Living In Community

I have always had friends, but just a couple of close friends. Some would consider me a rather serious person. One on one conversations tend to foster the type of deep discussions I relish most. In college, I had one boyfriend and one BFF. The boyfriend came and went, but the friend has been by my side for the last 28 years. 

I married a compassionate, empathetic and wise man. He has been there for me through many of life’s travails. My husband was by my side through tough pregnancies, two bouts of cancer, and recently the passing of my mother. As much as these two essential figures in my life, my husband and my best friend, are my rocks—vital to my well-being — it wasn’t until I hit middle age that I recognized that I need a whole community. To make it, I needed deep connections to Jewish life in all aspects of my existence; my survival and happiness are dependent on it.  

In 2020, the world was obsessed with COVID and I was crazy!  I am someone who always follows the rules and trusts institutions. If Fauci told me I couldn’t see anyone, then I couldn’t see anyone.  Like the rest of the world, I lost a year of my life.  My children were miserable in online school.  I pushed my then first grader to “focus” when he kept swirling in his chair away from the computer screen.  I made my fourth grader do summer school on Zoom because he clearly had missed too much content in online zoom school in the Spring. I told myself and others that I had to be careful about COVID because I couldn’t accidentally bring the virus to my cancer-stricken mother who was obviously immune-compromised.   

We did see my mom.  We set up chairs in her backyard and visited her with our boys.  Much to her chagrin, we had the same rules for visits with my mother-in-law. But, like so many of us, we missed playdates, time with cousins and extended family, and friends.  As we now know was ubiquitous around the world, I was stressed, lonely, and isolated.  

My husband didn’t really agree with my extreme COVID tactics. We have always been very close to our extended family and not being able to join together for Seder or regular meals with the 15 members of his family was extremely painful to him.  I dug in my heels.  It caused tension in our relationship.  

Then — I got cancer. Everything changed in an instant.  I stopped worrying about wiping down everything my children might touch with Clorox wipes and started worrying about how I could ensure that I would be there for these precious 8- and 10-year-old children. 

Cancer has a way of putting things into perspective.  All of sudden, it was a whole lot more probable that something serious could happen to me from cancer not from COVID. More importantly, I needed help!  There was no way around it.  

I needed my sisters-in-law to watch my boys while I was at doctor’s appointments and recovering from surgeries. I needed my mother-in-law to cook and provide the kind of love to my kids that only a Grandma can give. I had a group of Jewish girlfriends in my neighborhood, exceptional women who were eager to come check on me. These women became my sisters.  They brought me silly presents to brighten my spirits, offered words of encouragement, and sat by my bedside. I needed and wanted this support.  My husband was a pillar of strength during my treatments, but he couldn’t bear this gigantic burden alone. I needed a larger community.

When I was diagnosed, I reached out to my Rabbis who provided counsel, linked me up with the amazing Jewish breast cancer organization Sharsheret, set up a meal train, and assured me I wasn’t alone. My children’s Jewish day school met with my kids individually on a regular basis.  They gave me updates on my children’s well-being, sent food, and flowers.  The school cut me some slack when helping my kids get their homework done was the least of my priorities. My village schlepped my children to and from school every day and to after school activities.

Historically, Jews have lived close together.  Often times, this wasn’t a choice, but a governmental restriction. Today, it is often that only observant Jews cluster in neighborhoods. Religious Jews choose where to live based on goods and services, like kosher restaurants and grocery stores, synagogues, and Jewish day schools.  I have always had a strong Jewish identity, but I am not observant.  Yet, I remember consciously moving “home” to L.A. in my late 20s, after many years in other places, so that I could have a more vibrant community of Jews around me. I’m not sure if I could have told you why I wanted this. 

My husband and I made conscious choices to live near family, near a JCC, and a Jewish day school — even though when my kids were born I was adamant that they would go to public school and the JCC is used mostly for my son’s obsession with basketball. The truth is that making a choice to live among Jews didn’t seem necessary when my husband and I made those choices. It just seemed like a nice bonus. But, it was necessary; subconsciously we must have known it.  When the s— hits the fan, it is community that rises up.  

We can’t do life alone: Not COVID, not cancer, not dying parents, not even teenagers who have become unrecognizable from their former sweet compliant selves. Community grounds us, bolsters our strength, and remind us that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

We can’t do life alone: Not COVID, not cancer, not dying parents, not even teenagers who have become unrecognizable from their former sweet compliant selves.  Community grounds us, bolsters our strength, and remind us that we are part of something larger than ourselves. 

In just the last week, a friend’s 17-year-old son was arrested for teenage shenanigans.  I listened to my friend.  I reminded her how capable and loving her son was.  I told her I was playing good cop while she was mad as hell.  In the same week, I had another friend whose brother passed away. As a community we rallied behind. We fed her, distracted her children, and expressed unconditional love   I was there for these extraordinary Jewish women, just as they had been there for me.  I wasn’t repaying the favor or acting out of a sense of obligation.  I was grateful to be able to help.  In fact, I was empowered by the fact that I knew that our social web was strong enough to hold these women up in their times of struggle. 

Of course, non-Jews live in community too. And yes, you can form community with non-Jews. It is, in fact, critical for Jews to make connections outside our bubble.  But, at this moment, when the world seems to be attacking us from every corner, and people we thought were our friends turn their backs on us, there is particular strength and resilience that can be had in finding your Jewish community.  

Judaism is not only about davening.  It is about values. Our religion teaches us to welcome people into our home and visit the sick. Collectively, we have the knowledge, accrued over 3,000 years that “this too shall pass.” When you live in community you are buoyed by shared experience, shared wisdom, and shared resolve.  When you live in community, others can remind you that there is always light at the end of the tunnel.  

In the last year, since Oct. 7, I have worked with some extraordinary local community members to oppose anti-Jewish and anti-Israel policies invading aspects of our daily life.  I am committed to this work.  Yet, I constantly hear my Rabbi’s voice in my head.  He often reminds our congregation that fighting antisemitism cannot be the definition of our Judaism.  We don’t need to be traditionally observant, he says, but we need to celebrate and honor the religion we are fighting to defend. Otherwise, what are we fighting for?  

For some Jews connection is found in wrapping tefillin, keeping kosher, and praying in a minyan. These are valid and critical ways to express your Judaism. For me, the way that I ensure that I am connected to my religion and keep it alive for my children, is to make sure that I live in a community of Jews.

Julie Marzouk is an author, activist, and founder of Evolve Advocacy Consulting.