Eliel Safran

she/her

“I grew up in a unique hippie Jewish community in the Bay Area that embraced nature and tradition. My family created a warm, joyful Jewish home that was far from rule-oriented; instead, it was filled with singing, banging on tables, and immersive rituals, hosting guests, and inviting strangers to our table to get to know them. My social circle primarily consisted of fellow Jewish students at the Jewish Day School I attended. Jewish culture permeated every aspect of my life during this time, shaping my identity. So when I moved to Portland, the transition to a public high school was a stark contrast. The non-Jewish environment felt unfamiliar, highlighting the cultural differences and making me aware of my uniqueness. During this time, I began establishing my Jewish identity, as being surrounded by a majority group for the first time as a religious minority forced me to confront and define who I was. I immersed myself in Jewish activities, trying to seek connection and emulate some of the sense of community I had in the past.

I took on leadership roles in Jewish groups and encountered instances of anti-Semitism that made me feel othered, but I didn’t really piece together the gravity of the pattern. In my senior year of high school, I found unity by collaborating with students from different minority backgrounds on campus to organize a large event to initiate conversations and address issues of racism at our school. As we shared our experiences and prepared for the event, I began to piece together the moments and incidents that shaped my encounters as a Jewish person at school. Speaking alongside other minority students during the event, I expressed my perspective and the perspective of other Jewish students at school. As I spoke, experiences that once seemed normal to me were met with surprise and shock by the audience. This reaction was a somewhat jarring realization, highlighting that my experiences were not as common or acceptable as I had thought. However, the camaraderie among the diverse group of students during that event was both surprising and rewarding. It was my first sense of community at the school, and the experience opened my eyes to the power of unity and solidarity among different minority groups.

Now in college, I feel more distanced from Judaism, primarily due to being away from my family. Growing up in a joyous, colorful household, I realize that some people perceive Judaism differently from an outside perspective. They may assume that these guidelines are restrictive or suffocating. What they don’t fully grasp is that the rules and practices within Judaism are meant to be frequent opportunities for the celebration of joy and to provide outlets for the expression of inherent human things like mourning or sadness.

In art classes, one thing my professors often mention is the art of structure. We can become more creative within boundaries and by creating rules for ourselves. Following a set of practices adds flavor to life and allows us to find deeper meaning within that structure. In contrast, people without such structure often struggle aimlessly in a nihilistic and painful way, lacking the tools to discover the beauty within life's philosophical challenges.

As an Ashkenazi Jew, I appreciate how Judaism has been a survival mechanism throughout history. Despite the hardships faced by Jews in places like Eastern Europe, they created a structure that allowed them to find joy and purpose. Judaism continues to offer guidelines for living a more directed life in any chosen direction. Even if you’re not following the rules super strictly. So, even though my religious observance has decreased, I cherish the traditions and their associated joy and belonging that enriched my upbringing. When I think of Jewish practice, I always think of joy.”