Day 23 of 100

I’ve been Jewish as long as I can remember.

I was born to Jewish parents, with my mom being a first generation American, and my biological father being from Philadelphia.

After my mom’s divorce she subsequently married a non-Jew, but she always made an effort for me to know what it was to be Jewish.

As a people, not religion. I knew very little about holidays and rituals. But I knew I was different than my friends. Especially around the end of the year holidays as Chanukah is a weak substitute for Christmas.

My grandmother was born in Shanghai China to a Jewish family that had escaped the Bolshevik revolution in Russia. My grandfather was born in Transylvania, and while I wished he was a vampire, he was often awake during the day.

During the Second World War my grandfather was captured and put in a forced labor camp, which he later escaped from with a few co-conspirators. As often as I asked, he was very reluctant to talk about those days. He found his way to a British internment camp in Cyprus, and later to Palestine where he ended up at Kibbutz Dafna. There in the midst of picking apples he met a woman named Rena who had made her way to the Kibbutz fleeing the Japanese as they invaded China. They married and named their first born after the Kibbutz, Dafna.

She was my mom.

When my mom was in her late teens she found her way to Kibbutz Dafna. The late 1960s were very different than the late 1940s, but in the midst of picking apples she met a young man named Robert.

He was my dad.

The two flower children found their way back to the United States, eventually settling in a town of 2,500 where they had a son.

He was me.

Kibbutz Dafna still exists, as a bed and breakfast. It’s one of the largest exporters of Israeli footwear (who knew?). I have often thought that I should continue the story and go to Kibbutz Dafna and pick apples, but I am me.