Eliana Katz | The Jerusalem Post | June 4, 2026

Being the only Jew in the room has always been my normal. Growing up, I was the only one who missed days of school because of Jewish holidays, having to constantly explain to others why. I was the only one who couldn’t hang out on Friday nights or Saturdays because of Shabbat.

These small differences never bothered me. I loved my traditions, and being “different” didn’t feel like a bad thing.

The first cracks in this sense of security began when I was seven years old. I was walking to school and passed my synagogue, where I saw the doors vandalized with bright red swastikas. That symbol of hate covered a place that had always represented prayer, community, and safety. At seven years old, I couldn’t comprehend why someone would do that.

For the first time, being different felt like something that mattered.

I was twelve when Kanye West’s antisemitic comments spread across social media. His comments seemed to legitimize and promote antisemitism in ways I hadn’t experienced before.

After that, it became more visible in my everyday life: I was asked whether Jews were Nazis and what slur is used to refer to Jewish people. Suddenly, being Jewish wasn’t just “different;” it was something that could be mocked or challenged.

When I began high school, I was ready for a fresh start. I knew I would face questions from new peers and teachers, but I was open to that. The year had started strong. I made new friends while staying close with old ones, and things felt normal again.

Then came October.

It was late at night on Friday, October 6, 2023. My community was preparing to celebrate Simchat Torah, a joyful Jewish holiday marking the completion and restart of the Torah reading cycle. Then the news broke that Hamas terrorists had attacked a music festival and nearby communities in southern Israel.

None of us could have imagined what would unfold in the following hours. The lives of Jews around the world changed overnight.

The next few weeks were a domino effect of change.

Almost immediately, condemning the attacks and mourning the victims became controversial. At school, I felt scrutinized – people laughed awkwardly when I mentioned the atrocities, or they claimed that “resistance is justified.” Meanwhile, Jewish families were mourning loved ones murdered in their homes or at the Nova music festival, and were terrified for the hostages taken into Gaza.

Despite this grief, I found that even personal conversations became difficult. Some people I considered friends didn’t ask if I was okay or try to understand what I was feeling. Instead, they challenged or dismissed my pain altogether.

These instances accumulated and began to shape how I saw myself. I no longer wanted to be different because being different suddenly seemed to mean isolation and loss.

Accepting my Jewishness

When my mother introduced me to a Jewish youth group, I began to find myself again. Meeting others who understood similar experiences helped me reconnect with my identity in a healthier way. After months of fear and uncertainty, things started to go right.

I made new friends at school who didn’t laugh or avoid eye contact when I shared my traditions. Friends who accepted my whole identity. Slowly, my fear of being Jewish dissipated.

Still, I would hear the phrase: “You are white, so why does it matter?” I can understand why some people might think that way. Simplified narratives of oppression often leave little room to understand Jewish identity, or the way antisemitism functions as a distinct and enduring form of hatred.

My Jewishness is not just a matter of appearance. It is tied to my family history, ancestry, and survival. It is the reason my great-grandparents were taken from their homes, and why their villages were burned in an attempt to erase them from history.

So yes, I am white. But that label does not erase centuries of persecution, nor does it reflect the reality of antisemitism that continues to exist today and shape Jewish lives, including my own.

Many times, I am still the only Jew in the room. However, everything that I have gone through – each antisemitic incident, each moment of questioning, and each step toward self-acceptance – has made me stronger.

I no longer fear sharing who I am; I love it.

The writer is a student at Canterbury High School in Ottawa. She is currently a Kenneth Leventhal High School intern at StandWithUs Canada, a non-profit education organization that combats antisemitism and educates about Israel.

Read the full article here.