On Being (Gay and) Jewish Now

I’m currently reading a book called, ‘On Being Jewish Now’; a collection of essays from Jewish writers, mostly living in America, on how their lives as Jewish people have changed since October 7th 2023. The common theme, whether they were religious, secular, the direct descendants of Holocaust survivors or the rebellious children of rabbis, was that their entire mindset shifted after that day and they now find themselves being called back to Judaism and their Jewish identity – whatever that means to them. 

During my late teens and early twenties, I became more religious. I kept Shabbat, I went to shul, I kept kosher and I studied at Yeshiva in Jerusalem in between my semesters at university. Truthfully, I probably knew I was gay and that terrified me so much that I thought the only solution was to become religious and marry a woman so that all my problems would magically be solved. Thankfully that didn’t happen. What did happen was that I came out and renounced my religious identity to make room for the new real me. 

As a young teenager, I’d set up a recycling scheme at my local youth centre, organised charity events at shul and presented an assembly to my entire school on the genocide in Darfur; arranging a coach from Manchester to London for my friends to join me at a protest against the horrors of what was happening in Sudan. Once I came out and moved to London in my mid-twenties, my energy shifted towards gay causes. My main focuses were banning conversion therapy, allowing gay men to donate blood and supporting LGBT+ people from religious backgrounds. I went to countless marches and was featured in the news for my colourful signage outside Downing Street during one particular conversion therapy protest. I joined a support group for LGBT+ people from different religious backgrounds, hearing harrowing stories of people in situations I’d only ever had nightmares about. I also wrote and produced a short film, based on my life experiences, about two young Jewish men in a secret relationship; exploring the complexities of balancing both seemingly contradictory identities. 

As the years went on, I began to find Jewish spaces that were welcoming of LGBT+ people, opening my eyes to a world where my two identities didn’t have to be contradictory. After attending each new event I felt grateful that Jewish leaders, shuls and community groups not only ‘accepted’ us but fully embraced us. My short film about two gay Jews was featured in the UK Jewish Film Festival and I even had a family and friends screening of my film at JW3 Jewish Community Centre in North London. Motivated by a renewed sense of gratitude for my Jewish community and their welcoming spaces, I started to slowly carve a path back to Judaism whilst remaining a fierce advocate for gay causes. During lockdown, I volunteered with KeshetUK, a charity for Jewish LGBT+ people, telling my “coming out” story over Zoom to hundreds of Jewish attendees listening intently to the words of their queer brothers and sisters. I then joined the young advisory board at JW3 where I led monthly LGBT+ events for Jewish people under the queer umbrella who came to the community centre to feel safe and seen. After years of grappling, I finally felt able to reconcile my Jewish and gay identities. Finding the beauty in how they intertwined, my heart healing as I pieced together the old and new versions of myself. 

Then October 7th happened. 

My short film was due to be played during the LGBT+ support group at the end of October. My friends, none of them Jewish, some of whom had been kicked out of their homes, forced to flee their countries and prevented from seeing their children because of their sexuality, were going to watch the film and hopefully find some solace in relating to the characters on screen. But then I got a message from the organiser saying it wasn’t a good idea for the film to be played because he didn’t want me to be subjected to unfair comments or questions regarding the war. A film about two religious gay men struggling with their sexuality, a film that doesn’t mention Israel, doesn’t even mention Judaism explicitly, couldn’t be played after the worst attack on Jewish people since the Holocaust in case the group couldn’t stop themselves from spouting hate towards me. The seemingly safe space for all was safe for everyone except me. Those making the comments would be welcome to stay but for the crime of being openly Jewish I was not. I know the organiser had good intentions but if he couldn’t protect me from antisemitic comments in the aftermath of an antisemitic terror attack then there’s no way that I could comfortably stay in that support group.

In the weeks and months following the attack, my gay friends from an array of backgrounds abandoned me one by one. Friends I’d met at the LGBT+ support group, friends I’d met at Pride, friends I’d met at protests. Each turning their backs on me as I pleaded for them to say something, anything, that would indicate that they supported me, their friend who had invited them to Jewish events, given them a place to stay during hard times and supported them through heartache. No such support ever came. In the chaos, I found myself once again being forced to choose between my Jewish identity and my gay identity. My gay friends had gone, my gay events were cancelled and my gay support group was no longer safe but my Jewish friends and family were still there; in fact they had never left, so when it came down to it the choice was very simple. 

I love being gay, I still support the same causes I did when I first came out and I will stand by the LGBT+ community as they continue to fight but I will now do so from the back rows instead of marching from the front. I’ve redirected my energy to protect the Jewish community from the ever rising tirade of antisemitism that we face. After all, I’ve been a ‘practicing’ gay for 8 years but I’ve been a practicing Jew for 32. My entire family is Jewish and have been for generations. My childhood, education and upbringing were Jewish. My ancestors were Jewish. My soul is Jewish and that comes with balancing the immense joy that Judaism brings with a deep sadness for the persecution of our people be that in 1200 BC Egypt, 1880’s Russia, 1930’s Germany or 2020’s Britain. It means learning from history and standing up for the community because there is no alternative.

As with many other Jews living in the diaspora post Oct 7th, my circle grew smaller and I found myself gravitating towards Jewish spaces even more. I used to avoid Golders Green because it reminded me too much of growing up in suburban Jewish Manchester where everyone knew everyone. I’d come to London to live a new exciting life and that did not involve bumping into my old school teacher outside Carmelli’s. But now I go to Golders Green every week, learning Hebrew at JLE and it’s the only time during the week that I feel as though I can breathe, that I feel fully safe. I notice my jaw relaxing and my head becoming less heavy as I step off the bus on Golders Green Road and it hits me just how much I’ve been holding my breath in my day to day life.

I’m reading books like ‘People Love Dead Jews’ by Dara Horn and ‘Israel’ by Noa Tishby. I’ve bought photography books on pre-Holocaust Jewish Europe by Roman Vishniac and Mendel Grossman, officially turning into my dad 30 years prematurely. I’ve been to protests in London with my rainbow Israeli flag, standing up against the record-breaking wave of antisemitism on our streets, and was once again featured in the newspaper for my colourful signage. I took part in a video series for Campaign Against Antisemitism sharing this very story about being a proud gay Jew on their social media channels. I’m going to Israel in the summer with Birthright who are hosting a trip exclusively for LGBT+ Jews, led by LGBT+ Israeli tour guides, focussing on the queer history of Israel alongside volunteering to package food and clothing for communities displaced after the terrorist attack. I hope that I don’t have to point out just how special an LGBT+ trip to a country in the Middle East is but to those who have been to Tel Aviv Pride I’m sure it comes as no surprise. 

I’ve even started going to shul on Friday nights, something I thought I’d never do again after coming out. I find enormous comfort when stepping into a shul on a Friday night knowing that as a gay Jew I’m welcome to pick up a siddur, sit down and join in the prayers of Kabbalat Shabbat; the same prayers I heard each week as a child and the same prayers future Jewish children, whether gay or straight, will hear in their shuls. 

Since October 2023 I’ve lost my gay friends, lost access to supposed ‘safe spaces’ and lost my naive sense of hope that people are generally good. Once the genocidal terrorist group who murder Jews and LGBT+ people convinced the general public to support them I knew it was game over for my new life and my new friends. But on the flip side I’ve rediscovered who I am and I’ve found a renewed love and appreciation for who and what is important in life. Having experienced it myself, and having read the many stories of others, it’s clear to see that the Jewish people, whether they are religious, secular, the direct descendants of Holocaust survivors or the rebellious children of rabbis, have once again come together in the joy and despair of being part of this wonderful, neurotic, talented, spirited, chosen people.