Paris

Last weekend in Paris was defined by moments—moments of observation, conversation, and realization. From my Shabbat dinner with a community of Jewish students to comparing the bonds of the Jewish community with that of a Chinese community to learning that my Argentinian friends just returned from their Birthright trip to learning the history of Ashkenazi Jewry in Europe. What a weekend made up of so, so many moments.

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I knew I arrived at the Jewish community center when I spotted an unmarked three to four story building guarded by about five military armed guards. Timidly approaching the guards, I introduced myself to the one non-military figure and explained that I came to the synagogue for the Shabbat service and dinner with the Union de Estudiants Juifs de France (UEJF). Oddly, I was asked no identification or security questions—the type asked before you board your flight to Israel. Rather, upon entering the small court yard and entering the building, I encountered yet another group of about five armed military personnel inside of the lobby area and two men preparing for Shabbat. Para-voo English? I kindly asked one of the individuals, wanting to know where the service was and dinner that would follow.

Ascending the stairs, I was surrounded by bare white walls turned colorful and alive from community-inspired art work: a hanging sign commemorating the Jewish religious school from 2012 and the infamous Hakuna Matata quote in French painted onto the wall in swirly letters. I almost pinched myself to realize that yes, I actually was in Paris, and that yes, I actually was about to spend Shabbat with other French students, and that yes, this opportunity was made possible by a meeting I had months earlier in Washington, D.C. at the Jewish Federations of North America General Assembly conference where I met national leaders of UEJF.

On the third floor, I hung up my coat and waited a few minutes so that I could walk into the service with a local. Where I waited was just a small landing in the staircase with two bare coatracks and a shut wooden door—there was no hallway or open floor plan. Waiting about three minutes for others to arrive (really so that I ensured I did not enter the wrong seating section of prayer), I entered and made my way to the back of the room.

Henei, whispered the older woman next to me in Hebrew,as found me the right prayer book. We waited a few moments for the prayer to begin, and I recognized two men enter the room, one who was preparing for Shabbat when I entered the building and the other a Jewish security guard monitoring the building's entrance. Once more congregants arrived, these two men left because the minyan could still continue with ten. The next hour was composed of a seamless rhythm of prayer; there was a rotation of one man to the next for whose turn it was to lead the prayer. Together, there was harmony in the voices and movement by the men, who were individualized by their formality of dress. Towards the conclusion of the service, an influx of various groups of young adults—mostly university-aged students—made their way into the sanctuary. Chatter from the stylishly dressed girls in the back increased as in turn, the decibel of deep prayer increased in front of me as well.

At the conclusion of the service, I smiled and introduced myself to the young woman sitting next to me, who moments earlier translated a bit of French exchanged between the leader of the minyan and one of the older women to my left who had made a joke. I said that I was from Chicago and how I was excited to join the UEJF that evening for Shabbat dinner. We walked out together, and I slowly made my way down the stairs, wanting to make sure I was in the right place for the dinner—the part of Shabbat I was most excited for that evening.

Feeling a bit awkward and out-of-place, I stood in the same lobby area of the community center from where I entered. The friendly woman who I walked down the stairs with explained that she would have dinner on the floor above, which was a more community-oriented dinner. As she made her way for her dinner and I waited for mine, I stood planted, kind of in the center of everything. Around me, students were forming clusters of groups of friends, absorbed in lively conversations reflecting on their busy school weeks. I felt as if I did but did not belong, sensing familiarity alongside unfamiliarity. This chatter and energy brought me back to my countless Shabbats at the Illini Hillel, where I was always gratefully overwhelmed at seeing and greeting so many good friends at once before Shabbat dinner began. Whether it be hugging or kissing both cheeks, both worlds of Jewish students separated by an ocean wished one another Shabbat Shalom and awaited a special weekly meal enjoyed with good friends.

I was clearly the only American in the entire building, and to my chagrin, the student Jack who organized the event and who I Facebook messaged my many detail-oriented questions to, still had not arrived. My score card of friends was at a negative one. I did not know a single soul in that large gathering space of at least thirty people at that point. And I admit that I felt scared to join the groups and introduce myself—would these French students be interested in meeting some random American?

Spotting a smaller group of students that appeared friendlier and approachable, I mustered up social courage and approached with a big smile on my face, exuding an energy of warmth and kindness. Bonjour, I smiled, Para-voo English? Realizing I was American (and to my relief), the students seemed intrigued. I then introduced myself and did my best to remember the names of the three students as they introduced themselves as well. Two were less confident in their English-speaking abilities, so we resorted to nonverbal communication through smiles.

The folding tables were set up in a square and covered in a white table cloth and disposable dishware. The blessing over the candles had been done earlier at sunset, and the remnants of the candles—the same used of that of my family in Israel—had started to melt away. The clusters of friends migrated from the standing area to the tables, sitting alongside one another and moving chairs from the outside of the square table-shape to the inside to face friends during the meal. I followed the original group of students I befriended towards the center of the table formation, where my new friend Raphael, kind and reserved, sat across from me and Camille, high-energy and bubbly, next to me. We talked about lighter stuff—majors, families, and friends.

The kiddish and hamotzi were said. As challah was passed around, a simple but impactful realization dawned on me: challah characterizes a Jewish community. In Copenhagen, the challah is baked by congregation members because there is no bakery selling such a good. At my campus Hillel, challah is baked by students in the Hillel kitchen, and at home in Chicago, my mom buys challah from the local grocery store. Here in Paris, the challah was baked by the special kosher catering company for the Shabbat dinner.

Following this, the first round of appetizers—the Mediterranean styled food—were served. Noticing her friend Sarah arriving at Shabbat dinner, Camille switched seats so that her friend would not be alone, and she turned around to invite me and another student Samuel to follower her.

Over eggplant, coleslaw, grape juice, and spicy potato salad, I could finally plant the seeds for conversation that inspired me to so passionately find a Shabbat dinner in Paris in the first place. That afternoon, I visited the Musee d’Art et d’Histoire du Judaisme, the Jewish Museum of France, which was located in the Marais neighborhood in Paris, a Jewish quarter-turned soho-esque district where upper end boutiques neighbored kosher schwarma restaurants. At the museum, I learned the history of the various mass migrations of Jewish people across Europe, fleeing one exile to encounter yet another. During the middle ages, there was once a thriving Jewish community in France, where the Jews substituted the term Rabbi for Moniseur. This community disappeared during the Jewish exile from France but then returned hundreds of years later, migrating from countries like Algeria. With this Jewish demographic knowledge in mind, I asked my new friends my first question—where did their families come from? Sarah’s family came from Poland, and Samuel’s from Algeria. Back and forth the conversation ebbed and flowed as more details emerged. In time and after second-servings of appetizers, our conversation teetered towards the topic of anti-Semitism, and I asked about their identity. Were they French Jews or Jewish French? How were they affected by the current situation? Did they want to leave France? Would they go to Israel?

I listened and absorbed.

Sarah, pronounced Sah-rah, began by sharing her identity. Did she consider herself French? Of course, yes. But when people talk about the French, does she include herself or her community—the Jewish community—in that conglomerate of people? No, not really. With a reminiscing smile, she remarked that growing up, her family gathered for lunch every Sunday. Now all of her extended family is in Israel.

I noticed the students stealing challah from one side of the table to bring to another—the same thing that would happen at my Hillel seven hours later during dinner.

She told me that once she learned of the ISIS terrorist attacks in November, her first emotion was relief that the attacks occurred on a Friday night: her family and friends were home for Shabbat.

I noticed the group of guys, temporarily full and needing a fun distraction, pull out cards and begin a game in their corner of the table.

She told me that before, students and community members walked out of the community center together, lingering outside the building before scattering into all directions to make their way home. Security does not allow this communal gathering any more.

I noticed the artwork on the wall facing the table of a mural of four influential Zionists: David Ben-Gurion, Theordor Herzl, Golda Meir, and another individual in a baseball cap and eye patch covering an eye. Ben-Gurion’s infamous quote was written in cursive on one side of the frame: In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles.

She told me about her experience and understanding of the Arab population. Did they consider themselves French people? She described their communities on the outskirts of Paris as Gaza—yes, Gaza.

Did she want to leave? No, not now. This is her life, where she founded the UEJF chapter I joined for Shabbat and where she now pursued her master’s degree while founding and serving as CEO of a healthcare startup. Sarah’s thoughts overlapped with that of the other students who shared their stories and thoughts with me. Paris was, is, and will be these students now and future.

Towards the end of the dinner, an orthodox student stood up. He retold the parsha of the week and shared his insight with the students. Next to me, Sarah whispered that he was encouraging the students to always make the most of everything. Although distracted and eagerly wanting to return to conversation, the students listened and respected this advice.

My questions that evening did not give me answers. Rather, I sowed the soil and planted the seeds to form relationships and allow for conversations well into the future. As I metro-ed back to my hostel with two new friends from Shabbat, I attempted to grasp and make sense of the union of the French and Jewish identity. I felt more confused following the dinner than I had before at taking a pulse of the current climate of Jewry in France. Does French nationalism come into play in constructing their identity? They consider themselves French yet do not think of themselves as making up a collective French identity. Does Zionism come into play in constructing their identity? So many French Jews have made aliyah to Israel, and yet the students I met prefered to migrate to countries besides Israel.

Looking ahead, the media will most likely continue to publish stories detailing the anti-Semitic atttacks against the French Jewish community as they arise and report the staggering increase of immigration to Israel from France. This can only be deemed as perhaps a given.

But like the orthodox student shared to inspire his peers, it is clear that this community will not only survive but thrive. This can only be deemed as a given.