Orange for Hope: Finding Strength in the Fight for Jewish Identity

I had my first “Israeli encounter” at age fourteen. A new girl, Zohar, had moved to our tiny Baskin-Robbins flavored corner of the world, which was rare for us in Milwaukee. Her parents had relocated the family to Wisconsin from Rehovot to do some post-doctoral work, so she found herself as a freshman in an American high school, surrounded by stonewashed jeans and curiosity. Knowing very little about Israel at the time, I asked her what seemed to be a logical question from a fellow Jew.

“So, you’re Jewish?”

Her immeasurably speedy, seemingly automatic response was, “No, I’m Israeli.”

I smiled and nodded, as Midwestern girls were taught to do in the 1980s, but walked away perplexed.

Jewish. Israeli. Two words that should have been overlapping circles in a Venn diagram as far as I understood at the time, but, somehow, weren’t – to Zohar. I couldn’t articulate why it unsettled me, but the dissonance stuck. How could someone who was from the Jewish state insist they weren’t Jewish, but rather “Israeli”? Given that her parents were halachically Jewish, she was born in Israel, and Hebrew was her first language… what did it mean for her to identify as “Israeli” only?

As the years passed, I came to understand that Zohar’s answer wasn’t just a quirk of teenage identity; it was a reflection of a deeper, unresolved question that Israel itself continues to grapple with.

Hope in the Shadow of Grief: A Night of Identity, Unity, and Resilience

Last Wednesday night, 35 years after meeting Zohar (who was obviously dubbed “Zoe” in 9th grade since most Wisconsinites are unilingual), I drove two hours in the peak of rush hour to untangle my thoughts and feelings about this very conundrum. 

As it turns out, I was not the only one who was perplexed, and I had every reason to be.

I attended One Million Lobby’s and The Fourth Quarter’s partnership project: a Religion and State conference in Tel Aviv, along with 150 other immigrants on the same day Ariel, Kfir, and Shiri Bibas were buried.

The timing was impossible to ignore. That morning, an entire nation stood still as three coffins – one single casket holding a mother and her two young sons – were lowered into the ground. Israel is no stranger to mourning, but this was different. This was layered agony, a weight of grief so profound it seeped into the air. The war has been clawing at us for nearly a year and a half, leaving loss in its wake – lives stolen, futures erased, families shattered.

And yet, that night, in a room full of people who had actively chosen this country, something shifted. It wasn’t just a conference. It was an act of defiance against despair. 

We were 150 immigrants – 99% Russian-speaking, ages 25-75, and all bound by a common thread: we elected, on this day, to engage, to learn, to build, to claim our place in a country that too often refuses to claim many of us back. It was people seeking power in numbers, education –  a way in. A way forward.

It wasn’t just informative; it was energizing. While the rest of the country sat in the stillness of grief, we “leaned in” to proposals for the future. The weight of loss did not dissipate, but it was counterbalanced – if only for an evening – by something rare these days: hope.

We discussed identity. We discussed history. We discussed unity. We discussed the fact that, even when the state refuses to recognize some of us, we recognize each other. And we are stronger together.

But hope, as it turns out, is not just something we seek in quiet moments. Right now, it’s something we have to cultivate – through conversation, activism, and the raw determination to shape a future that reflects our values. This conference was not just about ideas; it was about action.

Outrage, Education and Solutions

For me, this wasn’t just an intellectual exercise. As a newcomer to the complexities of Israeli religion and state, and an employee of Chuppot, I’m devouring everything I can find on the subject. Although I have quickly become well versed in legal and halachic limits and guidelines surrounding Jewish marriages in Israel, I’m also rapidly learning that we at Chuppot are not the only ones screaming about it.

Chuppot is proud to lead the religious voice in Israel for religious freedom, and specializes in developing alternative halachic mechanisms to the monopolistic system of the Chief Rabbinate. 

The monopoly, rooted in discriminatory policies rather than Jewish law, has led to widespread public dissatisfaction – with only 13% of Israelis currently expressing confidence in the Rabbinate – and an exponentially growing demand for a traditional Jewish marriage alternative, which Chuppot proudly provided to 750 Israelis in 2024.

Personally, my Israeli identity is rooted in Jewish pluralism and democracy, and I wanted to hear from everyone who is shaping this conversation – authors, professors, lobbyists, politicians, and Rabbis. While I invest my energy in liberating Israelis from the monopoly of the Rabbinate, I want to know what else is being done. And how, collectively, we can bridge the divide between what is and what could be. As it turns out, there are solutions… if you listen.

​​Alex Rif, CEO of One Million Lobby

Alex Rif opened with a truth too many in the room had lived: for Russian-speaking immigrants in Israel, identity is a battle. Born in Ukraine and arriving in Israel at five, she watched her parents – educated professionals – reduced to working as cleaners, unable to navigate a system that never offered them a map. “No one gave us this information when we came,” she said. “I try to do it differently – to open a door, to give you everything we know about the big issues and conflicts in Israel.”

Chief among them: religion and state. For 1.3 million Russian-speaking Olim, it dictates whether they will ever truly belong. “What words come to mind when you think about getting married in Israel?” Alex asked the audience. The responses: discrimination, difficulty, religion – underscored the painful reality. Despite making Aliyah as Jews, 820,000 FSU immigrants are still subjected to investigations when they seek to marry. Another 580,000, labeled zera Yisrael, aren’t considered Jewish at all. Some must undergo humiliating interrogations by the Rabbinate; others face an even harsher reality: the state won’t allow them to marry through the Rabbinate – or even be buried – as Jews.

Alex shared the story of a Nova Festival victim who had begun conversion but was still buried in a non-Jewish cemetery, her grieving mother given no choice. 

After October 7th, a family who lost everything was forced to decide: bury their father separately, or bury all the family members they lost together in the non-Jewish section. They chose unity in death, since the state had denied it in life. “This is widening the rift in Israeli society,” Alex warned. 

She ended with a call to action: Russian-speaking Israelis hold immense political power: 20% of Jewish society, 1.05 million eligible voters, and 18-20 seats in the Knesset. “YOU have the power to change things,” she declared. “But first,” she continued, “You must claim it.”

Ari Shavit: The Evolution of Jewish Identity in Israel

Ari Shavit took the stage not as a politician or an activist, but as a storyteller, weaving together history and identity. “My family went through the same process you’re going through now,” he said, tracing his lineage back to Odessa in 1891, when his great-grandfather arrived in Jaffa. 

Zionism, he explained, emerged as a radical response to two threats: antisemitism – Jews knew Europe was a death trap decades before Auschwitz – and identity – once they left the ghetto and drifted from religion, what was Judaism?

The answer was a new Jewish identity: one rooted not just in religion, but in land, language, and culture. The early 20th century saw the birth of “Hebrew culture,” a fiercely secular Jewish nationalism. Zionism wasn’t just about escaping persecution; it was about ensuring that Jews who no longer prayed still had a reason to exist as a people. This vision, socialist and state-driven, built Israel’s foundations: kibbutzim, universities, an army, a Supreme Court. The state itself became the identity.

But by the late 20th century, that identity shifted. In 1977, Menachem Begin rejected “Israeliness” as a secular construct and instead declared, “We are Jews.” Zionism, once a movement of secular enlightenment, was now being redefined by religion. “Religion has taken over the state,” Ari said bluntly. What began as a mission to free Jews from religious control had, over time, placed them back under it. And now, 130 years after his great-grandfather’s arrival, the question remains: Who gets to define Jewish identity?

Tehila Friedman: Rethinking the Jewish State

Tehila Friedman, an Orthodox leader, former Knesset member, and board member of Chuppot, approached the stage with the insight of someone deeply embedded in both religious and political life. As head of the Liba Center, she works to reimagine what it means for Israel to be a Jewish state. “Most Jewish Israelis, if you ask them, ‘Is it important that Israel is a Jewish state?’ will say yes,” she explained. “But ask them what that actually means, and you’ll get wildly different answers.”

Her argument was clear: Judaism has always been a minority identity, structured to protect itself from assimilation. Halacha was designed for survival in exile. But now, for the first time in 2,000 years, Jews are a majority in their own land, and yet the system still operates as if they are a threatened minority. Instead of transitioning to a model that serves all Jews, control remains with those who don’t see themselves as responsible for the entire Jewish people. 

“We gave the keys to the wrong people,” claims Tehila.

Her solution: more identity, less enforcement. “We don’t need to protect our identity from assimilation anymore,” she argued. “We need to create room for different expressions of Judaism, without forcing one version upon everyone.” She proposed decentralization – national policies where needed, but more control at municipal and community levels. Shabbat laws? Let cities decide. Gender separation? Let communities decide. “Judaism is not just a religion. It is a nationality, a shared history, a moral and cultural legacy. We must build a Jewish state that reflects all of that.”

Dr. Shuki Friedman: The Unresolved Tension Between Jewish and Democratic

Dr. Shuki Friedman, a legal scholar and senior fellow at the Jewish People Policy Institute (JPPI), didn’t offer easy answers – because there are no easy answers. Israel, he explained, initially had two core missions: to create a Jewish homeland and to forge a new Jewish identity that could exist outside religious frameworks. While the first mission succeeded, the second remains unfinished.

“We are still grappling with the question: Who are we? Can Israel be both Jewish and democratic?” The challenge isn’t just about marriage, conversion, or burial; it’s about the very contradiction between religious identity and democracy. The Law of Return grants Jews entry, but Jewishness is defined only through a religious lens. 

“By definition, that’s not democratic.” Yet, if Israel adopted a secular definition, it might sever itself from the very tradition it was built to protect.

His perspective was pragmatic, but far from optimistic. Israel is becoming less secular, not more. Zionism sought to separate religion and nationality, yet today, the state remains bound to religious definitions of Jewishness. “There is no secular standard for who is a Jew,” he noted. And as Israelis continue debating the balance between democracy and Jewish law, the tension remains unresolved… and perhaps always will.

Rabbi Dr. Shaul Farber: Conversion as a Zionist Imperative

Rabbi Dr. Shaul Farber, founder of ITIM, framed conversion not as a religious issue, but as a Zionist one. “We, as Olim, are living a dream,” he began. But for 580,000 Israeli citizens – 6% of the country’s Jewish population – that dream remains incomplete. The Rabbinate does not recognize them as Jewish, despite their deep ties to Israeli society. Instead of offering them a path in, conversion is used as a barrier.

“The Rabbinate demands that converts become religious, but the average Israeli is not religious!” he pointed out. Israel spends 146 million shekels a year on conversion, yet only 1,200 conversions happen annually. The system is failing.

Rabbi Dr. Farber called for a new conversion ecosystem – one rooted in Zionism, not Rabbinic control. He cited Bereshit (Genesis) 48, where Jacob, seeing his Egyptian-born grandsons, asks Mi eleh?—“Who are these?” When Joseph replies “These are my children,” Jacob blesses them, embracing them into the Jewish people. That, Farber argued, should be Israel’s model: “Open arms, not locked gates.” If Israel doesn’t take action, he warned, “We won’t just fail religiously. We’ll fail as a Zionist enterprise.”

Orange For Hope

Attending this event amidst national mourning was a profound experience. The juxtaposition of collective grief with proactive discussions and proposals on identity and inclusion underscored the uniqueness and resilience of our Israeli spirit. Being a part of a room full of immigrants like me, eager to integrate and contribute, along with Israeli “vatikim” who were ready to empower us and lead the way, was exactly what I needed. 

Zohar, now I understand. It took me 35 years but I have joined the fight to retain, elevate and empower our identity as Israelis: yours, mine, Ariel’s, Kfir’s, Shiri’s.

It was an evening of inspiration on one of the darkest of days. Michaela Levin Shamir, one of the two speakers from the One Million Lobby, set the tone from the very start, standing before us, dressed head to toe in orange, a quiet but resolute tribute to the Bibas family. 

A reminder that even in mourning, we build. Even in loss, we move forward. We are Israeli.