He got the book; I got the joke

I was sitting at the San Diego Jewish Bar Association table during a local bar association event — the kind of friendly, community-oriented gathering where people stroll by, ask questions, and maybe enter a raffle. The raffle included a few Jewish-themed giveaways — Hanukkah tickets, a humor book — just something light and memorable.

In front of me was a small display I’d put together: a presentation on Jewish Zionist civil rights activists, inventors, and innovators — names like Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, civil rights attorney Jack Greenberg, and my cousin’s grandfather, Rabbi Allen Levine, a Freedom Rider arrested in Jackson, Mississippi, who later moved to Israel.

Next to the display were two books I’d brought from home: The Big Book of Jewish Humor — playful and eye-catching — and Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew, a little more provocative. On the back cover were a handful of bold questions. One of them asked: Is it possible to be an anti-Zionist and not be antisemitic?

A young non-Jewish guy — probably a law student or recent grad — stopped by. He said the humor book had caught his eye from across the room. We spoke for a while before he picked up Uncomfortable Conversations, scanned the back, and asked, “What do you think about this one — is it possible to be an anti-Zionist and not be antisemitic?”

I told him that in my view, no. Criticizing the Israeli government is completely fair — essential, even. But denying Jews the right to a state that protects them? That’s antisemitism. Zionism is about safety. Self-determination. Continuity.

He pushed back. “But everyone deserves human rights.”

I agreed. “Exactly. And rights don’t exist in a vacuum. They’re enforced — or denied — by governments. Ask LGBTQ+ Palestinians who flee to Israel. Ask women in Iran. Ask dissidents in Syria. Without a state, rights are just a promise no one keeps.”

Then he said, “But Israel was created through violence.”

I took a breath.

“So was every country,” I said. “Every country in the Middle East. Every European country. Every state on earth. Borders are drawn through conflict, not wishes. Why is Israel the only one whose existence is questioned because of how it was born?”

We went back and forth for a while. Eventually, I said, “We’re not going to agree.” He nodded and walked away.

I stayed sitting. Not angry — just overwhelmed. Because the conversation wasn’t new. I had come with books, stories, and curiosity. And somehow, I still ended up debating whether Jews deserve a homeland at all.

A colleague stood beside me through the whole thing — listening quietly, equally stunned and frustrated. We hadn’t come for a debate. We were just there to offer conversation, community, and maybe a little humor.

About 10 minutes later, the raffle was held.

Earlier, he had dropped a ticket into the bag on our table — entering for a chance to win The Big Book of Jewish Humor and Hanukkah tickets.

Guess who won.

Yes. Him.

Of course he did.

We handed him the book, and the moment sat heavy. We had offered history and humor. What we got back was the oldest conversation of all — the one where we’re asked to explain why we exist.

But we still show up.

We bring the stories. We bring the questions. We bring the raffle prizes.

He got the book.

But I got the joke — and I’m still here to tell it.