv by myself less than a year later.

Most Innovative means traditions that grow and change with campus culture while still respecting our history.

Most Innovative means changing my major four times.

Most Innovative means excelling in the major I finally settled on and pursuing a future free of fear of failure.

Most Innovative means that all my classes relate to each other, even if they’re in completely different areas of study.

Most Innovative means working with faculty from incredible schools with unbelievable careers.

Most Innovative means honor societies and leadership societies and grad school applications that don’t scare me.

Most Innovative is traveling to Jamaica to do research for my senior seminar.

Most Innovative means Agnes Scott, and I’m so thankful, every day, that I chose to attend this amazing school.

I wasn’t living in New York City. I was visiting my brother for the weekend while interning in Massachusetts. Besides visiting his office at Squarespace and going to Chinatown for dinner, I spent some time doing preliminary research for my senior seminar at the Center for Jewish History.

Thankfully, I had spoken with my assigned librarian about my plans to visit the Center for Jewish History before I went, so I wasn’t completely overwhelmed when I stepped inside and was confronted with stacks upon stacks of resources and books relating to everything and anything about Jews and their history.

I began by requesting five books that seemed relevant to my topic. They were brought to me, and I sat in the reading room, going through chapter after chapter, looking for relevant material to my topic. It was difficult– especially because I’m doing new research and a lot of my work is connecting sources rather than interpreting evidence already registered.

I managed to find some really great sources, including an annotated bibliography that proved to be tremendously helpful. But more so, I saw what my future might be if I pursue history and public history as a profession.

It was so much fun, to do research and read and find sources that might maybe work. It was like a scavenger hunt, but more fun and rewarding. I could so easily see myself, living in New York City, doing research and writing books and producing enjoyable history for the masses.

Each step I take in my senior seminar research, I get closer to writing my 25-page thesis paper. But I also grow closer to finding my future career path, and what history means for me and my future.

The requirements to join Sigma Alpha Iota are simple: one semester in a music ensemble, or a music class credit, and a 2.5 GPA. I met these requirements, I took a test, I memorized the chorale, and I joined a national fraternity. It wasn’t something I expected to do when I entered college, but four years grateful, I’m so glad I did.

Besides meeting new people and making great friends, through SAI, I’ve served my school and community through service in the music department, I’ve grown as a musician, and I’ve grown as a leader. I served as Social Chair in the 2016-2017 school year, then Editor, which included social media management, in the 2017-2018 school year. Now, as a senior, I was elected to serve as the Vice President of Membership, and it is my turn to recruit new members to join the sisterhood I’ve grown to love so nearly and dearly.

SAI has taught me to be better organized, to be more fiscally responsible, to support others wholeheartedly and without jealousy, and to learn to be flexible. SAI is like running a business and managing a family at the same time. It’s challenging, but the results are so, so worth it.

Reflecting on my experience in Sigma Alpha Iota is now necessary, as I attempt to recruit a new class of Roses to join our ranks. It’s hard to put into words the confidence SAI has given me, or the maturity it has instilled in me. It’s even harder to put into words why someone else should take a leap of faith and join our little sisterhood– why the benefits outweigh the cost of membership and that pearl-encrusted pin that I’ve come to treasure.

It’s time for me to organize the information sessions I once attended as a first year. It’s time for me to teach the material I once studied. It’s time for me to guide new members into Sigma Alpha Iota. I’m excited, but nervous– just how I felt when this all began.

My first Black Cat was in Fall 2015, the 100th Black Cat week. On a whim, I ran for Black Cat chair for the class of 2019. My peers elected me to the position, and suddenly, I was faced with the task of collecting materials for Rush the Quad, buying paint and decorations, and organizing a less-than-enthusiastic class into committees and chairs to try and make our first Black Cat a success.

Playing off our comical orientation experience, I chose the theme of Camp and set to work painting, building, decorating, organizing meetings, and attending song and dance rehearsals. I almost didn’t have time to take a breath, step back, and enjoy the fun of Black Cat. Now, after completing my fourth and final Black Cat, I’d like to think I’ve learned a lot from this tradition.

While one might think dressing down and throwing painted trash on the quad takes leadership skills, I believe Black Cat has refined my leadership abilities and shown me skills I never knew I possessed. All while I ran around, screaming cheers about the Sprites (our mascot), I was managing teams, seeking out talented people who were best suited for their positions. I learned to roll with the punches, to check my pride and ambition, to comfort those who needed it and to give younger classes guidance. I’ve raised money and managed budgets. I’ve learned how to use a power drill. I’ve definitely learned time management.

I can take all of the skills I’ve gained during Black Cat week and adapt them to future work in my career. Certainly not the screaming and singing and painting signs with catchy phrases about the 90s, but the time management skills, the committee management, the budgeting and accountability required.

It hasn’t fully sunk in that I’ll never celebrate Black Cat again. I’ll never rush another Quad, sing at Bonfire, cheer at Trivia, party at Party Day, clean up decorations, or watch Junior Production. But in addition to having fun these past four years, I’ve learned something and gained valuable skills. And that’s why I love Black Cat so much, and why I’m so sad this year was my last. 

When I first heard of followership, I immediately rejected the concept. My parents have told me, since birth, that I was a leader. It almost became an excuse for why the other kids didn’t like me or why the other girls my age bullied me: Zoe, you’re just a leader. Not a follower.

In the words of my parents, followers are people who go with the pack. The people who take drugs and succumb to peer pressure. Followers are the answer to the question if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you jump off a bridge too? 

However, as I read the article in the Ivey Business Journal, I concluded that Followership is not behind or beneath leadership. I believe it is leadership adjacent. As I read further, I recognized myself in the characteristics listed.

McCallum outlined eight qualities of a good follower, and begrudgingly, I acknowledged that I possessed some of those characteristics.

Judgement.  Followers must take direction but they have an underlying obligation to the enterprise to do so only when the direction is ethical and proper.  The key is having the judgement to know the difference between a directive that your leader gives on how to proceed that you do not agree with and a directive that is truly wrong.

As I previously mentioned, my parents stressed good judgment from a young age. We were given the freedom to make our own decisions, but they tried to teach us right and wrong. I believe I have good judgment and a moral code to which I adhere.

Work ethic.  Good followers are good workers.  They are diligent, motivated, committed, pay attention to detail and make the effort.  Leaders have a responsibility to create an environment that permits these qualities but regardless, it is the responsibility of the follower to be a good worker.  There is no such thing as a bad worker who is a good follower.

I work hard, and I do excellent work. I strive to do my best on the smallest of tasks, and I never intentionally do less than my best on a project.

Competence.  The follower cannot follow properly unless competent at the task that is directed by the leader.  It is the obligation of the leader to assure that followers are competent.  Sometimes things go wrong because the follower is not competent at the task at hand.  When this happens, leaders should blame themselves, not the follower.  A sign of poor leadership is blaming followers for not having skills they do not have.

As my mother says, my core competency is competency. I am very vocal that I am the wrong person for a task if I am not competent at it. If I am adhering to the principles of Followership, then I am only making it easier for a leader to find a task that I am competent in.

Honesty.  The follower owes the leader an honest and forthright assessment of what the leader is trying to achieve and how.  This is especially the case when the follower feels the leader’s agenda is seriously flawed.  Respect and politeness are important but that said, it is not acceptable for followers to sit on their hands while an inept leader drives the proverbial bus over the cliff.  Good leaders are grateful for constructive feedback from their team.  Bad leaders do not welcome feedback and here followers have to tread carefully.  If the situation is serious enough, consideration should be given to going above the leader in question for guidance.

I am honest; sometimes brutally so. I have no issue telling someone they are wrong or if I disagree with what they say. I value honesty and feedback, and therefore, I will not refrain or bite my tongue for the sake of politeness. Sometimes, that gets me in trouble, but as Representative John Lewis says, there is such a thing as good trouble.

Courage.  Followers need to be honest with those who lead them.  They also need the courage to be honest.  It takes real courage to confront a leader about concerns with the leader’s agenda or worse, the leader himself or herself.  It is not for naught that Churchill called courage “The foremost of the virtues, for upon it, all others depend”.  From time to time, it takes real courage to be a good follower.

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I, therefore, award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”

I can be honest even when the situation gets tough. I am not afraid to speak my mind if someone is wrong. Courage is a virtue, as is honesty, and the two go hand in hand. If courage and honesty make me a good follower, then so be it.

Discretion.  A favorite saying in World War II was “Loose lips sink ships.”  Sports teams are fond of the expression “What you hear here, let it stay here.”  Followers owe their enterprises and their leaders discretion.  Talking about work matters inappropriately is at best unhelpful and more likely harmful.  Discretion just means keeping your mouth shut.  It should be easy but many find it next to impossible.  Bluntly, you cannot be a good follower and be indiscreet.  Everybody who works at an enterprise has a duty of care; indiscretion is not care, it is careless.

My dad sometimes says, “this stays in the family.” That means there’s some important business or secret that he had to tell me, but I wasn’t allowed to tell my friends. My friends know me as someone who can keep a secret. However, I am not the kind of person who keeps secrets that can harm others. Lately, in the media, whistleblowers have been making waves for breaking confidentiality and revealing the horrible things their corporations do. Discretion, to some extent, can be valuable. But here I disagree with McCallum: free-thinking, honesty, and bravery are more important than discretion.

Loyalty.  Good followers respect their obligation to be loyal to their enterprise.  Loyalty to the enterprise and its goals is particularly important when there are problems, interpersonal or otherwise, with a particular leader.  Followers who are not loyal are inevitably a source of difficulty.  They create problems between team members; they compromise the achievement of goals; they waste everybody’s time; they are a menace.  Loyalty is not a synonym for lapdog.  Rather, its essence is a strong allegiance and commitment to what the organization is trying to do.  Followers should remember that their obligation is to the enterprise, not a given leader at a given point in time.

I am loyal, often to a fault. Sometimes nonsensically, in the case of brand loyalty. I have never seen myself as a ‘lapdog’ for my loyalty. Instead, I have seen it as one of my greatest strengths. I am loyal to my friends. I am loyal to my family. I am loyal to my school. I am loyal to my sports teams– Go Pens! If I join an organization, it is because I have placed my trust and respect in that organization, and I will be loyal to them unless they wrong me.

Ego management.  Good followers have their egos under control.  They are team players in the fullest sense of the concept.  They have good interpersonal skills.  Success for good followers relates to performance and goal achievement, not personal recognition and self-promotion.  Sounds too good to be true and often it is.  It is difficult but the best organizations tie advancement and reward to performance and goal achievement as hard as that may be to do.

I often have trouble keeping my ego in check, and that is a personal problem that I have been working on for a very long time. I need to learn to derive my achievement from reaching my goals and acknowledging my own hard work, not from the recognition and approval of others. If I can strive towards ego management, I think it will not only make me a better follower but a better leader.

In conclusion, I still don’t 100% agree with the principles of followership. While reading the article, I found myself aligning more with the managers in the situation than the worker. However, unless I become the head of an organization (which I strive towards) I will always be managed. Until then, I think I can be an excellent leader by acknowledging the qualities of a good follower.

Junior year was a year of loss, of growth, of reflection, of change. It was a roller coaster in the truest sense, full of failure and achievement and more failure. I learned about myself in the classroom and out. It’s time move forward with my fourth, final, and senior year at Agnes Scott College. But first– a look back.

I entered the 2017-2018 academic apprehensive yet hopeful. I completed the Women’s Bridge to Business program at Georgia Tech, I was an intern at Green Worldwide Shipping, and I was eager to get started with my double major in History and Business Management. However, there was a horrible, looming shadow casting doubts over my abilities; BUS-211, Financial Accounting.

A mandatory class for the Business Management major, I tried my best to face my fears head-on and enter the lecture with a positive attitude. As someone with Dyscalculia, a math-based learning disability, I have never had an experience with math that wasn’t inherently traumatic. Still, my father is an accountant by trade, so I knew that if I put in the work, I could manage.

I could not manage.

Financial Accounting drove me to the brink of mental breakdown, and during the midterm exam, I turned in a half-blank test, left the class in tears, walked to my advisor’s office, and dropped the class, thereby withdrawing from the Business Management major. While I instantly felt better, I had to grapple with the fact that I was now a History major– just a history major. Only a history major.

At Agnes Scott, that is rare. Most students double major, major and minor, or double minor. Here I was, with just one major. I felt like a failure. I felt like a slacker.

However, I couldn’t dwell on these thoughts for long; my grandfather passed away in October.

The rest of the semester seems like a blur; I struggled to attend class, I struggled with finals, I struggled, I struggled, I struggled. I pass/failed two classes, allowing me to save my GPA. On a whim, I quit my internship of 18 months, hoping to find an internship in the spring– I did not. I entered winter break feeling like a failure, full of regret and anxiety.

Then, I went abroad to Israel. I wanted to come back excited and refreshed for the semester; instead, I came back, and I immediately felt like I was drowning.

I missed the first week of class due to being in Israel, and I came back without books, unprepared, without reading, and not ready to be thrown into the most challenging semester of my academic career.

I tried to keep up, but the longer the semester went, the more I felt like I was drowning– like I couldn’t manage the work. Still, I worked hard. I threw myself into research for my research project on the Enlightened Pirate, I excelled in my nonfiction writing class, and I had my play, Pathways, published. 

I started to thrive as a tutor at the Center for Digital and Visual Literacy. I was selected as a lead for marketing and development for the center, as well as to join a visiting professor from CNN to be a teaching assistant for SUM-400, and helped develop curriculum.

Still, I struggled in classes. I was told by a teacher I was in danger of failing (I was not), and a week before finals, I left campus, went home, and spent a week recouperating from a mental breakdown. My mental health is incredibly important to me, and without this week away from class, I knew I would have become dangerously close to harming myself.

I finished the semester maintaining my 3.5 GPA, with a research plan in place for my senior thesis, and with an internship for the summer at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts.

While this may seem like a story of triumph, it is not. I may have ended the year academically unscathed, but I lost friends. I lost family. I lost hope.

I enter this next school year with my two closest friends graduated. I enter after a long summer internship. I enter with no idea how to approach the subject of grad school or the GRE.

Still,  I am cautiously optimistic. After this year, how bad can it be?

Senior year, here I come.

—

On May 18, 1899, my great-great-grandparents, Michelina Mickelsky and Martinus Rusiecki, arrived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania from Warsaw, Poland, via Antwerp, Belgium. They settled in Luzerne, Pennsylvania, to work in the coal mines. In 1911, Michelina gave birth to my great-grandmother, Frances. In 1939, she gave birth to my grandfather, John. In 1963, his wife, Judith, gave birth to my mother, Laura. We are Polish through and through– after all, my mother is only three generations off the boat.

On my mother’s side of the family, our Polish heritage is strong. It is evident in the Catholicism she practices, in the way bits of Polish slip into her speech, but most visibly, in our food.

Regardless of the time of year, a rainy day means pierogies. Kielbasa is our preference, over hot dogs. Horseradish is ever-present on our refrigerator door, despite no one actually enjoying it.  

The home-made cookbooks that my mother received from my great-grandmother fill glass cabinets above the marble countertops. Inside these aging, hand-bound books, are yellowed recipe cards. Sometimes, the words change from English to Polish mid-sentence, as if whoever wrote them couldn’t find the word outside of her mother tongue. Sometimes, the words are indiscernible altogether. On some cards, there are red-purple stains that look (and smell) suspiciously like horseradish, despite no one actually enjoying it.

I never understood how unchanged and genuinely Polish my food was, until I traveled to Poland, and experienced it for myself.

—

Just like I hadn’t been to Europe before, I have never traveled in a group. Nor have I traveled with people my age. We clash almost instantly. I’m here to find my heritage. They’re here to vacation. It’s evident in our approaches to food.

My peers look curiously at our hotel breakfast. They don’t seem to understand why, exactly, there are four different kinds of sausages on offer. I, on the other hand, pile my plate high with Kielbasa, and I exclaim in delight when the first taste of savory, spicy pork hits my tongue.

My peers are anxious to eat the pierogis at lunch, at a crowded, overfilled restaurant tucked behind a bustling, cobblestone Warsaw street. The dumplings are stuffed full and overflowing with mushrooms, onions, potatoes, and meat, and cooked to perfection, their edges just slightly browned. As I bite into them, all I taste is the familiar; a home cooked meal on a Thursday night, my mother wearing an apron that proclaims OUR LADY OF ANGELS CATHOLIC CHURCH, listening to NPR and poking impatiently at pierogies in a sizzling, spitting skillet.

My peers decide to eat American food for dinner. Instead, I am on the hunt for the Polish street food I remember from Church bazaars, the smell of grilled onions and smoked meat filling the air as I jumped on the bouncy houses with my friends from school. I find a stand that sells Kielbasa on white bread smothered in sweet, juicy onions, and slathered in brown mustard.

My peers get ice cream for dessert, but I’m on the hunt for Paçzki, massive, fruit-filled doughnuts that my mother gets for us every Fat Tuesday. The confection is covered in powdered sugar, and I have to hold it with two hands, like a real American cheeseburger.  

You’ll get sick off of that stuff, my peers say, turning up their nose as I lick sweet fruit off my sugar-covered fingers, or I stuff some escaped onions back into my makeshift sandwich, or push potato back into the pierogi, or add another sausage to my breakfast plate. The food is too heavy; it’s too rich.

I won’t get sick. Like a world-class athlete, I have been training to eat this food my entire life.

—

Just like my Polish heritage is influenced by my father’s Judaism, Polish cuisine is also heavily influenced by the centuries-old Ashkenazi Jewish population of Poland.

Before World War II, Poland had the largest population of Jews in Europe, and the second-largest population in the world, outside of New York City. I am surprised by how seamlessly the two cultures blend; from the latkes served with my pierogies, to the Matzo ball soup served as an appetizer for my kielbasa dinner. The simultaneous Ashkenazi and Polish diet of cabbage and onions and potatoes intertwine, coming together like the Ashkenazi and Polish double helix that is my genetic code.

Even the bagel, the most ubiquitously Jewish food, was invented on the streets of Krakow. On a rainy morning in the Cloth Hall of Krakow, I eat the very first bagel. It tastes like every bagel I’ve eaten before– and I’ve eaten a lot. I’m a New York Jew, after all.  

This cloth hall and this bagel have been around since the 13th century. Maybe my ancestor once pulled a wooden cart across these uneven cobblestone streets. Everything in Poland seems like a memory of a past life, of places I’ve visited but never have seen.

—

In Auschwitz, I have apple cake with lunch. Apple cake, to me, is a rarity outside of Christmas dinner. The cake-pie hybrid is crisp and refreshing and tastes infinitely better than the water-without-gas I’ve been drinking. I’m dehydrated from all the tears I have cried.

As we return to our tour, we leave a barrack and enter a courtyard that was used as shooting grounds for thousands of helpless prisoners. In the middle of the gravel, bullet-riddled, brick-surrounded square, I see my mother’s second cousin, Pam.

Speechlessly, I walk over to her. We both have earphones in, listening to our separate tours. I wave. She looks shocked, before hugging me. My professor, Dr. Kennedy, looks concerned, before I say, excitedly, that this is my cousin.

I knew they were in Poland at the same time as me, but I never imagined to see them 4,945 miles from home. They live in North Carolina. I live in Georgia. We’ve only met once, when I was six, at my great-grandmother’s funeral, in Pennsylvania.

Yet here we are, in a death camp, in Poland.

—

When I return to Krakow, I meet my mother’s second cousins in the Old Square for dinner. We find a restaurant, and order soup prior to our meals. It’s like I’m at a family reunion. Pam and her husband, Robert, ask me about my trip, about college, about my plans for the future. They ask me what I thought about Auschwitz. They’re curious as to how I felt– they know my dad is Jewish. They heard my grandfather passed away last fall– how is my mom doing?

We’re served chicken noodle soup. It’s identical to my mother’s, down to the spices and long, spaghetti-like noodles.

My mother’s second cousin and I lift our spoons to our mouths and moan in delight. “Wow,” She says, smiling at me. We have the same chin, the Danielowicz chin. “This soup tastes just like my mom’s.” It doesn’t just taste like her mom’s soup, or my mom’s soup, or our Great-Grandmother’s soup. It tastes like Poland. It tastes like home.

In this desert, who will you become?

—

Taglit-Birthright Israel (or, in Hebrew, תגלית) is a non-profit that organizes free, ten-day trips to Israel for any person of Jewish heritage between the ages of 18-26. This trip, often called a gift, was founded in December 1999 by a group of Jewish Philanthropists. These Philanthropists, led by Canadian Businessman Charles Bronfman and American Hedge-Fund Manager Michael Steinhardt, aimed to bring Jewish young adults together as a community by sending them to Israel.

Nearly 800,000 young adults of Jewish Heritage have received the gift of a Birthright trip. These young adults come from 67 countries, are diverse in language, age, and religious beliefs. Some don’t know they are Jewish until they are told so, as is the case of many Birthright participants from the former Soviet Union. Some have traveled to Israel many times, speak Hebrew fluently, and don Tefillin three times a day to pray.

The only requirement to receive the gift of a Birthright trip is that you be between the ages 18-26, have not visited Israel on an organized tour in the past twelve months, and have at least one parent that is Jewish.

In December 2017, I met these three criteria. Alongside my brother and 38 young adults from the Greater Atlanta Area, I departed the United States for a free, ten-day trip to Israel, that claimed to change my life.

—

“Take ten steps forward. Do not go further than ten steps. One time, a boy went further than ten steps, fell asleep, and we spent an hour looking for him.”

The instructions we receive as we nervously step away from the group ring in my ears. I do not want to walk ten steps away; I don’t want to walk two steps away. How can I walk away, when you just told me that a kid almost got lost and died? Still, breath hanging in the freezing air in front of me, I walk one, five, ten, steps away towards a small bush and gingerly sit on the ground.

The vastness of the desert is daunting. Who got lost in this desert, walked for days, months, years, before eventually collapsing into the earth and dying? The dirt under my back is hard and unforgiving. I imagine how it must have felt in sandals, or barefoot, the small rocks that have been rounded smooth by millennia of erosion.  

The same voice that tells us not to walk too far, our guide, Ya’acov, tells us to look into the stars and let our minds wander, just as the way our ancestors did when they roamed the desert two thousand years ago.

I look up, and my vision blurs. The scarf that I’ve tucked my chin into is causing my glasses to fog with every breath of hot air, making the stars above look more like headlights in the rain, rounded and duplicated. Gloved-covered hands reach for the frames, wiping them before placing them back on the bridge on my nose.

Before me, a galaxy blooms, the moon illuminating the yellow-orange sand in a wash of pale blue.

—

For the 40,000 young adults that the Taglit-Birthright Israel program delivers to the desert nation every year, thousands more have critiqued the trip. Birthright is often called propagandistic and racist. Much of the criticism of the trip stems from greater disapproval of Israeli government and army, the Israeli Defense Force (IDF).

A Harvard Crimson Op-Ed from Sandra Korn, a student who went on a Birthright trip, criticizes the inherent political influence of the trip. Korn writes, “Birthright’s idea of engaging with Israel means supporting an illegal and oppressive military occupation, claiming citizenship to a state that deports African immigrants, glorifying ‘the Jewish mind,’ and decrying all Arabs collectively for their hateful terrorist tactics.”

Ellie Shechet, in the feminist magazine Jezebel, provides a different critique of Israel, especially since she had been to Israel previously, and was able to contrast her first visit to Israel as a sixteen-year-old and a trip as a young adult with Birthright. Shechet offers her opinion of the partying, the exhaustion, and the shiny, Disneyland-esque tourism of the trip. She criticizes that Birthright doesn’t provide a comprehensive critique of Israel. Shechet says it is “nearly impossible to come out of it with any kind of unified sense of your own experience, much less a sophisticated take on a society that’s only revealed its shiniest, most digestible bits,” thanks to the “sleepless, jam-packed nature of the trip.”

“Doesn’t Israel want its supporters to be educated enough to hold their own in a debate, even that education brings with it potentially unwelcome ideas and criticisms?” Shechet writes. “From what I’ve seen so far, the answer is no.”

—

I now see why Ya’acov has warned us against wandering too far away and falling asleep. The beauty of the night sky entrances me, and soon, the exhaustion washes over me, and I feel my breathing lull and my eyes began to flutter shut.

I’m startled awake by someone in my group coughing. We’re so near to each other that I know my new friends will find me. I can’t get lost, not when we’re so close.

—

The trip takes young adults across a country roughly the size of New Jersey. Most tours follow a general outline that highlights the history of Israel, from it’s founding in an art museum in 1948, the heritage of the Jews in the Internation Holocaust Memorial and Museum, and the natural beauty of Israel, from the mountains to the lakes to the seas.  

My trip started in the Golan Heights, territory acquired by Israel in 1967 after the Six-Day War. The Golan Heights is internationally recognized as Syrian territory occupied by Israel. It is heavily disputed as it contains the Sea of Galilee, the only freshwater lake in the region, as well as most of the arable land in Israel.

As the bus drives through the winding mountains and plateaus, I see landmines, and the members of the Israeli Defence Force detonating them. The bus passes bombed-out homes and shrapnel littering the fertile landscape. Yesterday, the group hiked through a nature reserve and looked in awe at the Galilee glittering in the distance. The next, the group travels to Mt. Hermon, where bunkers are overlooking the Israeli-Syrian border.

As our guide tries to tell us about the Six-Day War, we hear gunfire and bombs from Damascus, visible in the distance. To our right, Irish and Canadian peacekeepers from the United Nations are stationed. I begin talking to the Canadian about hockey when he interrupts me. Israel is conducting training exercises near the border, and they must observe.

I realize that the U.N. Peacekeepers are not there to observe Damascus or Assad or rebel forces. They are there to watch the Israeli Defense Force. Israel, in this instance, is the threat.

It’s only day two of the trip.

—

There is a rock pressing in the middle of my back, but I am so in awe that I will not move to ease the discomfort.

The moon is so massive that it looks impossibly close, and the condensation on my glasses causes it to twinkle, the light shifting and dancing overhead. The stars are innumerable, and I try to use my rudimentary astronomy skills to pick out the planets and stars I know. I can see Orion’s belt, and if I squint, I can see what I think is either Mars or Venus. For an instant, I think I see a shooting star, but the sound soon catches up to me, and I realize it’s a fighter jet.

Ya’acov calls ten minutes, and numbly, I rise from the dirt and walk back to my group, 47 in total. The group creates a circle, our legs criss-cross, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“What did you think about?” Ya’acov’s comes from somewhere outside the circle, but I don’t know from where.

One by one, my peers begin to share.

—

Five days into our trip, seven Israelis our age join the group. This experience is called a Mifgash (Gathering) and is ubiquitous to the Birthright experience. Like us, our peers are between the ages of 20-26, love Instagram and Snapchat, and sing along to Cardi B on the bus.

Unlike us, our peers are currently serving in the Israeli Defense Force. Some patrol the West Bank, some fight in Gaza. Some work by gathering intelligence for Mossad, the most notorious spy agency in the world. They dress in green uniforms, berets carefully placed on their heads, their hair shorn or tied back into tight braids and buns.

“37 days until I get out,” Lital, 20, says, a grin stretched across her face. “Then, I’m going to Brazil with my boyfriend.”

There is mandatory conscription for able young adults in Israel. Instead of graduation photos, in 37 days, Lital will take pictures of her throwing her beret into the air and cutting up her military ID card. She is trained to shoot semi-automatic rifles. She hasn’t been to college. She knows how to salute and how to run through the desert with a weapon on her back. Her life is so different than mine.

Lital and I become fast friends, along with Alona, 21, who works with Lital in the intelligence arm of the IDF. The first night of the Mifgash, I room with Alona, and my other roommate asks her about violence against Palestinians. It’s not precisely the getting-to-know-you type of conversation.

“I think there needed to be more serious punishments,” She says, before telling us the story of Elor Azaria, a 21-year-old soldier who shot and killed an already wounded Palestinian while medical help was on the way.

“The guy,” Alona tells us, referring to the now-dead Palestinian, Abdul Fatah al-Sharif, “Came and stabbed Elor’s best friend. The soldiers shot him in the foot, incapacitating him, and called for the Magen David [Israel’s Emergency Services]. I guess Elor got mad and then he shot him in the back while he was down.”

The incident that Alona is referring to made international headlines for dividing Israel politically. Many wanted to see Azaria locked away for murder. Others said he shouldn’t spend a day in jail. He ended up spending eighteen months in prison, a sentence which received criticism across the world.

“I think he should have gotten a longer sentence,” Alona says, carefully. “But I also understand it. He was eighteen. His best friend got stabbed. He was angry. We all do stupid things when we’re angry.”

—

“Two days ago, one of my campers died in a plane crash,” Leah says through tears, sobbing into the circle. I walked in on her in Tel Aviv, crying in the bathroom, after the news broke that two families died in a plane crash in Florida. Both the kids involved in the tragedy were campers of Leah’s.

Beside her sits Joelle, who also knew the family. Her gloved hands circle the fabric of Leah’s jacket. I can see the tears on their faces, illuminated by the moon above.

Slowly, the blase comment about ‘having so much fun I had no time to write in my journal!’ dies on my tongue. I know that here, with these people, I must be honest. Not only does my friendship with them deserve honesty, but it seems as though the desert demands it.

—

We hike Masada and swim in the Dead Sea. We sob at Yad Vashem and pray at the Wailing Wall. We sing HaTikvah in the hall where David Ben-Gurion founded the state of Israel and then left stones on his grave. We clutched each other at the military cemetery, Mt. Herzl, as our new friends in the IDF tell stories about their friends who have died while serving. They tell us stories about Americans who have immigrated to Israel and served in the IDF and died. We visit Theodor Herzl’s grave.

We talk about how close we feel to Israel, to our history, to our collective heritage. We cry and laugh and sing. We play endless games of cards on long bus rides and promise to get brunch when we return to the United States. We have our inside jokes, and they go on a t-shirt, which we wear with pride.  

The trip is a whirlwind. It’s how Birthright trips are meant to pass.

Many people will argue that this leaves no time to think critically about Israel’s political situation, it’s colonialism in the West Bank or the state’s crimes against the Palestinian people.

In a hotel, in Jerusalem, a doctoral candidate in Middle Eastern Relations and Policy comes to present the history of Israel and Palestine. He is candid. He cites sources. He provides a detailed, unbiased, view of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. He shows us how maps have changed. He tells us how many times Palestinian leaders have refused to work with Israeli peace offers. He shows us how Israel has committed war crimes.

When antisemitic comments on Facebook call Birthright ‘apartheid propaganda,’ they don’t know about that night in Jerusalem. They don’t know that the soldiers we were with criticized Israel. They don’t know about the nights we spent heatedly debating Israel’s foreign policy, whether or not they should give back the Golan Heights for peace or whether or not Israel should de-occupy the Western Bank. They don’t know that Birthright, for the most part, has tried to become better about presenting a neutral, pluralistic view of the Israel/Palestine conflict.

I am more than aware that Israel isn’t perfect. I’m reminded of the young nation’s imperfections in the media I consume and in the news I read. But on this trip, where I have made friends, learned about my history, grown closer to G-d, and became a Bat Mitzvah, is criticizing Israel really the point?

—

“I pick at my skin,” I say, my voice wavering, my hand reaching for my back as I do when I am anxious, though the movement is jutted and aborted. “I pick at my skin when I’m anxious, or bored. It’s a form of self-harm that I’ve done since I was diagnosed with depression when I was fourteen. And I was so worried this entire trip I wouldn’t be able to go in the Dead Sea today because the salt would hurt the open sores on my back.”

The group is silent. Beside me, Mitchell, who I met six days ago, holds my hand, woolen mittens clutching my knit gloves. I have never admitted this aloud before, but the desert demands honesty, and so does my love for my friends.

“But when I walked into the Dead Sea today, I didn’t feel any pain. The salt didn’t sting.” A tear falls from my cheek and wets the scarf wrapped tightly around my neck. “I was having too much fun with y’all to pick. I didn’t have to worry about anything. I was never bored. I’ve never gone this long without picking. And I did that because of y’all.”

In the desert, I am honest. And under billions of stars, holding hands with my new family, I am free.