Posted on April 14, 2025
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I remember my anxiety the first time that I went to the American Embassy in London. The year was 2006 and I was eagerly awaiting a student visa so that I would be able to continue my rabbinic studies at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles. And if I’m being honest, I was looking forward to reuniting with Micol. I had meticulously filled in the paperwork, I knew that HUC had provided all of the necessary documentation, and I felt that everything was ready. But the process itself has a way of putting you on edge. Cellphones were not permitted in the Embassy, which required finding a friend to leave it with before and after the appointment. I specifically remember that they cautioned that due to fingerprints being needed any cuts on fingers would result in postponement – you can imagine how careful I was that preceding week. And while I understood the need for the various layers of security and questioning, there was a part of it that felt like it was designed to intimidate.
I would imagine that I am amongst the minority of people in our TST community who has had to experience the American visa and immigration process. I have lived in the USA on a student visa, a religious workers visa, a green card, and about four and a half years ago I finally completed my citizenship. On the eighth floor of a nondescript office building in Boston, I sat with about 20 other people and pledged allegiance and received my citizenship documents. Due to the Covid related restrictions there was a lack of ceremony or fanfare, and I was back in the car within the hour. Before returning home, I purchased donuts, it felt like the American thing to do, so that I could celebrate the end of a fourteen-year journey with my family.
This connection with, and experience of, the US visa process has meant that I have been watching the news around student deportations, visa cancellations, and Green Card removal with a sense of personal connection.
There were many people who asked me why I chose to become a citizen when I already had a Green Card, which provided me with permanent residency, so that I could, at least in theory, stay indefinitely in this country. I made the decision because I felt that it was important to definitively make a commitment to this country and because I wanted to play a full part in the democratic process. I made the decision because I wanted to be able to speak as an insider, rather than an outsider – to share this identity with my family and community. And I made the decision because despite the terminology of “permanent resident,” there was always a part of me that was concerned that it could be taken away from me or removed if something went wrong.
I remember several years ago when rabbinic colleagues were getting arrested for their actions of civil disobedience and peaceful protest in opposition to the treatment of migrants, in standing up for climate justice, and for standing against the Muslim ban. I remember that I admired their willingness and ability to stand up for what they believed in, but I knew that as a non-citizen it was not a path that I would follow, because there would be additional risks attached. If I were arrested how would that impact my status or my future in this country? I was a little more cautious then about where I signed my name, what protests I attended, and how I exercised my voice in the public square because I understood that my continued life in this country was not yet guaranteed. There were scenarios where visas could have been revoked, study opportunities ended, and residency terminated.
I held the same student visa as Rumeysa Ozturk. And I have read the editorial that she co-authored for The Tufts Daily. I disagree with its premise, I disagree with its content, I disagree with the actions she and the other authors call for. To my mind the article is wrong and should never have been. The accusations of genocide and the comparisons with South Africa are abhorrent. Were I a Tufts student at the time it was written, I imagine that I would’ve been motivated to write a rebuttal in response. I completely disagree with her perspective, but I did not see anything in the Op Ed that would necessitate her premature removal from this country. It is hard to believe that she will be unable to complete her studies and currently remains incarcerated because she joined with fellow students in writing an opinion piece for the college paper. She is entitled to due process under the law.
I held the same green card as Mahmoud Khalil. I imagine that my disagreements with him would be stronger than with Rumeysa. And if it is proven that he broke the law then there should be consequences. But up to now it is unclear that he has received a fair trial, and while today’s judgement brings his deportation a step closer, there are questions that should be asked about the process that has brought us to this point and brought him from New Jersey to Louisiana. Do I think Columbia would be a better place without Khalil’s influence – yes. Do we disagree on fundamental issues around antisemitism, Israel, and Palestine – definitely. And do I condemn the way (according to reports) in which he has pushed his case through protests and intimidation – you bet I do. But there is a legal system for a reason, and he should also be entitled to due process under the law.
In the aftermath of October 7th with protests taking place on university campuses, I have often felt that the university authorities and law enforcement have been too lax in their response. Too often when students have broken the law, intimidated other students, or damaged property – even if this is just a minority of the protestors – there have been minimal, if any, consequences. I wish that there had been a more robust response from the very beginning, and I wonder if this would have prevented some of the encampments and protests from later getting out of hand. I want students charged for breaking the law, but I want this to happen according to the rule of law. I don’t want it happening in the dead of night, in mysterious circumstances, with no due legal process.
We are living through difficult times and as a Jewish American I feel somewhat isolated today. What causes me particular unease at this moment is the way that Jews, the Jewish community, and antisemitism are being used as a political football. No matter what people say, I do not believe that anyone currently has our best interests at heart in this current moment.
I want a robust and thorough response to antisemitism from the government and from university administrators. And while there is a lot of talk about antisemitism right now, it is not entirely clear to me how all of these policies and threats, the deportation of students, and the curtailing of free speech will ultimately benefit Jews or the Jewish community. Especially when this is placed alongside the defunding of the Office of Civil Rights at the Department of Education, the very body tasked with investigating antisemitism on campus. I do believe that university administrators should be held to account for not responding adequately to antisemitism, I think the students should be punished when they behave in criminal and antisemitic ways; but I am not convinced that the current approach will ultimately lead to any decline in antisemitism. I worry that it will actually leave us more isolated, more alone than before.
I don’t want to be a political football kicked around by opposing teams. I want to be part of the game, to determine my own destiny and future, to have a say in how the Jewish community should be protected, should be supported, should be nurtured.
As we approach the festival of Passover, while we will focus on the story of Moses, the 10 plagues, and the Exodus from Egypt, I want to take us to the very beginning, to a section of our Torah we might miss in our Seder celebrations. The entire pretext for the story starts with five short words: vayakum melech chadash al mitzrayim – a new king arose over Egypt. This may seem unimportant, but the Torah adds five more crucial words: asher lo yadah et Yosef – who did not know Joseph. With our focus on the story of the Seder, we might forget that the Israelites had it very good in the land of Egypt for a number of years. With Joseph in charge, they were given the choicest land and they flourished. Everything was going well until it wasn’t.
When the new king arrives, with no connection to Joseph or the Israelite community, the situation immediately changes as we became the targets for his wrath and persecution. You do not need me to tell you the rest of the story, you’ll be spending hours retelling it tomorrow evening. What is clear is that things started to go very bad very quickly, and the rest as they say is history.
While today we might not be amongst the minorities being directly targeted, we know that the rule of law and our country’s democratic institutions keep all of us safe. And while today it is those who speak out against Jews and Israel who are among the groups being focused on, we also know how quickly the tables can turn and how all too soon we can be caught in the crosshairs. Once the rule of law and our democratic institutions have been undermined, it is going to be hard to rebuild them, to reaffirm them, to return to them. And ultimately history has taught us that those situations always end up being bad for the Jews.
The Israelites in Egypt cried out to God and God sent them Moses to stand up to Pharaoh and his authoritarian rule. The question for us is, how will we respond today?
As I stand here, I am a proud holder of an American passport, I chose to become an American citizen, and I am grateful that this country accepted me. It was not a decision that I made lightly, I believe in the vision of the Declaration of Independence – a country committed to the idea that “all men are created equal [I would modify it to all people], that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” I admire the genius of our Founding Fathers, who, in rejecting the monarchy, established a system of checks and balances in our constitution so that no one person would hold absolute power. And I am grateful that the first amendment to the Constitution affirmed there shall be: “no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
These principles and ideals remain at the heart of the American dream and affirm what this country can be at its very best.
One of the messages of the Passover Seder is the fact that we don’t say “they were slaves in Egypt,” but rather that “we were slaves in Egypt.” We assume the slavery experience as our own, and by extension we assume the journey to freedom as our own. We celebrate the Seder every year because we know that the journey from slavery to freedom is never ending. It is a destination that we never fully reach, but one to which we are always aspiring. The implicit message is that we can never take our freedom for granted; we must be vigilant in defending it, active in pursuing it, and dedicated in ensuring it for all people.
As Jewish Americans our stories converge – this country has presented us with immense gifts and blessings, we have been the beneficiaries of the American dream. But our Passover story reminds us that we can never take our situation for granted. Passover is centered on the never-ending journey from slavery to freedom. Passover teaches that we cannot sit on the sidelines and hope that things will be okay, we ultimately have to be willing to challenge authority, to stand up for ourselves and to ensure our future. The Passover story resonates because it does not speak to their experiences, it speaks to our experiences – this year, will we be able to hear its message?
Shabbat Shalom