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Converting to Judaism has defined my high school experience
This article was produced as part of JTA’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around the world to report on issues that affect their lives.
(JTA) — During the pandemic, my mom decided to start baking; my friend Reagan learned Osage, a Native American language; my brother taught himself how to skateboard.
I decided to channel my free time and energy into converting to Judaism.
Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was only ever exposed to Christian theology. Almost everyone around me was a Baptist. Although my parents intentionally raised my brother and me without a focus on religion, I grew up going to Christian preschool, Christian summer camps, and being surrounded by other Christians–just because there weren’t other options. While this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, I always knew that Christianity wasn’t right for me.
At first, the idea of eternal life and an all-knowing God provided comfort, but as I got older I started to feel disconnected from Christianity. Concepts like the Holy Trinity never made sense to me, and by age 12 I thought I had given up on religion entirely.
I first started looking into Judaism towards the end of 2020. I’m not really sure what led me to this; I just stumbled upon it and found that its emphasis on making the ordinary holy, repairing the world, and the pursuit of knowledge was a perfect fit for my already existing beliefs. My parents were a little bit shocked but ultimately supportive when I told them that I wanted to convert. My mom’s main concern was that I would become the target of antisemitism. “I’m happy for you and try not to think about the what-ifs,” she said while driving me to the Jewish community center so that I could board the bus headed to the BBYO Jewish youth group’s International Convention.
In the spring of 2021, I emailed the rabbi at a local synagogue about my potential conversion. During our first conversation, he asked me if I’d heard about the custom of rabbis turning away potential candidates three times. I told him I had, but that if he turned me away I would just keep coming back. After the meeting, I signed up for conversion classes and started attending services regularly — and I wasn’t alone.
According to a 2021 Tablet survey, 43% of American rabbis are seeing more conversion candidates than before. The reasons for conversion are diverse. Some candidates fell down an internet rabbit hole that led to a passion for Judaism. Others took an ancestry test and wanted to reconnect with their Jewish heritage. Many were raised as Reform Jews but weren’t Jewish according to stricter halachic, or Jewish legal, standards and decided to convert under Conservative or Orthodox auspices. Despite the common stereotype that Jews by choice must be converting for the sake of marriage, many rabbis said that converts are less likely than ever to be converting for a Jewish partner.
After meeting with a rabbi about the potential conversion, candidates are expected to learn everything they can about Judaism. In my case, that meant 21 weeks of hour-long, weekly conversion classes in addition to independent study on Jewish mysticism, traditions, and ideas. Candidates are also expected to become active members of their local Jewish community and attend services regularly.
Once the candidate and the rabbi feel they are ready to convert, a beit din, or a court usually made up of three rabbis, is assembled. They will conduct an interview, asking the candidate about what brought them to Judaism and basic questions about what was taught during conversion classes. When the beit din has guaranteed that the candidate genuinely wants to convert, the candidate immerses in the mikveh, a pool used for ritual purification. After submerging in the mikveh, the convert is considered to be officially Jewish and is typically called up for an aliyah, ascending the platform where the Torah is read.
According to Rabbi Darah Lerner, who served in Bangor, Maine before her retirement last year, the main difference between teens converting alone and teens converting with their family is the parental approval that’s needed, but otherwise the process is very similar. “I treated them pretty much as I did with adults,” she said. For me, the only parental approval needed was my mom telling my rabbi that she and my dad were fine with me starting the conversion process. She also noted that it was easier for teens to integrate into the Jewish community because people were excited to see young people interested in Judaism.
A mikveh, like this one at Mayyim Hayyim outside of Boston, is a ritual pool where Jews by choice immerse as part of the conversion process. (Courtesy Mayyim Hayyim)
She said that the Jewish community gave the teens a place where they could ask questions and not be shut down. “If they have a pushback, or a curiosity, or a problem we allow them to ask it and we give them real answers or resources,” she said.
“I feel extremely privileged when youth come to me with these questions and these desires,” Rabbi Rachael Jackson, from Hendersonville, North Carolina. Jackson has worked with three teens in the conversion process over the past two years. Like Lerner, she doesn’t require teens to wait until they turn 18 to begin the conversion process. However, it’s not unusual for rabbis to recommend that teens wait until they turn 18 to begin their conversion.
My conversion process has defined my high school experience. I’ve been able to connect with other Jews at my school through BBYO, which has helped me find a community at school and meet people who I might not have met otherwise. Although it’s made me feel farther from the Christian community I was once a part of, Judaism has given me spiritual fulfillment, a love for Israel, and a sense of community — both in my synagogue and my BBYO chapter.
Others who have gone through the process feel much the same way. “I wouldn’t even recognize myself,” said Haven Lail, 17, from Hickory, North Carolina. “My whole personality is based on being Jewish. That’s what I love.” Adopted into a Jewish family at age 12, Lail felt drawn to Judaism because of the loving and accepting community she found.
Raised as a nondenominational Christian, Lail attended church regularly with her biological parents, but not for the religious aspect. “It was all hellfire and brimstone,” she said. Neglected by her birth parents, she only went to church because she knew there would be food there.
Lail started the conversion process at age 12 through a Hebrew high school, and four years later, she submerged in the mikveh and signed a certificate finalizing her conversion. The process was simple, but she was shocked that so few Jews knew about the conversion process. “It was a little weird,” she said.
The Talmud says that because “the Jewish people were themselves strangers, they are not in a position to demean a convert because he is a stranger in their midst.” However, it isn’t uncommon for converts to feel alienated from the rest of the Jewish community. “There’s this fear of going to college and still being othered because you still won’t quite fit in with the people who have been raised Jewish,” said one high school senior from North Carolina.
He was shocked by how alienated he felt after making his conversion public, and wanted to stay anonymous because he worries that once people find out that he converted, they’ll see him differently. “I didn’t ever really explain it to anybody except for the people really close to me,” he said. But after his rabbi called him up for an aliyah — a blessing recited during the reading of the Torah — one woman from the congregation began to bring it up to him every time she saw him. “People don’t realize that it can be a touchy thing and very, very othering,” he said.
I usually don’t mind personal questions about my conversion, but asking someone why they converted or pointing out that someone is a convert is frowned upon by Jewish law. I used to feel like everyone could tell that I wasn’t raised Jewish, but after one of my BBYO advisors thought that my conversion was just a rumor and couldn’t believe that it was true, I realized that wasn’t the case.
All of my friends and peers who were raised Jewish have memories of Jewish summer camps, Shabbat dinners with family, and a lifetime of other experiences. I often struggle with not feeling “Jewish enough” or like I missed out, especially because so many Jewish customs revolve around the home and family. My parents will often come with me to Shabbat services, but don’t participate in Jewish customs or celebrate Jewish holidays with me. “Anything that is a ritual in the home, they don’t really have the ability to have that autonomy,” said Rabbi Rachael Jackson of Agudas Israel Congregation in Hendersonville, North Carolina.
Grace Hamilton, a student at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio, has struggled with imposter syndrome during her conversion. Ever since she started college, she’s been questioning her place in the Jewish community and hasn’t been practicing Judaism as much as she used to. “I haven’t prayed in a really long time,” she said. She used to tell herself that once she finalized her conversion she would finally feel Jewish enough, but after a conversation with her rabbi, she realized that wasn’t the case.
According to Rabbi Rochelle Tulik at Temple B’rith Kodesh in Rochester, New York, many converts feel like they will never be Jewish enough. “That, no matter how hard they try, how many books they read or put on their shelves, no matter how often they come to services, or how many menorahs they light, somehow they’ll be caught,” she said in a Rosh Hashanah sermon she named “You Are Not an Imposter.”
Despite the struggles that many converts face, others like Rabbi Natasha Mann, who now serves as a rabbi at New London Synagogue in England, immediately felt at home within the Jewish community. “I felt like people were excited to have me there and wanted to hear what I had to say,” she said. After a family member mentioned that she might have Jewish ancestry, Mann began exploring out of curiosity. “I started looking into it, just because I felt that it was another piece of the puzzle,” she said.
Coming from an interreligious and intercultural family, she wanted to explore another aspect of her heritage, but ended up connecting with Judaism in a way that she hadn’t connected with any other religion. After two years of study, she decided to officially start her conversion process.
The Jewish community gave Mann a place where her ideas were taken seriously and she could have religious discussions, even as a teen. “I don’t know what my life would have looked like if I hadn’t found somewhere to really express and delve into that,” she said. “And luckily, I never have to.”
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Leqaa Kordia, the last Palestinian Columbia protester still in ICE detention, has been released
(JTA) — Leqaa Kordia, a Palestinian woman and the last person still detained in the Trump administration’s crackdown on pro-Palestinian campus protests last spring, was released from ICE custody on Monday.
Kordia’s release came weeks after New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani petitioned President Donald Trump in person on her behalf. Mamdani celebrated the development in a statement.
“In my meeting with President Trump last month, we discussed ICE’s actions at Columbia University. I asked that the federal government release Leqaa Kordia and drop the cases against four others,” he tweeted. “I am grateful that Leqaa has been released this evening from ICE custody after more than a year in detention for speaking up for Palestinian rights.”
Kordia, 33, who immigrated to New Jersey from the West Bank in 2016, had been held in a U.S. immigration detention center in Texas since last March after she was arrested for her involvement in a pro-Palestinian protest at Columbia in 2024. Kordia had overstayed her student visa and was never a student at Columbia.
On Friday, an immigration judge ordered her release on $100,000 bond. It was the third time that the judge had ordered her release, which was granted after the government declined to appeal.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m free! I’m free! Finally, after one year,” Kordia told reporters after being released from the detention center.
Kordia was among a number of people arrested last spring amid the Trump administration’s crackdown on noncitizens who had participated in anti-Israel protests, some of which drew allegations of antisemitism, on university campuses.
Among those arrested was Mahmoud Khalil, a Columbia University graduate whose release Mamdani also called for. Earlier this month, Khalil broke the Ramadan fast at Gracie Mansion with Mamdani and his wife Rama Duwaji. Duwaji, whose pro-Palestinian social media posts have increasingly drawn scrutiny, also celebrated Kordia’s release on Instagram.
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For the first time ever, NBA game features 3 Jews — Deni Avdija, Danny Wolf and Ben Saraf
(JTA) — BROOKLYN — The Barclays Center had the energy of a bar mitzvah party on Monday night, as kippah-clad basketball fans and kids waving posters with Hebrew words of encouragement came to cheer on an NBA first: a game featuring three Jewish players — all Israeli citizens.
The Brooklyn Nets were hosting the Portland Trail Blazers — whose forward Deni Avdija recently became the first Israeli All-Star in the league.
He joined Danny Wolf and Ben Saraf, two Jewish players who have galvanized the Nets’ Jewish fanbase since joining the team this year. Saraf was raised in Israel and got his start in basketball there, while Wolf grew up in Illinois and secured Israeli citizenship to play for Team Israel in international competitions.
Avdija, who normally averages about 25 points per game, struggled to find a rhythm on Monday night, as did Wolf, who has intrigued scouts with the ball handling skills of a point guard despite his nearly 7-foot height. But Saraf impressed, scoring 15 points and notching four assists and four steals in 24 minutes of play.
Saraf’s efforts were not enough to buoy his team, though, and the Nets lost to the Trail Blazers, 114-95.
That hardly dimmed the enthusiasm of the crowd, who thrilled at seeing Avdija and Saraf hug on the court before the game and exchange jerseys after the game in a show of respect and friendship.
Some draped in shawls printed with a fusion of the Israeli and American flags lingered court-side for a chance to get Avdija’s attention. At times when the game was quiet, some fans could be heard shouting “Deni! Deni!” Some wore hats with “Brooklyn Nets” spelled in Hebrew.
Avdija said in a postgame press conference that he had been surprised to see the arena sold out and that the energy reminded him of the Menora arena when he played for Maccabi Tel Aviv.
“I haven’t fully processed it yet,” he said about the significance of having three Israelis on the court. “It’s tough that many people from Israel couldn’t come because of the war. I hope everyone is okay. Representing on the biggest stage — it’s emotional for me and for many others. One of the most fun nights I’ve had.”
Saraf, too, said the game was a highlight for him.
“A very emotional night. It’s too bad that we lost, but it’s bigger than that. The number of Jewish and Israeli fans here — when Deni was introduced, the whole crowd stood up. Every basket, it was emotional for me, for Danny Wolf, for everyone. It was a big event.”
He added, “Three Israelis on the court at the same time was something very special.”
It is possible that the trio represents not just all of the Israeli citizens but all of the Jews currently playing in the NBA. A fourth player was reportedly exploring converting to Judaism, but he has not publicly disclosed whether he completed a conversion.
The previous record for number of Israelis in an NBA game was two. It came on Oct. 30, 2023, when Omri Casspi and the Houston Rockets played the Dallas Mavericks and Gal Mekel, whom the Mavs had recently picked up, made his debut with the team. They were the first and second Israelis in the NBA.
The game also appears to tie the league record for the number of Jews in a single game, set on Nov. 10, 1953. In that game, Dolph Schayes scored 11 points for the Syracuse Nationals, while Irv Bemoras and Red Holzman both took the court for the Milwaukee Hawks.
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Louis Theroux’s Netflix documentary on the manosphere takes a detour into antisemitism
“LOUIS IS A DIRTY J-E-W.”
This comment features during Inside the Manosphere, a new Netflix documentary from Louis Theroux, during a conversation between Theroux and podcaster Myron Gaines, host of Fresh and Fit Podcast.
It’s not the only time someone calls Theroux a Jew; Harrison Sullivan imitates Theroux, tenting his fingers conspiratorially and leering as he says the documentarian “just sat there with his Jew fingers.”
Theroux, however, is not Jewish. He has also made several edgy documentary specials for the BBC interviewing extremist settler groups in Israel, which have received acclaim from Israel’s critics and hostility from its supporters. And either way, the focus on Theroux’s supposed Jewishness seems off topic for a documentary on the manosphere, the generalized term for the world of podcasters, YouTubers and online streamers who cater to men.
The manosphere includes both mainstream creators like Joe Rogan as well as extremists like Andrew Tate, who was arrested in Romania for sex trafficking. Most creators in this world are anti-LGBTQ and endorse traditional gender roles, often familiar stuff about how women should be the primary caregivers for children and men should be breadwinners. Sometimes, however, on the fringes of this world, there are more extreme beliefs, like that women should not have the right to vote or need to be hit as a form of discipline by men; there are even open endorsements of rape.
Theroux spends most of the documentary talking to a few of the more extreme figures in the manosphere, including Gaines, the streamer Sneako, and Sullivan, who goes by the cringe handle of HSTikkyTokky. He follows them to their gyms, meets their girlfriends and watches as they produce content, largely by accosting people — mostly young women — on the street to slut-shame them. He speaks to the adoring young men who greet them in public. He gently asks follow-up questions, such as whether they all hate women. (The content creators, to a man, insist they love women, offering as proof their desire to have sex with as many of them as possible.) He wonders aloud whether young men can actually make any money off of the get-rich-quick courses hawked by many of the manosphere influencers.
Still, none of this obviously connects to antisemitism. The manosphere generally directs its ire at women, not Jews. Why, then, was Theroux accused — because it is, clearly, an accusation — of being a Jew?
In the current world of online extremism, it can sometimes be difficult to draw connections between different extremist ideologies. There’s not a clear throughline between antisemitism and the violent misogyny of, say, incel, (involuntary celibate) forums. Nor is there an obvious connection between the pseudoscientific skepticism of the anti-vax world and hatred of Jews. And giving disillusioned young men advice on how to be more manly and succeed in the world — or at least grifting off of their desire to do so — has little to do with Jews.
But for the most part, the main reason antisemitism springs up in the manosphere or in other extremist spaces is simply because it, too, is an extremist belief, and beliefs on the fringes tend to bleed into each other. There are sometimes distorted ideas that can connect the two, like an offshoot of the age-old antisemitic conspiracy theory that Jews control world governments, which feeds into some anti-vax groups who believe that Jews are unleashing secret poison in the form of vaccines. But once you’ve decided one crazy thing is true, like that women are biologically only suited to be the property of men, so many other seemingly crazy things start sounding just as reasonable.
The comment about Theroux being a Jew came when he objected to a bit of pseudoscience Gaines presented during Fresh and Fit Podcast, asserting that women retain DNA from every man they’ve had sex with, genetic material they then pass on to children they have with a different partner. Theroux called this misinformation — because it is — and users in the chat trashed him by calling him a Jew.
Later in the documentary, Sneako gave an unprompted rant on camera about the Antichrist, Satanic symbols on magazines in a store window and the “one world government” causing it all, which, the influencer says, was started by the Rothschilds. Theroux finally pushed on the antisemitism.
“Is it Jewish in character?” he asked. “Because that does have some of the hallmarks of an antisemitic conspiracy theory.”
Sneako denied that a Rothschild-run world government had anything to do with Jews. But plenty of other influencers — including, outside the documentary, Sneako himself — have been more open. “Fuck the Jews,” HSTikkyTokky chants in a clip. In others, manosphere creators blame Jews for “feminism,” “homosexuality,” and “vibrations that are going to negatively bring you down.”
Theroux’s signature mild British mien allows him to blandly ask questions and let the influencers say whatever they want and allows the audience to observe alongside him.
He does little to explain either the antisemitism or the misogyny. That’s a strength; conspiracy theories do not operate by logic, and trying to force them into a rational framework can backfire, allowing proponents to proffer their own evidence, however faulty.
Antisemitism is an age-old hatred. Misogyny is nothing new either. That’s all they have in common. But as Inside the Manosphere shows, that’s enough for both to spread.
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