Recently, I attended an anti-ICE protest near my home. Our government’s recent methods of terrorizing immigrants feel deeply at odds with the democratic values that I want my country to live by. As I approached, the first thing I saw was a large Palestinian flag; closer in, several protest leaders were wearing keffiyehs. In the wake of October 7, these symbols tread on a frightened and fragile spot in my heart. The horrific videos of Hamas taking hostages flashed through my memory. I walked along the outskirts of the rally and wondered to myself, why do these issues need to be conflated in a way that makes it hard for my loved ones to be in this coalition? Can I take a spot in a crowd of people wearing keffiyehs without betraying my family?
But what if I don’t show up? What will I say when my daughter asks me what I was doing while America’s democratic norms were being eroded? What will I say when God asks me what I was doing as the stranger in my land was being oppressed?
There are times that I have shown up to protests feeling whole — fully present as a Jew and as an advocate for social justice. But at this protest, I noticed my presence as a Jew was fragmented. The symbols I saw there left me confused and worried. Is there truly space for me in this coalition?
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Jewish tradition provides a guide for navigating moments where a clash of values leaves parts of us broken. In the chapter describing the construction of the Ark of the Covenant in Exodus 25:10-22, we are commanded to place the luchot (the tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments) inside the Ark. The Talmud, in Bava Batra 14a-14b, tells us that the Ark, our holiest artifact and the seat of God’s resting place on earth, contained not only the luchot but also the fragments of the first set of tablets.
It would have been easier to leave the fragments behind. But our ancestors went out of their way to gather them and place them in the holy Ark of the Covenant, right next to the unbroken luchot. Keffiyehs at rallies, and the images of October 7 that they summon, leave the Jew in me fragmented. The Ark teaches me that I must bring the pieces along with me. They don’t detract from the holiness or power of the sacred project.
This is not to say that I leave behind my love and support for my Israeli family when I arrive at the protest. Our tradition doesn’t affirm fragmentation as the ideal. It does, however, embolden us to show up to meet the current moment with the full force of Judaism’s moral teachings, even in the face of profound and fundamental tensions. I deeply disagree with some of the people at these rallies, and I believe there is a time and place to leverage my relationships to foster productive dialogue. But in this holy moment of protest, the Ark reminds me that my pain and fear are welcome. The fragments of the tablets are not merely tolerated; they are honored.
I joined the rally that day. I chanted alongside the crowd, confident that in this moment I was in the right place in the right way. I showed up as the luchot, both fragmented and whole at the same time, taking my place in the Ark of holy protest. Unfortunately, the attacks on our civil liberties continue, and it seems as though there will be more protests to come. Let’s heed the call as Jews, both fragmented and whole, and step forward into coalition.
Rabbi Eli Weinbach is the director of student well-being for Hillel at Stanford. A graduate of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, he has worked in a rabbinic capacity with Adamah, ICNY, and Uri L’tzedek. He has been a fellow at FASPE, JOFFEE, UJA, T’ruah, and Hadar. Rabbi Eli encourages his students to be proactive in the search for spiritual meaning and a more embodied Judaism.