Be the Light

On October 8, 2023, with renewed conviction, I hung an Israeli flag from my balcony.

I did it for myself. I did it for Israel. And I did it for Jews everywhere.

Okay, I also did it for the anti-Zionists who might happen to pass by.

For two years, that flag waved from my home, first by itself and eventually alongside my American flag. I wasn’t trying to make anything happen. There was no agenda beyond refusing to hide something that mattered deeply to me.

Then something happened that I never could have anticipated.

A young couple was house hunting in our community. They were having trouble finding the right home, but they were also struggling to find a place that felt right.

She was Israeli. And as they searched, she had noticed more than one Palestinian flag displayed around the area.

One afternoon, they arrived to look at another house. The location seemed ideal. They liked the neighborhood. They had their fingers crossed.

Then she looked up.

Two doors down, my Israeli flag was waving in the breeze.

She told me later that seeing it warmed her heart. They loved the house, but suddenly there was something more.

She felt welcomed.

They bought the home.

Today, they aren’t simply neighbors. They are friends. They’ve welcomed my wife and me into their home for Pesach. Their dog apparently considers our yard an annex of his own and makes a beeline for us whenever we’re outside. Soon, they hope to introduce us to family visiting from Israel.

All because one day, while searching for a place where she could feel at home, an Israeli woman looked up and saw her flag.

My flag.

A Different Kind of Signal

Another encounter happened at a work conference.

During the opening mixer, a young couple standing nearby approached me. The woman complimented my earring, a small Star of David.

It was a compliment, but I understood something else immediately.

I’m Jewish too.

There are little codes we sometimes use with one another.

I thanked her. She told me she thought I was brave for wearing it.

Brave?

I held out my arm and showed her my tattoo of the Shema.

That surprised her even more.

I told her about the Israeli flag hanging from my balcony.

She explained that she didn’t feel she could do anything like that where she lived. She described it as a heavily Democratic neighborhood and worried about openly displaying her Jewish identity, particularly because she had two young children.

I asked what seemed like an obvious question: Weren’t Democrats supposed to be the people fighting intolerance and supporting Israel?

“Not anymore,” she said.

Whatever one’s politics, what mattered to me at that moment wasn’t whether her assessment was fair. It was that this Jewish mother genuinely did not feel safe letting the people around her know who she was.

Yet she was happy to see that I did.

I don’t know whether my Star of David, my tattoo, or my story gave her any additional courage. I hope perhaps they did.

But I also hope she never feels obligated to prove her courage.

There is no shame in protecting yourself or your children.

Sometimes being the light means shining brightly. Sometimes it simply means letting someone else know the light is still there.

“I’m Ashkenazi, Too”

My most recent encounter happened while my wife and I were returning from a short vacation.

I had just gotten another tattoo, this time on my left arm. Four Hebrew letters representing Netzach Yisrael Lo Yeshaker — “The Eternal One of Israel will not lie.”

The tattoo was still covered in the protective plastic wrap used while it heals.

At the airport, a man near us noticed it. He was covered in tattoos himself. Apparently tattooed people have our own secret society too.

He smiled, pointed at his arm and then at mine.

Message received.

By coincidence, he, his wife and their son ended up sitting directly behind us on the flight.

When we landed and everyone was standing in that uncomfortable airplane crouch waiting for someone, somewhere, to open the door, his wife pointed toward my arm and asked about the tattoo.

I didn’t feel like giving the entire history lesson while hunched beneath an overhead bin, so I simply told her they were Hebrew letters.

“Are you Jewish?“

“Yes.“

She smiled.

“Shalom.“

Another code.

I’m Jewish too.

She showed us a ring inscribed with a Hebrew prayer. My wife showed her own ring, bearing a simple Star of David.

It was a nice encounter. Nothing profound. Or so I thought.

We said goodbye.

Once inside the airport, I stopped off to the side because my back was killing me after what may have been the worst landing in aviation history.

The family passed us and waved goodbye.

Then the woman came back.

She asked whether we belonged to a synagogue. We don’t, but she told us the name of hers.

I explained that I’m not particularly religious, but I’m very involved in advocacy for Israel. I mentioned this blog. She looked it up.

And she noticed the line in my bio:

“99.6% Ashkenazi and .4% Viking.”

She looked at me.

“Ashkenazi?“

“Yes. 99.6%.”

“I’m Ashkenazi too,” she said. “95%.”

Then something changed.

She told us she had only recently discovered her Jewish heritage.

And suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

It was as though something that had been abstract until that moment had become real. Here was another Jew standing in front of her. Not in a DNA report. Not in family history. Not in something she had only recently learned about herself.

Right there.

My wife and I drew her close and hugged her.

Connection.

She wasn’t alone.

Be the Light

I’ve thought about these encounters since.

A flag.

An earring.

A tattoo.

None was intended to start a conversation. None was intended to make a stranger feel safer, inspire another Jew, or welcome someone into a community.

I displayed them for myself.

Yet somehow, each became something for someone else.

That has stayed with me because we sometimes imagine that making a difference requires something enormous. We think we need a platform. A movement. A speech. An organization. Thousands of followers.

Maybe sometimes we just need to be visible.

There is an old Jewish principle: Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh — all Israel is responsible for one another.

I have always believed that.

But these experiences have taught me another dimension of it.

We don’t always know who needs to see us standing there.

We don’t know who needs to see the mezuzah on our door, the Star of David around our neck, the Israeli flag on our balcony or simply another Jew willing to say, without apology, This is who I am.

And visibility does not have to mean confrontation. Pride doesn’t require provocation. There is a difference between shouting at the darkness and simply refusing to extinguish your own light.

I hung a flag because it meant something to me.

Someone else saw home.

I wore a Star of David because it meant something to me.

Someone else saw courage.

I tattooed Hebrew on my arm because it meant something to me.

Someone else saw family.

We never really know how far the smallest expression of who we are might travel.

So be proud. Be kind. Be visible when you can. And remember that somewhere, someone may be looking for a sign that they belong.

Be the light that helps others find their way.