Last week, in these pages, I asked: Would you choose to be Jewish?
The question arose after teaching a group of young Nigerians who believe themselves descended from the lost tribe of Gad. Their hunger for Torah, their joy in mitzvot (the commandments), their pride in calling themselves Jewish – all of it left me humbled.
Since then, I received a response from Orah, one of the organizers. She has already been rejected by Israel’s Beit Din (Rabbinical Court). Her email is one of the most beautiful, painful, and hopeful reflections on Jewish identity I have ever read.
She begins with Israel after October 7:
“Since October 7, many of my friends and colleagues here in Israel have wrestled deeply with their Jewish identity. Some even speak of wanting to pass as non-Jewish or consider relocating, hoping their children might assimilate into a new country, language, and culture. To me, this is one of the deepest traumas of that day: The Holocaust drove Jews to build a home for all Jews, while October 7 is driving Jews away from that very home.”
'You can’t force me to stop being Jewish'
And then she contrasts it with her own longing:
“More than once, I’ve been told, ‘You’re lucky to be Black, you have the freedom to be safely Jewish.’ While there may be some truth in that statement, I’ve always felt that none of us should have to feel ‘lucky’ for being accepted as Jews. A Black/Brown Jew should not be ‘lucky’ to be safely Jewish, just as a white Jew should not be ‘lucky’ if the Rabbanut [Chief Rabbinate] does not question their Jewishness.”
And finally, the line that should pierce the heart of every dayan (judge) of every beit din:
“It’s like I told one of the rabbis during my giyur [conversion] interview. If you will reject my application, I’ll go home and still light my Shabbat candles, say my prayers, and live my life as Jewish as I have been raised. It’s who I am; I don’t know anything else; I am not anything else. You can’t force me to stop being Jewish any more than I can be forced to convert to Christianity or Islam.”
If only all Jews spoke with such love.
How did conversion become so hard?
It was not always this way.
Ruth joined the Jewish people with a single sentence: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” Jethro walked into the camp. The “mixed multitude” left Egypt alongside the Israelites. No bureaucracy. No committees.
The Talmud later introduced a structure. A rabbi was to discourage a convert once or twice to test sincerity. But once the candidate persisted, conversion was to be done promptly.
Suspicion was never meant to be a permanent wall.
The wall came later.
In the Middle Ages, Jews were forbidden under Christian and Muslim rule to accept converts. To protect their communities, rabbis discouraged giyur altogether. Caution became habit.
Then, in the 19th century, Reform Judaism swung the other way. Converts were welcomed with ease. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction (Newton’s Third Law of Motion). So Orthodoxy reacted. Stringency became a badge of loyalty. The harder the process, the prouder the dayan.
But under this banner, we have turned away seekers of God to prove our toughness to one another.
And in Israel, the Rabbanut has inherited this fortress mentality. Suspicion and delay have become institutionalized. Centuries of fear are now fossilized in bureaucracy.
Is race part of the story?
Here is Orah again:
“Our beautiful identities should never be used against us, and yet they are, every day. More hurtful is even within the Jewish world, there are groups using identity to divide rather than to unite.”
Would a white American or French applicant face the same suspicion? Would their process take as long? Would their sincerity be doubted so deeply? Would they be rejected so out of hand?
Judaism has never been one color. Ruth was a Moabite. Onkelos was a Roman. Obadiah (by tradition) was an Edomite. Ethiopian Jews have been faithful for centuries.
Halacha does not discriminate by skin. But practice sometimes does. And that is not halacha. It is prejudice hiding in halacha’s clothing.
Orah’s vision
What makes Orah’s words remarkable is that they are not bitter; they are hopeful.
“What we urgently need is proper Jewish education: Torah, halachot, history, identity, and how all of this connects with our local cultures. Without this grounding, our community risks being pulled apart by too many voices, each with personal agendas that ultimately harm us.”
She wants Torah, Halacha, Jewish history, identity. She wants connection, not division.
While many young Israelis talk about leaving, hiding, or blending into other nations, Nigerians like Orah are begging to come in.
Which group are we investing in? Which group carries more hope for our future?
The courage to open the door
The Rabbinate’s job is to protect Jewish life. I understand and value that greatly. But protection is not cruelty. Integrity is not endless suspicion. Sincerity is not proved by humiliation.
We should remember Ruth. We should remember that the Talmud says: “Push away once or twice, then embrace.” We should remember that centuries of fear are no longer binding.
Orthodoxy may wear its strictness as a badge of pride. But it is a badge of shame when it means slamming the door on people who love Torah more than some of us born into it.
Orah told the beit din: “You can’t force me to stop being Jewish.”
The question is not whether we can afford to let people like her in.
The question is whether we can afford to keep her out.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya, and is a co-founder of Techelet – Inspiring Judaism.