The Joy They Tried to Steal

My birth certificate identifying my parents ethnicity

Growing up Jewish in the Soviet Union, Judaism wasn’t a source of joy. It was a shadow—something to hide, something that limited you before you even knew yourself. It meant being rejected from schools, excluded from summer camps, denied jobs your classmates could walk into. It meant watching my mother yelled at by neighbors, and my father unable to switch jobs when she received a coveted appointment at a prestigious research lab—because there was only “room” for one Jew. Our identity was a mark against us—spoken of in hushed tones and remembered in losses.

When we came to America, I didn’t spend much time thinking about what being Jewish meant. I set it aside, unsure of its place in this new context. But what I did carry with me was the identity of a Soviet Jew—one shaped by limitations, resilience, and a quiet understanding that to succeed, you had to work twice as hard just to stand on equal ground.

For years, that was my version of Jewish resilience—grit, performance, excellence. But not belonging.

It wasn’t until I met my husband, who grew up in a warm, observant, Modern Orthodox family, that I began to see Judaism not as a burden but as a bond. In his family, Shabbat wasn’t a restriction—it was a celebration. Kosher wasn’t about what you couldn’t eat—it was about intention. Prayer wasn’t rote—it was rhythm. In their home, Judaism was something that tethered them to each other, to generations past, and to something eternal.

I came to understand that Judaism isn’t just a defense mechanism against hate—it’s a framework for love. It’s the tradition that teaches you to bless the ordinary, to elevate the everyday. It’s where meaning lives—in the structure of time, in the way we gather, in how we mourn, and most of all, in how we rejoice.

The Soviets tried to erase that joy. They tried to grind Judaism down into a list of disadvantages and closed doors. And for a while, they succeeded in my mind. But they didn’t win. Because what I’ve learned is that our strength isn’t only in surviving—it’s in singing, building, celebrating, and believing anyway.

Now, as I raise my children, I carry forward not just the pain of the past but the joy they tried to steal—and failed.

And after October 7, that joy became more essential than ever. I became, in every sense, an October 8 Jew—awakened to the reality that we must not only embrace our traditions, but actively protect them. I realized that our survival depends not just on remembrance but on renewal. I became more deeply involved as an alumna of my university, working to ensure that Jewish students are safe, supported, and seen. I began taking steps to reconnect more fully with Jewish life and am now planning to sign up for Hebrew school together with my five-year-old. I’ve even started dreaming about having my own bat mitzvah at age 50—something I was never allowed to celebrate in the USSR. We cannot fight antisemitism if we don’t first know what we’re fighting for. And I now know: it’s not just survival. It’s joy, it’s continuity, it’s pride—and it’s ours to carry forward.