Background

Every so often, life brings us someone who changes the direction of our lives. For me, in 1991, it was someone I had never imagined needing ever: a well-known, beloved North Tel Aviv rabbi. Though he has since passed away (z”l — may his memory be a blessing), I remember him with deep affection. I landed in Tel Aviv in November 1990, completely clueless about Judaism or the local attitude toward non-Jews. My husband, a very secular Israeli, was certain we would be fine as we w

So, it turns out I’m a liar. To you, dear reader—but mostly to myself. Not an earth-shattering lie, nothing scandalous… just the realization that I’m not quite who I thought I was. After a great exchange with friends (and if you haven’t read it yet, see Zero Gods, Four Voices: Exploring Jewish Atheist and Secular Identity), a little red flag emerged.

The most beautiful concept I discovered while converting and living in Israel was the power of Shabbat, specifically Friday night. Depending on the family and the moment, it could feel like anything from a simple weekly gathering to a solemn kind of communion. In my in-laws’ home, it often shifted between the two, shaped by the mood and the week behind us. But to get to Friday night dinner, we had to go through the week.

During my conversion in Israel in 1991, my teachers explained that Pesach (Passover) is a festival of freedom centered on one key command: In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt. Of course, it isn’t meant to be taken literally—it’s really about embracing faith and trust. But me? I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to faith in the traditional sense. Broadly speaking, though, I do have faith—plenty of it, in fact.

Three journeys, three memoirs, and one shared destination. Discover why you don't need a 'revelation' to join the tribe

When I was five, my mother invited a nun into our home for “the talk.” I don’t know where she got the idea from. I was an active child and all I wanted was to be climbing our one tree or bouncing on the sofa. Alas, my mother made me sit and listen to this woman she introduced as Nun Something. I wasn’t thrilled. Her long gray dress, strange white cape, and the way she stood with her hands clasped over her stomach didn’t help. My mother stood by the doorway, watching nervousl

I was born in a small village on France’s Atlantic coast. My father insisted that my name be short, simple, and easy to pronounce worldwide — and, most importantly, shaped by his own life experience, free of any ties, religious or otherwise. He chose Claire, from clarus in Latin, meaning bright and clear. My mother agreed. “Claire” was classic and neutral. August 1989 — The last picture before I left their home for good, posing with my little cousins. That was the final

If you’ve followed the story of this blog from the beginning, you may notice a paradox: how can a story of conversion not be about religion? Believe me—it is not. It’s about identity, belonging, and the sacrifices we make to feel accepted. In my case, to win the approval of my in-laws. Before moving from France to Tel Aviv at twenty-two, I had met them only twice, briefly. My impression was that they were kind, warm, and generous. I didn’t sense any particular religiosity.

There were a few reasons I began writing this memoir. When the 2020 pandemic hit, I found myself rethinking how I was spending my days—cooped up in a small apartment in a new city and country we had just moved to. I needed a project to keep both my hands and my mind busy. Cooking didn’t interest me, cleaning and decluttering only got me so far, social networks felt too passive, and honestly: how many movies or series can one watch in a day? Writing seemed like the easiest o