The Baalei Teshuva Project: Finally Breathing

I was raised in a very secular Soviet household. I went to a Jewish day school for about three years, where I never had help with my homework. My grandma barely remembered Yiddish. Even though she’d speak to me in Yiddish and I understood fluently, my mom didn’t want her to speak to me in Yiddish. She didn’t want me going back to the roots.

I was pulled out of Jewish day school in grade 3 to learn French and be more of a part of Canadian society, I guess. I’d go to a Reform temple for high holidays—but I’d always force my parents to let me go. They never minded me skipping school during high holidays. Sometimes they’d let me go to synagogue, sometimes they wouldn’t. Most of the time they’d drop me off at the synagogue and they’d pick me up a couple hours later in the car.

Despite my fairly secular upbringing, I’d always felt a connection to more religious society. Throughout the years I went to a more Conservative synagogue. In middle school, I was severely harassed for being a Jew.

“This is why we left Russia,” my parents told me.

They taught me the word ‘kike.’

“If you get called this, you have permission to break said person’s face,” they said.

I did get called a kike, but I never hurt anyone.

I went to an arts high school, so my classmates were all sorts of different kinds of people. We had a Jewish culture club, but in grade 10, I started getting bullied again for being Jewish. It got to the point where this German guy put an anonymous note in my locker threatening my life.

I have a relative who was a Nazi and if a war were to start again, I would 100% be on the team of whoever is killing Jews, the note read. My dad went to the school and got him suspended.

My parents said not to associate with the Jewish culture club because it would lead to harassment, heartbreak and more bullying. They were basically forcing me to assimilate in high school. Hell no. Every day I wore my Star of David to school. I was very very proud of where I came from.

In grade 10, I had to switch to a new school that happened to be 85% Arab. My parents sat me down before my first day.

“Never tell people you’re Jewish. Don’t wear your Star of David. You’re just Russian,” they said.

I started wearing my necklace in secret. I’d tuck it under my shirt so my parents couldn’t see. When I emailed my teachers to let them know I’d be gone for Jewish holidays, I asked them not to tell anyone. The principal said I didn’t need to let them know—I could just not show up on those days.

My parents ran away from their problems. I was going to face mine. I was ashamed I had ever let myself hide who I was, so I started wearing my necklace outside of my shirt, though I would tuck it in at home.

When students found out I was Jewish, one hijabi ran up to me, tore off my necklace and threw it down the toilet. I got jumped by five Arab guys who called me a dirty Jew. When I called police officers, lucky me—the cop that showed up was the father of the same hijabi girl who assaulted me. He said it was my fault that happened to me; because of what Israel was doing, I deserved it.

For the first time in my life, you could beat the shit out of me all you wanted, but I was proud to be there. I even ended up in the hospital for a few weeks because of it, but my parents never knew. I told them I was at a friend’s house. If Israel wasn’t letting all the surrounding countries kill it off, I wasn’t going to let my classmates hurt me either. I ended up graduating high school without a problem.

When I graduated, I went on Birthright. At this point in my life, I had never done anything Chabad. I’d always wanted to be more religious, but I was too afraid to tell my parents because for my entire life, they had told me, Hide your identity. You shouldn’t be proud of who you are. As soon as I landed in Israel, I finally felt at home.

After I served in the military, I went home and started feeling empty. I needed something more important in my life to continue to live it. I was dating an Arab guy, who said he never saw me do anything religious, but maybe I should try.

All I knew how to do was keep kosher, so I started with kashrut. I ended up telling my parents I was going on a diet instead of explaining to them why I couldn’t eat in our house. I explained that I was basically pescatarian and couldn't eat anything cooked at home because I wanted to lose weight. My mom was all for it.

In college, I found out about Chabad on Campus. As soon as I spoke to the rabbi I felt at home. I didn’t know anyone, but the rabbi was so welcoming. During this year, the guy I was dating was very supportive of me. He’d drive me 2.5 hours away to take me out to dinner at the nearest kosher restaurant.

Keeping kosher wasn’t enough for me, so I decided to start keeping Shabbat. I went on a Shabbaton to Laurentian mountains and kept Shabbas for the first time ever. It was so enlightening, I told myself I was going to start keeping Shabbas. I felt free.

“Once a week, if you ever need to get ahold of me, call my boyfriend,” I told my parents.

After a year of that, it still wasn’t enough. I was on Chabad board and the rabbi told me, “Miriam, come to Pegisha in Crown Heights. You won’t regret it. You are going to find out about the Rebbe.”

I kind of just lost myself in Crown Heights. I was so confused, I didn’t know what was happening in my head. I sat down on the steps of 770 for the first time in my life. I was dressing tzanua. I felt like I could breathe.

“Write all of your emotions on a piece of paper. Tear it up on the Rebbe’s grave and say Shema, then tell him how you feel,” my rabbi said.

I said Shema for half an hour, over and over again. At the time, it was the only prayer I knew. I was bawling. In a good way, I felt like all my problems disappeared. It was as if none of these problems ever existed. It kind of was an epiphany. I was so sad and happy at the same time.

“Rabbi, I don’t understand what’s happening, but I feel at home,” I told him. “This skirt makes me feel comfortable in my own skin.”

He started crying.

“This is you becoming a Baalat Teshuva. This is you taking control, following the mitzvah of tzniut,” he replied. “You're joining the family. You don’t need to be running anymore.”