Conversion reforms reach to the heart of Jewish identity - The Jewish Chronicle

My father is Jewish, my mother is not. She never converted, probably because my Dad has never been particularly religious – in fact, you could probably count on one hand the number of times he has been to shul since his bar mitzvah.

I spent my childhood partly in London, where I was born, and partly in Vancouver, Canada, where my Dad is from and where he moved the family when I was eight. I’m the eldest of four, and one of my sisters, who is two and half years younger than me, also converted to make herself “officially” Jewish the same year I did, 2006. Being dual citizens, we have both split our time between Canada and the UK over the years, so while I did the conversion in Canada, my sister did hers here, at West London Synagogue. Interestingly, when my sister reached the Beth Din, she was told that because of her Jewish background, she could be given an “affirmation”, rather than a conversion – a precursor, perhaps, to the Reform movement’s formal announcement this week.

Growing up, despite the fact that my parents weren’t religious, I always identified as Jewish, because we spent so much time with my father’s family (all Reform). I have vivid memories of Rosh Hashanah dinners at my grandfather Asher’s house and seders at my great-uncle Abel’s house. But even more than that, it just felt like something that was a part of me: I have always gravitated towards Jewish culture, food, humour and music – I love Woody Allen, Jonathan Safran Foer, Matisyahu and of course, bagels. It troubled me greatly that despite feeling this way – despite having a Jewish parent and being, frankly, more than a little neurotic, I wasn’t allowed to claim my Jewishness because I was from the wrong side of the gene pool. I was forever being told – by Jews and non-Jews alike — “oh, your mother isn’t Jewish, so you’re not really Jewish.” It was hurtful, even if they didn’t mean it that way.

Read: Reform rabbis approve streamlined conversion process

I didn’t formally “convert” until I was in my 30s, when I was editing the Jewish newspaper in Vancouver. It seemed absurd to be working as a “professional Jew” and not actually be able to say with confidence, “I am Jewish”. I also didn’t want any children I might have to have to go through what I had. It felt very odd to be doing a conversion course, as I was the only one there not doing it because I was marrying a Jew – people who, for the most part, were learning about being Jewish from the very beginning, whereas I already felt as if I had been Jewish my whole life. When I finally sat before the Beth Din, and then went into the mikvah to complete the process, it was a hugely emotional moment for me. I think it was also emotional for my grandfather, who had always said it made no difference to him whether any of us was technically Jewish. And yet, the first time I lit the Shabbes candles at his house on a Friday night, he burst into tears. This was a man whose family had left central Europe in mercifully good time; who had fought for his country in the war not only as the only Jewish member of his regiment, but as a captain. How could it be right that his grandchildren were not allowed to be Jews; to carry on those traditions?

So news of the new streamlined conversion process matters to me because it reaches to the heart of identity. It was a long struggle for me to be recognised as a Jew, when it already felt like my birthright. I know that this decision by the Reform movement does not mean an across-the-board change to halachah. It does not mean that those of us with Jewish fathers will be accepted by the Orthodox, for instance, but it is nonetheless a huge step forward. I am enormously proud to be Jewish. It is a part of my heritage, and a very important part of who I am as a person. For those in a similar position to me, who will now be welcomed into the tribe without jumping through a year’s worth of the same hoops faced by those with no Jewish family at all, this can only be a positive.

Katharine Rooney is a member of Maidenhead Synagogue. She lives in Twyford, near Reading, with her husband Gerard and their three-year-old daughter, Isabel.

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