This week, we commemorate the destruction of both Temples and the long exile of our people. According to the Torah, life in exile—if it can be called life at all—is characterized by deep fear and uncertainty:
“The Lord will scatter you among all the peoples from one end of the earth to the other… among those nations you will find no quiet… The life you face shall be precarious, and you will be afraid night and day, with no assurance of survival…” (Deuteronomy 28:64–66).
For much of Jewish history, this grim portrayal tragically rang true. But for those of us who came of age in the Western world during the late 20th and early 21st centuries, such fears felt like remnants of a distant past.
I grew up in Philadelphia and later spent a decade in New York before making Aliyah in 1992. Throughout those years, despite wearing a kippah openly, I never once encountered antisemitism. Even later, during frequent trips to Europe with my family, I continued to feel safe and untroubled.
All of that changed about 10 or 15 years ago.
A noticeable and disturbing rise in antisemitic sentiment and incidents swept across various parts of Europe. Synagogues needed security and Jewish schools installed gates.
As a precaution, and at the urging of my family, I reluctantly agreed to do something that had once felt unthinkable: I exchanged my kippah for a hat.
You see, for me, the kippah is not a mere symbol—it is a vital part of my identity. Wearing it is a declaration of who I am. But faced with a changing and increasingly hostile reality, I felt I had little choice.
Though initially difficult, I slowly adapted. Over time, wearing a hat while traveling abroad became an unfortunate norm. On our most recent trip to France, I once again opted for caution. Given the recent surge in antisemitic incidents across Europe, and my desire for a peaceful vacation far from the tensions of Israeli life, I reluctantly reached for a hat.
But not just any hat. This time, it was a Philadelphia Eagles cap—and as it turns out, it was magical.
Though I haven’t lived in Philadelphia in years, my loyalty to its sports teams has never faded. Last fall, during a trip to the U.S. where I served as scholar-in-residence, I made sure to attend an Eagles game (yes, the one with Saquon Barkley’s incredible backward hurdle). Afterwards, I bought an Eagles hat to bring home with me. Later, the team went on to win the Super Bowl, so naturally, when packing for France that was the hat I chose. And what a choice it was.
Throughout our trip, passersby noticed the hat and smiled. Several greeted me with cheerful cries of “Go Birds!” One such moment came just minutes after we had walked past a loud and aggressive pro-Palestinian rally. I shudder to think what the reaction might have been had I been visibly wearing a kippah. But with my Eagles cap, I was met not with hostility, but with camaraderie, admiration and respect.
In that moment, it seemed I had found the perfect solution for traveling abroad.
Except that I hadn’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to wear a “magical” hat nor do I want to wear a hat at all. What I truly want is to be myself—a proud, kippah-wearing Jew who can walk freely in the streets, speak Hebrew, and live his identity without fear or concealment.
And so, as lovely as the vacation was, I found myself yearning to return to Israel. To return to a place where I can remove my hat and wear my kippah proudly. Yes, life in Israel today is far from easy, and the stress can be overwhelming. But it is also my home, and the home of the Jewish people, and it is the one place where we can live our Judaism fully, openly, and without shame, in both private spaces and in the public square.
It is great to be home again.
