OPINION: What homophobia taught me about holding communities together

Recent events risk tearing our community apart over Israel and how we speak to one another about the conflict. We can draw on times other painful differences were navigated, not by silencing dissent, but by disagreeing more agreeably.

Before turning to now, in keeping with our people’s tradition, I want to share a couple of stories: Two barmitzvahs. Two orthodox synagogues. Two Rabbis. Two entirely different responses to my same-sex relationship.

At first, my then-boyfriend and I were back at my childhood shul for my nephew’s first Torah reading. After the service, I was introduced to the rabbi as the boy’s uncle. He asked if my boyfriend was a cousin. I shared that he was my boyfriend. The rabbi swiftly stepped away in awkward silence.

Three years later, my husband and I—recently married under a chuppah—attended another nephew’s barmitzvah again at an Orthodox synagogue. We were honoured to open and close the Ark. This rabbi warmly welcomed us and wished us mazeltov.

Same movement. Same halachic boundaries. The difference? One rabbi saw us as a problem to sidestep. The other saw us as family to embrace.

I grew up in a traditional United Synagogue family, usually only going to shul three times a year, eating kosher meat at home, and attending a secondary school under the auspices of the Chief Rabbi of United Hebrew Congregations. I admire orthodox communities. I still love learning Torah. I also experienced painful homophobia in orthodox institutions and for two decades volunteering and working in cross-communal spaces.

A teacher compared being gay to having a disability—something to “overcome” as a spiritual test. A senior manager gossiped about my sexuality, questioning my fitness to work with young people. Straight colleagues told me what is and isn’t homophobic when I challenged their enthusiasm for the pro-Israel but anti-LGBT Democratic Unionist Party.

I was told I was responsible for a trustee and fellow director threatening to resign because the cross-communal charity we worked for marked LGBT History Month—an initiative led by a straight colleague. Tolerating people like me was just about acceptable; publicly celebrating inclusion was a “red line”.

If we want a community that can survive difference, unity cannot mean enforced silence. It must mean staying in a relationship even when we profoundly disagree.

Let me be blunt: I have defended religious freedoms of people who continue to teach texts that say the way I love is a perversion punishable by death.

Which is why our community’s current fractures over Israel are so jarring.

Those of us who love Israel but oppose its extremist government—who stand with most Israelis calling for an end to the war and a hostage deal—are told to keep quiet “for the sake of unity”. Criticism is painted as betrayal. Supporting or expressing understanding for UK policies addressing the excesses of Netanyahu, Smotrich and Ben Gvir is treated as treachery.

Unity, it seems, is invoked only to suppress views that diverge from the most traditional or hawkish. I don’t see the same aspiration for unity prompting robust responses when homophobia, misogyny, racism, anti-Palestinian prejudice, or anti-Muslim hatred surface within our walls.

If we want a community that can survive difference, unity cannot mean enforced silence. It must mean staying in a relationship even when we profoundly disagree.

From years of dealing with homophobia in Jewish spaces, here’s what I’ve learnt about trying to make that possible:

• Build broad constructive relationships before you need them.
• Assume good faith—even when it’s hard.
• Understand people based on their values before respectfully challenging specific views.
• Use shared values as common ground.
• Accept irreconcilable differences without delegitimising people’s Jewishness.

These principles are not abstract. I’ve used them to work alongside people who condemn my life, without erasing my identity or ignoring the real harm. If that’s possible, then we can find ways to talk about Israel without harassing or hounding each other over dissenting views.

We can be united without being uniform. That is not naïve optimism. It is lived experience, and it requires honesty about the hurt caused by our own community, not just the threats outside it we all face together.

The Torah doesn’t command us to agree with each other. It commands us to care for each other.

For the sake of heaven—and even more urgently, for the sake of our community’s survival—we must learn to do both.

• David Davidi-Brown is the chief executive of New Israel Fund UK