Opinion: How it feels to be Jewish today

Last weekend, a man drove into the parking lot of Temple Beth El in Bloomfield Township and began yelling at parents escorting their young children to Hebrew lessons. I will not use this space to discuss what he did or the actions of the police or the violation my community feels.

Instead, I want to describe to friends who are not from a marginalized community how it feels to me to be Jewish in America today — now, after fielding countless calls from frightened parents, exchanging texts with staff, lay leaders and members of my congregation, after the press releases and court hearings and Instagram videos — in this moment where I finally let my guard down allow myself to feel.

I feel broken.

Are there surveillance cameras in you church?

As the President-Elect of Temple Beth El, I walk into synagogues — mine and others — multiple times a week: sometimes for meetings, sometimes to sign checks and pay bills, sometimes to drop my children off, and sometimes to go to services or celebrations.

And every single time, I am greeted by security.

As someone living a multi-faith life with many friends of different faiths, I often find myself walking into churches. And every time I do, part of me is surprised that I can just open the door without being buzzed in. I look for security guards. I scan church vestibules for cameras, wondering who and what is protecting the space I am in. Because I have never had the privilege of walking into a synagogue without security precautions in place.

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When I walk into Beth El, I am usually greeted by Morris. Morris is a kind man. I am often late leaving Temple because I stop at his desk and we talk about sports – sometimes my kids’ sports, sometimes Michigan football, sometimes the Lions or the Tigers. When Ken, who fills in for Morris, is there, he asks me if my son has put on pants yet — amused by his penchant for wearing short to temple, even in the Michigan deep freeze.

Last Sunday, I walked in the building and Morris was there. Morris is not usually there on weekends, but this day he was, so I asked him if I could give him a hug.

I did not have words, but I quietly teared up as I walked away, because Morris was one of the two men — along with JaJuan from the maintenance staff — who put themselves between Temple Beth El families and the man who came to remind them that antisemitism is alive and well in 2022. Both employees were subjected to racial epithets because they had the audacity to protect us from hate speech.

I have spent the week past talking about our wonderful security team, as well as the security apparatus of the Jewish Federation, which provides support to synagogues across Southeast Michigan. But what I want my friends from outside of the Jewish community to understand is the tax that hate places on us.

The cost of vigilance

Hate taxes us. It taxes our resources, because we must raise funds to pay for personnel and emergency response systems and who knows what else to keep us safe. It taxes our mental health, because we have to ask ourselves if we feel safe walking into a Jewish building, or wearing a Jewish symbol, or practicing our faith publicly.

It taxes our leaders — myself included — who would much rather be thinking about remodeling bathrooms or employee health benefits, but must instead spend their time deciding when the the openness and inclusiveness that their congregations and community crave must give way to security needs that force us back behind the locked ghetto walls.

For my friends who are not part of a marginalized community, who have not felt hatred directed at you for who you are, I do not expect you to understand what this moment feels like. In fact, I am jealous that you do not have to understand what it feels like.

But I do ask for your support in fighting hate. Not just hate against Jews. But hate in all its forms. Because hate is insidious. It burrows inside us and it distorts reality. It warps our minds. It divides communities. It metastasizes. It destroys.

But lastly, even in this moment, where I let myself feel exhausted and broken and angry and frustrated and sad, I would like everyone outside of the Jewish community to understand that hate will never dissuade me for a moment. It will never distract me. I am a Jew. I may struggle with my faith, but I love my religion and will never stopped growing and struggling and learning as a Jew. Even when I have felt marginalized and isolated within my community, I have never stopped being proud of my community. And even when I feel fear, that fear will never be keep me away from synagogue that I love.

Alisha Chandler is the president-elect of the Temple Beth El. She is also the co-founder of Nu?Detroit, on whose website this essay first appeared.