A Babka and a Bagel.

Ascetically the Babka looked impeccable.

The sugar glaze’s shine glimmered off of the chocolatey, doughy surface, like glacial ice on a summers day.

I took a bite only to realize:

My first ever attempt at Babka making had failed. At least to a certain extent.

I didn’t quite realize how much chocolate is required to bake a Babka, but apparently I had underestimated the amount. I would have had to slather the dough with twice as much chocolate to get the correct flavor, a fact that even a chocolate addict like myself has trouble grasping. It takes a lot of chocolate and a lot of patience to bake a Babka.

I decided to momentarily let the Babka baking go and moved on to another Jewish staple: Bagels.

Cooking and baking are the only things really getting me through the days, and it appears I’ve lost my touch.

 The bagels were a fun attempt and I’ll admit they did taste good, but getting the right consistency was something that will have to wait for perhaps my 100th attempt or a trip to NY city.

Now, you might be wondering, what is all of this “Babka,” and “Bagel” nonsense Ariella is writing about?

It’s the same question I was asked while giving a presentation in 7th grade about Jewish holidays, when a girl asked: “Why are you talking so much about food?”

The teacher explained, quicker than I was able to, that food is a central part of the Jewish culture. Just like debating. And disobeying authority. And asking questions.

It seems like stuffing our faces is what gets us through the times.

 In contrast to the German parties and weddings I’ve encountered, we live by the tenet of “eat today like you will die tomorrow,” at least that's what my dad always told me (so much for my high cholesterol). Leftovers are a positive aspect of our culture, and calculating the “right” amount would be a shanda. Too much food is the right amount of food.

 But apparently I can’t bake at the moment. I can’t even cook like I used to. I am still in what feels like a perpetual state of mourning.

Memories and the present.

Rather than wallow in my sorrow, I try to think about the beautiful times I had in Israel the last years. The dozens of sabich and falafel shoved down my throat, the endless bowls of hummus and lemonade, and the awe of Israeli’s when they learned I was from California, the jam sessions, the street music I played and the generosity and love I received from family and complete strangers.

The last month I talked to many Jews here in Germany about their relationship to Israel. The complexity of being a Zionist here, where yes, at times, Jewish organizations advocate for the diaspora to make Aliya (Hebrew word which means “to ascend,” or in this case, to immigrate) to Israel, because let’s be real - is there a Jewish future in Europe? But the one consensus, no matter how one may feel about Jewish life in Europe, or the Israeli government, is that Israel is truly the only place in the world where we feel home.

 I talk to Israeli friends in the diaspora who tell me they didn’t experience antisemitism growing up, because being Jewish was the norm. Only when they moved to the diaspora did they feel and experience what us diasporic Jews have been talking about our whole lives.

 A number of Jews in Germany have expressed their wish to be in Israel right now, that they would feel safer there. And I think for me personally, I wouldn’t feel safer, but perhaps I would feel better being amongst my people, not having to hide my identity from the world. Here in Europe, there is a loneliness to being a Jew that I didn’t know growing up in San Francisco, and that I now know to be a privilege. Every Chanukah my mom would set up our menorah in front of the window facing the street, for the whole world to see. Our next door neighbors did exactly the same, and every time I would come home and see these two menorahs shining in the windows, I felt safe,  protected by G-d, and our neighborhood. Our next door neighbor would practice chanting for the synagogue in the courtyard where we lived. He was a burly man who wore a huge knitted kippah, and would just sing for hours with his siddur (prayer book)  in his hands, neighbors passing by, the sound of G-d ringing through the air.

CN: Gewalt, Vergewaltigung,  Mord

I don’t think I could imagine a similar scene today.

I yearn for that safety. I yearn for my neighbors to not just know that we are Jews, but to respect us, and not demean us should we be proud and openly Jewish. But as I write this I learn that a Jewish monument has been destroyed in my neighborhood, Moabit, Berlin. I’ve walked by it the last 3 weeks and wondered how long until someone smashes that glass? I no longer have to wonder.

 There’s nothing fun about hiding. And I’m afraid that what we see going on right now is more than a sign of increasing Jew hatred. It is a sign of a society on the brink of, dare I say, collapse. Where leftists and right wingers are praising Islamic terrorist organizations, just as we saw at the peak of covid, eco-hippies side by side with nazis. And the common ground shared by all, is blaming the Jews.

 I talk to my wife, Luise, every day about what’s going on, we can’t avoid it. And we are both, as many Jews are, flabbergasted at the peculiarity of antisemitism.

Why are we, as a people, so misunderstood? There are only 15 million of us in the world, yet, we are to blame for all the world's problems?

I went to a Shabbaton (a weekend of learning with other Jews) with my talmud study class in Strasbourg a few weeks ago, and it was an incredible, emotional, meaningful, scary, experience. We had security with us at all times, and in general we were all a bit nervous, gathering as a group of Jews. As I looked around this room of people, I couldn’t help but think, “we are the Jews who everyone hates so much?” We were a colorful group of Ashkenazi, Mizrachi, trans, cis, gay, and straight people - do they hate us because of our diversity? Is that why we are so misunderstood?

We were also, honestly, a group of nerds. And I thought, should someone try and attack us, in our little room in the center of Strasbourg, who would protect us? We had a security guard but this room of intellectuals and artists would be no match for a mob, or terrorists trying to kill us.

And these are the thoughts that I and many Jews are having on a regular basis. The collective trauma we all felt after Oct. 7th, the helplessness that the world does not value Jewish or Israeli lives. The literal fear that someone will break into our homes and murder us.

 But I know our time will come. I remember sitting on the beach in Tel Aviv with Luise and Esra, gawking at all of the gorgeous people working out on the promenade, feeling the hot Mediterranean air of the promised land. There is something holy about that place, and perhaps that is why it is so fucked up. There is a sadness and a joy to the Jewish people that has been embedded in us since the beginning of our existence. But now, after years and years of persecution and expulsion, we have our own country, a country that has promised to be a safe haven for Jews all over the world. And I only hope that it proves itself to be just that.

I think of my little Esra, and how precious every moment is I spend with them. I think of all of the babies held hostage by Hamas in Gaza. I think of all of the babies whose lives were stripped from them. All of the women who were brutally raped and murdered. And yes, all of the Israeli soldiers, many of whom are close friends or family members of ours. And how for some reason, the world still cannot pray for our people, or even acknowledge the atrocities that happened on October 7th, 2023.

I am back home

 So between the Babkas and the Bagels and the news reports, I went to the DHL store and  finally managed to pick up a Magen David I had ordered online. A really cute glass heart with a shiny rainbow star of David embedded inside. When I got home and felt it in my hands, I felt a sense of relief, I was now in possession of a piece of Judaica I’d be proud to wear. Something that feels gay and Jewish. And I thought to myself, this small necklace has so much power. The power of visibility, of connection to self and to G-d and to my people. And just as Israel is a small country (about the size of Saxony), and we are small in numbers, we are strong, and we are not going anywhere anytime soon.

 I think I’ll put my baking to rest for the time being. Maybe next week I’ll try again, but for now, I’m fine sticking to what I know and leaving the rest to the pros.

As we say: they tried to kill us, we survived, so let’s eat.