Maybe if I had been a little older or a little tougher, it wouldn’t have hurt me as much. But I wasn’t. I was fifteen and rejected by a community that preached acceptance – the community I had finally summoned the courage to admit I was part of. Where I thought I truly belonged.
Not long after that, I began to drown in anti-Zionist, and sometimes overtly antisemitic, content. My favourite artists, from queer musicians to actors, attended pro-Palestinian protests where chants praising Hamas and urging the demise of my people proliferated. At my first-ever concert, girl in red punctuated her set with an unprompted ‘Free Palestine’. Every single person cheered. I had been listening to her since I was twelve, finding comfort and salvation in her art – just like other queer girls my age. Her iconic song “We Fell in Love in October” made me feel that I would find love.
But at that moment, it felt like politics had invaded a space where I was supposed to feel safe; a space where I could just be me, with people like me who loved her music. Instead, two fundamental parts of my biology were being pitted against each other. I had to choose: the Jewish community or the queer community.
Frankly, I’m still not sure why or how the queer community grew so vulnerable to Hamas propaganda – considering they routinely slaughter us in Gaza – or how it has become popular to accessorise keffiyehs with pride pins. I used to be so proud to be part of this community, even when being queer was just in the confines of my thoughts. And now, I’m not sure I want to be associated with it. I’m not any less queer than I was on October 6, 2023, but apparently there was a secret clause under the terms and conditions of entering this community: ‘Warning: may fall victim to clickbait and not research ridiculous claims.’
Most of all, I’m furious. How dare queer influencers deem Israel a ‘pinkwashing’ state when Tel Aviv has one of the most vibrant Pride parades in the world? How dare they brainwash my generation into thinking being queer has to equal being anti-Zionist? How dare someone say I – a queer woman – don’t belong at a Pride parade because of the Magen David around my neck?
Slowly, I began drifting away from queer spaces. Not that I wanted to. I had spent years concealing that part of me – partly out of shame, but mostly because I needed to mature a little more. I wanted to figure out how those feelings sat inside of me, what being gay meant for me. But recently, I was ready to show people who I was. Fully and wholly me. That was up until October 7, when I realised there was a new part of me to hide: my Jewishness. Out of fear.
And I hated that. I should have been welcomed with open arms and rainbow stickers within the queer community. I should have found lifelong friends and unconditional acceptance. But I haven’t. It makes no sense that other queer people can bask in the benefits of having a community that loves and accepts them fully, but queer Zionist Jews can’t.
[Missing Credit]
***
Since October 7, it hasn’t gotten any easier being queer in the Jewish community either. In March 2024, when pro-Palestine protestors attacked the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, my mum – a loving, well-intentioned woman – said at the dinner table, ‘I hope this works as a wake-up call.’ The schnitzel felt like rubber between my teeth. The comment seemed to stick to the drywall and stare back at me. When I looked at my mother, mouth agape, she still hadn’t processed what she had said or that she’d said it in the presence of her lesbian daughter.
In my mind, she had conflated queerness with anti-Zionism. In reality, she just hoped people would see that some ‘activists’ can be hateful and aggressive, even toward the groups they claim to defend. I understand now where my mother was coming from, and I think most Jews share that sentiment. I share that sentiment.
But in this post-October 7 world, I still feel the friction. Sometimes, during my conversations with other Jews, I imagine they expect me to be this angry girl with blue hair, ready to spew anti-Zionist dogma. But I’m not. I won an international public speaking competition talking about my love for Israel, for God’s sake! How could I not love a country so full of colour and laughter and chutzpah and, well, love?
***
A few months ago, I was once again seeking comfort in my phone screen when I stumbled across Major Sagi Golan’s story. He was only 30 when he was murdered while fighting Hamas terrorists on Kibbutz Be’eri on October 7, just thirteen days before his wedding to a man – Omer Ohana. To me, Sagi, this hero who lost his life protecting other Jewish lives, is the epitome of what it means to be a queer Zionist. Learning more about him – his Jewishness, bravery, kindness, and queerness – made me realise there are other queer Zionists out there. We just need some help finding each other.
And now that I know about Sagi, I realise I can look up ‘queer Zionists’ on Instagram. I can make Jewish queer friends. Maybe I will even find a Zionist girlfriend! I don’t have to be alone anymore. We don’t have to be alone anymore.
Thank you, Major Sagi. Your memory is a guiding light.
Ruptured, edited by Lee Kofman and Tamar Paluch, is published by Lamm Jewish Library of Australia.
