Carrying Chanukah lights across the world – as a Jew
Travelling far from home, I discovered that Jewish pride and fear now travel everywhere with us
I am travelling through Southeast Asia, thousands of miles from home, doing what so many young people dream of: seeing the world, meeting strangers who become friends, and collecting stories that will last a lifetime. It should feel carefree. And mostly, it does. But on the first night of Chanukah, as news broke of the attacks in Sydney, the distance between where I was and where I belong suddenly felt unbearable.
When you are Jewish, even paradise comes with a tinge of fear.
There is an unspoken question that follows you as you travel: Should I tell people I’m Jewish? Should I soften it, avoid it, or keep it quiet for safety? For many, that instinct is understandable. But for me, this journey has done the opposite. I have never been prouder to say who I am.
Travelling means constantly meeting new people: backpackers, locals, and fellow wanderers passing briefly through your life. The vast majority respond with warmth, curiosity, and genuine interest. A few offer comments that sting, questions that reveal ignorance, or assumptions that carry centuries of antisemitism dressed up as “just asking”. And yet, I find myself wanting not to hide but to educate. To explain why antisemitism isn’t abstract. Why does it follow us even here? Why does it hurt?
What I wasn’t prepared for was how hard it would be to be away from home at a time like this. Chanukah is about light, resilience, and community, and suddenly I craved mine desperately. I wanted to be with my family, my friends, and my community, who understand without explanation. I wanted the comfort of familiarity as Jews around the world once again held their breath.
But something unexpected happened. Community found me anyway.
On the first night of Chanukah, we lit a virtual menorah with Israelis we had met barely two minutes earlier. Strangers, and yet not strangers at all. In that moment, it became clear: the Jewish community is not confined to geography. It is global, instinctive, and immediate. You feel it wherever you are, especially when the world feels hostile.
Still, the fear lingered. We feared for fellow travellers we had met who were in Sydney: we were nearly there ourselves. Fear for Australian friends and family hurting far away. Fear mixed with guilt for being on the adventure of a lifetime while others mourn, hide, or run. Homesickness crept in, not just for a place, but for a people.
And I keep asking myself: why does travelling the world as a Jew come with this added weight? Why should gratitude for opportunity coexist with fear simply because of who we are?
It has been over two years since 7 October, and yet antisemitism feels sharper, louder, and more casual. One of the first questions people ask us when we tell them we are Jewish is not “What’s your favourite thing about being Jewish?” but “Are you a good Jew?” What does that even mean? Who defines a “good” Jew? Is it one who stays silent? One who apologises for existing? One who makes themselves palatable to others? Primo Levi once wrote, “It happened; therefore, it can happen again.” Antisemitism does not wait for permission, and it does not spare those who try to make themselves smaller. Silence has never protected us. Hiding has never saved us.
We are also relentlessly asked for our “thoughts on Israel”, as though every Jewish person is a spokesperson, a justification, or a debate partner. Other travellers don’t announce their religion or defend their right to exist. And yet I find myself wanting to scream and shout that I am Jewish: not quietly, not apologetically, but proudly. Because I am tired of living in fear.
Our community is hurting. We have been hurting for a long time. But what the last few months have taught me is something just as powerful: our community is strong, proud, and resilient. No matter where you are in the world, Jews find other Jews. There is something beautiful, precious, and pure about that instinct: a shared history, shared pain, and shared hope. That is not a weakness. That is something to be fiercely proud of.
Being away has also made me realise just how lucky British Jews are. We have organisations that fight for us, support us, protect us, and give us a voice. I never thought I would feel homesick not just for a country, but for a community infrastructure that holds us up when the world feels hostile.
I came travelling to escape routine, to see something new. I didn’t expect to confront my identity so deeply along the way. And yet, here I am. Lighting candles on a phone screen with strangers who feel like family, grieving from afar, and choosing pride over fear again and again.
The world is vast. It is beautiful. And it is complicated. But wherever we are, we carry our Judaism with us; not as a burden, but as a light. And no amount of fear should ever make us dim it.
- Sami Berkoff is the former president of UJS
Keep community journalism free.
Jewish News is free for everyone. No paywall. No barriers. Just trusted journalism for anyone who wants to stay connected to Jewish life in Britain.
If you value that, please support us.
From as little as £5 a month, you can help keep our journalism free and accessible to all.
Every day, we report on the issues that matter to our community. We celebrate achievements, support charities, challenge antisemitism and ensure Jewish voices are heard more widely.
From as little as £5 a month, you can help us continue to:
- Report on the stories shaping Jewish life in the UK and beyond
- Bring our community together through shared stories, events and campaigns
- Celebrate the people, culture and moments that define our community
- Support organisations doing vital work across Jewish Britain
You can make a one-off donation or become a regular supporter. Every contribution helps keep our journalism free, independent and accessible to all.
If everyone who values Jewish News gave a small amount, it would make a real difference to our future.
