You Are Jewish. Period.: A Life Lesson from Two Israeli Sisters
- Claire
- Apr 7
- 4 min read
For me, being Jewish is, above all, about being part of a community—specifically, the secular community.
It took me a while to feel comfortable with my new Jewish identity. I often felt judged—or at least imagined I was being judged. On the topic of religion, I probably knew more than many Israelis who had grown up secular Jews.
But knowledge wasn’t the point.
I still felt a nagging need to prove myself—even if I wasn't quite sure who I was trying to convince, or if anyone even cared.
A few moments have helped me grow into it—that identity that, at first, felt like a costume slightly too large and ill-fitted.
One of those moments happened in the most ordinary place: a small clothing shop in northern Israel.
A Chance Encounter in Northern Israel
I had just finished a work meeting nearby and wandered in without really needing anything. The shop was packed with merchandise, a bit dim, and slightly chaotic. It reminded me of the shouk in Tel Aviv—a marketplace with its own energy, sounds, and life I visit whenever I have the chance.
I was trying to retrieve what appeared to be a jacket from the hangers on the rack when an older woman asked if I needed help. As she spoke, she "won" the fight with the hangers, explained how the jacket was a great choice, and insisted I try it on. I complied, and we started chatting.
We were both naturally talkative, so the conversation flowed easily, moving from where I was from to what brought me to the area. She mentioned that she co-owned the shop with her sister, gesturing toward the woman at the register. Her sister, perhaps a bit bored and equally curious, called out an eager, “Bo’i, bo’i!” (Come, come!); she wasn't about to be left out of the conversation.
With no other customers and nowhere else to be, our conversation slowly drifted into more personal territory. They told me pieces of their long life stories—difficult, initmate moments they had faced and survived. I listened, fascinated by their honesty and resilience. I shared a few things about my own life as well.
Since relocating to Israel, despite talking to many people—at work or in casual encounters—I’ve missed having close friends, especially that sense of sisterhood. The connection I felt in their company reminded me exactly of what I’d been missing.
But with a two-hour drive ahead of me, I began to thank them for their hospitality. As I reached for my new jacket, the younger of the sisters looked at me intently. She leaned forward, a smile playing on her lips.
“I must ask you,” she said. I nodded, curious.
“Are you Jewish?”
“I converted,” I replied.
She reacted immediately. “I knew it.”
We hadn’t spoken of religion at all. I’d taken for granted that they were Jewish, yet they didn't carry themselves like "religious" women. Her observation caught me off guard—I found myself asking why she’d reached that conclusion.
I admitted that being asked whether I was Jewish often made me anxious, as if I needed to apologize for my identity—justifying my conversion, explaining my belonging. But the truth is, this lack of confidence wasn’t new.
Growing up with parents who were indifferent—or even dissatisfied with my presence—left me with a question that follows me into every community I join: If the people who brought me into this world didn’t care for me, why would anyone else?
Being “guarded” wasn’t about hiding a secret.
The two sisters exchanged a quick look, then both stood up and pulled me into a hug.
They told me they wanted to give me their most important life lesson.
“Never say you converted,” they said. “You are Jewish. Period.”
One of them added, “It’s between you and God. And God wanted you Jewish.”
I told the sisters that I was an atheist, but they waved that detail away without the slightest hesitation.
“We do not think you are.”
I started laughing. “Well, I am definitely not a believer.”
"You Are Jewish. Period."
But according to the two formidable sisters in northern Israel, it did not matter what I thought I believed—everything was part of God’s plan anyway, even non-believing.
I still smile when I think about that day—not because it changed my views about God, but because I walked out of that little shop feeling lighter. I was grateful for a completely random encounter and for the kind of wisdom that appears when you least expect it.
Sometimes, belonging is simply the moment when someone else decides you are already one of them. As for the jacket, I bought it more as a souvenir of that day than as a piece of clothing; truth be told, I have never actually worn it.
Regarding their comment about “never saying I converted,” clearly I have not followed their advice—but I think they would understand, and forgive me.
Every once in a while, I am reminded of them. I find myself wondering how they are, or if they are even still alive. I never went back, yet they have stayed with me. They are, and always will be, in my heart.
Final thought:
Have you ever had a chance encounter that changed how you see yourself? I’d love to hear about the people who made you feel like you belonged—even when you weren’t looking for it. Share in the comments.
Artist: Andrey Ostashov
Title: Dialogue of Elements
Background: The hills of Tiberias, Northern Israel
I fell in love with this sculpture because of its detail and the way it shows two sisters (or close friends) connecting. Using a double exposure, I layered my shot of the bronze figures from the Erarta Museum in Saint Petersburg over a landscape I captured in the Galilee. I felt this perfectly illustrated an inspiring day I spent with two incredible sisters.
Left Image: The hills overlooking the Sea of Galilee (Kinneret).
Right Image: The Original Bronze.
If you enjoyed this journey into identity and the small moments that define us, I’d love to have you along for the next one. Click below to join the community.
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That is a beautiful little story! These sisters might want to be part of every conversation around but there is a quiet resilience in their reaction; there are things to talk about and things to never mention. And this silence creates an intimacy, an exclusive inclusivness, a belonging that is not arbitrary. Public,yet private, random yet deliberate.
This threshold of conversion that -- at least in the view of the two sisters -- disappears once it is crossed, is telling about these two sisters, even though it is not clear what it reveals. This makes so interesting!