June 22, 2022

When we hear about LGBTQ+ teens committing suicide, we usually think of an isolated teenager in a small, conservative town, where no one understands them and the adults in their family and community are intolerant. We hear stories of how these teens fear for their lives and – after much harassment and misunderstanding – either leave home for places, such as Hollywood, hence the large runaway population in Hollywood, or give up and give in to a quick way out of the pain.

Listening to the beginning of the MASH movie recently, I was struck by the song playing during the opening credits. “Suicide is painless…” I suppose this fits because war, and other trials we endure in life, are more painful than suicide.

Suicide is hardest on the people left behind. My husband and I have a beautiful teenager, Esther Iris z”l, who now resides in heaven due to suicide. I want to write about the upheaval this has caused in our hearts and souls; I want to pour out my grief and frustration, and proclaim from the mountaintops how much we miss our Esther Iris. 

But right now, I feel compelled to write about one aspect of Esther’s struggle. Mental health was a key component; COVID was another precipitating factor; and yet another issue for Esther was their gender identity and sexual expression.

For LGBTQ+ teens, or those trying to figure out where they fit on the gender continuum, there is so much left unsaid.

We don’t usually think of teens in our Jewish community as limited in any way. Many opportunities are open to them. Yet for LGBTQ+ teens, or those trying to figure out where they fit on the gender continuum, there is so much left unsaid. There are LGBTQ+ shuls primarily aimed at adults, who by and large have figured out their identity and simply want a place to pray and make friends. There is JQ International, Keshet and Rosh Chodesh groups for LGBTQ+ and nonbinary teens, but how do these groups interact with the Conservative Jewish world at large? 

At a Bat Mitzvah, when a mother is praised for bringing her daughter to Torah, I’m happy. But when a girl is told how wonderful it will be when she has kids, I wonder. What if she doesn’t want to have kids? I recall feeling shoved into a box based on gender in my 20’s, as I struggled to find myself as an artist. 

Teens today may be where I was in my early 20’s, in terms of emotional literacy; that’s how fast the world is changing. Puberty arrives years earlier, and so much information floods the internet that pre-teens are incredibly sophisticated. Some may feel they fit perfectly into the box they were placed in at birth, but some take time to find themselves.

The pressure on teens from peers, television, movies, social media, and hormones to explore the body, identity and sexuality is huge. “Parents are literally playing catch up,” Jordan Held, an adolescent therapist at Visions Treatment Center for Teens, said recently at a workshop on Gender, Sexuality, and Suicide organized by the LA Jewish Teen Initiative and sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles.

Most adults in the Jewish community are not homophobic. We are LGBTQ+ or have LGBTQ+ friends and colleagues. But how does one approach the issue of gender and sexuality in the Jewish community? It isn’t only about helping children navigate life; we have a responsibility to be examples and guides to the teens in our community. 

Can we exhibit love and fairness regardless of gender identity? It is one thing to say: “I have no problem with LGBTQ+ people.” It is another thing to embrace the Jewish values of tolerance, humility, compassion, and kindness and to be a shining light.

Teens go out in the world in ways we can’t imagine. We can’t prevent them from being who they want to be, or doing what they want. This is part of growing up. When our teenager, Esther Iris z”l, came to me and said they wanted to be addressed as they/them, I wasn’t sure what it meant. I was not prepared. If I had been, I wonder if I could have done more to help them feel comfortable. They borrowed their father’s shirts and used new pronouns, but we were both a bit mystified. Did this mean that Esther would soon want surgery and hormones for a new gender identity?

Esther ordered a binder on Amazon, wore it occasionally, and enjoyed wearing dresses, donning make-up and nail art, and making beaded earrings.

What does clothing and hairstyle matter anyway? As Jews, we believe one’s soul is what counts, right? 

We cannot let biases stop our teens from living out their destinies and becoming their truest, highest selves. It is important that we be supportive.

Esther wrote a poem of two beings at war within themself. When I hear them sing “Lost Boys” on the piano, it makes me cry. Girls are allowed to roam free, but as teens, social restrictions are placed on females. I urged Esther to be adventurous; we hiked and biked together; they surfed … but I didn’t see clearly when Esther began to withdraw emotionally at age 12 what was happening. 

I believe now that Esther may have been feeling things for girls, as well as boys. This was confusing, so they shoved those feelings down deep inside, where no one would see them. They wanted to stay part of the Jewish community they loved, which at the time was not as inclusive as it is now. They began dating boys and maintained close friendships with boys and girls. 

Then COVID arrived and after a year of online school, due to isolation and stress, with no sibling at home, they broke down and began a descent into depression. 

The school where Esther graduated from in 2019 has changed. Now, students use various pronouns and there is an all-gender bathroom. Jewish schools, camps and youth groups are changing with the times and embracing LGBTQ+ teens rather than keeping them on the sidelines. But It is sad to think there are still Jewish adults who do not understand the issue and are fearful. 

Inclusion is a buzz word right now, so it’s easy to feel that by slapping a new label on a bathroom and pronouns on one’s Zoom window, that’s all it takes, but there is more we can do … more ways to love and be kind. 

It starts with listening, seeing and reaching out. Imagine you are in line for food at shul and there is a teen with purple hair, a nose ring, and ambiguous gender, in front of you. You can be stern and unfriendly or you can say in a light tone, “Cool hair!” I guarantee, if you chose the latter, you will be surprised by their appreciation.

Teens trying to find themselves in this complicated world warm up when they feel included by adults; this helps them feel that they have a future in the Jewish community. 

Teens trying to find themselves in this complicated world warm up when they feel included by adults; this helps them feel that they have a future in the Jewish community. What is the message we send when we reject young people on a journey full of tempestuous waters? Sharks lurk in the deep. Wouldn’t we rather be part of the solution than part of the problem? 

When we reject someone this speaks to our inability to confront and deal with the complexity of the situation. Let’s be brave and learn. Just as we are made in God’s image, so are our youth. They need to feel this from each and every one of us. They need to feel they are not alone.

Deborah Fletcher Blum is an artist, writer, filmmaker and educator living in Los Angeles. She believes in fostering mindful conversations and can be reached at Deborah.f.blum@gmail.com

As a gay Jew watching Tel Aviv Pride this month, the fact that the largest Pride celebration in the Middle East (and one of the largest in the Asia) takes place in Israel makes me incredibly proud. Although people associate the Middle East with oppressive homophobia, Israel is the exception. It prioritizes a culture of free expression and lifestyle choices, not only permitting but also honoring its citizens’ decisions to live their lives in the way that brings them fulfillment and happiness.

Tel Aviv Pride is one of the city’s biggest events of the year, attended by many LGBTQ+ people from abroad as well as many Israelis, whether they are LGBTQ or not. My own heterosexual siblings regularly attended Pride before the COVID-19 pandemic. Indeed, the years 2018 and 2019 brought out over 250,000 participants, and even in 2021 over 100,000 celebrants joined in the fun. This makes it the biggest Pride event not only in the entire Middle East, but also in the whole continent of Asia. This is a remarkable testament to the kind of modern society Jews have built in our ancient indigenous land, Israel.

At Pride 2017, Mayor Ron Huldai said: “Tel Aviv Pride parade is not just a celebration, but also an important declaration of support. Tel Aviv, which has already been acknowledged as the world’s most gay-friendly city will continue to be a lighthouse city—spreading the values of freedom, tolerance and democracy to the world.” Approximately 25% of Tel Aviv residents identify as LGBTQ+, and the city has been identified as “one of the world’s top destinations for gay men” in particular. There are also important pride parades in other Israeli cities, such as Jerusalem Pride with over 22,000 participants, including religious heterosexual allies.

Furthermore, Israel’s recognition of the value of its LGBTQ+ citizens goes much deeper than just Pride parade. Israel became one of the first countries to recognize homosexual marriages in 2006. Israel’s parliament, the Knesset, banned discrimination against LGBTQ+ youth in schools in 2014. In 2015, Israel’s National Labor Court determined that employees may not be discriminated against based on their gender identity.

Strong representation of the community can be found at all levels of society. Since Israel’s first openly LGBTQ+ lawmaker Uzi Even joined the Knesset in 2002, openly gay membership in Israel’s legislature has now risen to six out of 120 members (five percent), behind only the United Kingdom and Lichtenstein in world legislatures. These six members represent five political parties across Israel’s spectrum, including one representing the conservative Likud. Blue and White Member of Knesset (MK) Idan Roll and his partner recently welcomed a newborn who was carried to term by a surrogate mother. Dori Spivak became Israel’s first openly gay judge in 2011, and Amir Ohana became Israel’s first openly gay government minister in 2019. Israel still has some room for improvement when it comes to LGBTQ+ rights—no country is perfect. But, truthfully, Israel is the place I feel most free in the world, not only as a Jew, but also as a gay man. It is a place where my identities can coexist in one beautiful and thriving land.

But, truthfully, Israel is the place I feel most free in the world, not only as a Jew, but also as a gay man.

Sadly, the contrast with other countries in the region could not be more extreme. Gay men in the Palestinian territories have faced torture and even lethal violence at the hands of PA security forces, members of their own families, and armed militant groups, and the PA has banned activities by gay rights groups. Numerous LGBTQ+ Palestinians have sought asylum in Israel. This is why Israel has decided to grant work permits to Palestinians who have suffered violence or intimidation in the PA territories. The Israeli Knesset’s Committee on Foreign Workers has called on the Welfare and Finance Ministries to create a vocational training program for these new residents.

This oppression continues while many LGBTQ+ organizations around the world focus their attention on Israel. Not only is this deeply anti-Jewish and harmful to LGBTQ+ people in Israel, but also it abandons and erases vulnerable LGBTQ+ people in other parts of the Middle East. And as a gay Jew, I must stand with my LGBTQ+ family who are being oppressed every day by their own leaders and societies.

Ultimately, Israel’s Pride is both a powerful symbol of hope for the world’s LGBTQ+ community and an indicator of Israel’s powerful culture of democracy and acceptance. Despite Zionism itself being the most successful decolonization project in history, Israel’s record on LGBTQ+ people, though not perfect, demonstrates why the rejection of Israel by the progressive and liberal world is both illogical and harmful. As a gay Jew, I can walk down the street holding hands with my partner in Tel-Aviv; sadly, the same cannot be said for LGBTQ+ people in Tehran and other countries.

Ben M. Freeman is a gay Jewish internationally renowned author, educator focusing on Jewish identity, combatting Jew-hatred and raising awareness of the Holocaust. He is the founder of the modern Jewish Pride movement and the author of “Jewish Pride: Rebuilding a People.”

When I was ten years old, my parents took me to visit the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. The first exhibit we walked through was Daniel’s Story, which is meant to explain to children the horrors of the Holocaust without graphic imagery, without analysis of antisemitism, and lacking sufficient information on the destruction of European Jewry. Needless to say, I was calm, cool and collected, along with the other children around me. I remember feeling confused as to why the other children did not follow me into the rest of the museum. 

Once my family entered the elevator that takes visitors from Daniel’s Story into the “adult section,” we were presented with a photograph I will never forget, and all feelings of ease slipped away. It was the first picture of a concentration camp I had ever seen, showing General Dwight D. Eisenhower and General George S. Patton standing over an array of immolated corpses at Ohrdruf. I immediately burst into tears. Despite my visible pain, my mother, a Holocaust educator who had introduced me to survivors at an even younger age and had lectured her students on such books as “All But My Life” and “Why Do They Hate Me?” stayed true to her convictions. She held my hand tight and told me we were going to walk through the rest of the museum regardless of how hard I cried. It didn’t matter that the children were gone. My mother’s child was going to stay.

As I recall this memory, I look over Hilton Beach in Tel Aviv, where Jewish descendants of Hitler’s victims lay out in the sun as their children splash in the waves. I am on Taglit this week, also known as Birthright, a free ten-day trip to Israel for Jewish young people. As we hike Masada, float in the Dead Sea, and connect with other participants on the beaches of Haifa, we are meant to strengthen our connection to the Jewish people, to our own Jewish identities, and to the miracle of the State of Israel.

While I touch the Wailing Wall and lay stones on Herzl’s grave, my mom meets with townspeople whose parents ransacked their Jewish neighbor’s property the second they were deported.

Coincidentally, at the same time as my trip, my mother is touring the death camps of Auschwitz and Buchenwald, the mass graves of Gliwice, and the ghostly towns of Dresden and Bedzin which teem with the memories of murdered Jews. In other words, I am celebrating Jewish life while my mom reflects on Jewish death. While I become more convinced of my decision to make aliyah – to move to Israel – this upcoming autumn, my mom is thrown into the abyss of the consequences of Jews not having Israel. While I touch the Wailing Wall and lay stones on Herzl’s grave, my mom meets with townspeople whose parents ransacked their Jewish neighbor’s property the second they were deported. Our two excursions represent a remarkable dichotomy. 

My family is not religious, nor do we descend from survivors, nor do we have any Israelis at our Seder table. There is every reason to believe that we, like many American Jews whose ancestors fled Europe over a hundred years ago, would define our Judaism by bagels and lox and perhaps a Yom Kippur service and nothing more. And yet, my mother and I have made ourselves vulnerable to the story of our people, continuing it and contributing to it as if out of impulse. We have time and again exposed ourselves to the complexities of Judaism without any pressure from our home country or from faith to do so. 

I have often contemplated where this sense of responsibility comes from, so profound that this summer it sends one member of the family to Israel and another to Poland. I am not of the belief that G-d instills in all Jews a sense of deep connection with the rest of the nation from birth — this is made evident by the state of ambivalence that many Jews my age have fallen into, especially in the Diaspora. I also do not believe that the Jewish people need a confrontation with antisemitism in order to feel tethered to something greater than themselves. 

Rather, I feel that the yearning to investigate the contours of Jewish peoplehood, at least in my family, comes from sensitivity. My mother and I are both emotional people, which is constantly mocked by more stoic members of the family. We feel deeply, wearing our hearts on our sleeves, never afraid to show both other people and the world that we care for them. There is not one cause we will not lend our voices to if it entails the suffering of innocents or injustice perpetrated against the powerless. Consequently, when suffering is inflicted on our own blood, on our own brothers and sisters cut from the same fabric, it is absolutely certain that we allow it to consume us, and that it will be the focus of all our endeavors. 

When I began to weep upon seeing the photograph of dead Jews at the Holocaust museum, and when my mom grabbed my hand and cautioned against escaping back to Daniel’s Story, she expressed a mutual understanding that what I was about to experience would be difficult, but it was a necessity that I saw it — for that difficulty would give way to purpose, and that purpose to good deeds like fighting antisemitism and raising my children with a sense of Jewish pride. 

There are far too many families who stop at Daniel’s Story, in order to avoid seeing their children cry. There are far too many Jews who read “The Diary of Anne Frank” and are done with all of it — they “get the gist” and balk at allowing the memory of the Holocaust to inform their outlook on life. This is comfortable; this is what renders us calm, cool and collected. Indeed, American Jews have become numb, drugged by the euphoria of the American Jewish experience, which misleads us into thinking that crying over our people’s story is unnecessary. This is a recipe for dwindling support for Israel, dwindling synagogue attendance, and receding participation within the Jewish community. 

In order to rebel against this and to change the trajectory, we must tap into that emotion, that sensitivity and melodrama for which Jewish mothers are infamous. We must cherish Jewish mothers who cry at graduations, who hold their babies close when they wallow in the despair of a breakup, and who cover their eyes so delicately before lighting Shabbat candles that it sends a chill down the spines of everyone at the table.

If my mother did not bear such a bleeding heart, she certainly would not be educating her sixth graders on the gruesome evil of the Nazis, and she certainly would not be subjecting herself to a tour of Wannsse, where Hitler and Eichmann devised the final solution to the Jewish question. If my mother did not feel, if she did not ache at the sight of her children in anguish, she could not have seen the importance of what comes from such anguish. If my mother did not cry at the stories of Jews whose lives were stolen from them, I would not be pursuing a career in writing about the Jewish people, I would not be on this Birthright trip, and I definitely would not be moving to Israel to begin my life anew. 

For this, mom, though I don’t tell you enough, I am grateful.

Blake Flayton is New Media Director and columnist for the Jewish Journal.