I am from Baltimore, and I went to Israel with the Johns Hopkins Birthright Israel trip. I wasn’t actually a student there. I worked on their medical campus at a gym for alumni, students, and doctors. One day someone who came through the gym said, “Hey, I heard you’re Jewish. Have you heard about the Hopkins Hillel?” Later I saw they were hosting an Israel Fest. I reached out, asked if I could come, and they said yes. From the moment I walked in, I felt welcome.
I was raised in an interfaith family. My mom’s side is Catholic and my dad’s side is Jewish. I was brought up Catholic but honestly felt like I never really clicked with the religion of my mom’s side. After October 7th, I thought it was important for Jewish voices to step up, and I wanted to be one of them. At Hopkins Hillel they embraced that. I’m bisexual, covered in tattoos and had a girlfriend at the time, and there were no issues. There were Orthodox students, Reform, Conservative, all in one building. Everyone was just like, “You’re a person, you’re Jewish, and you’re nice. That’s what matters.”From a very young age, my dad showed me Jewish traditions: Shabbat, lighting the menorah, Passover seders. He raised me with Jewish values, often without saying so. For example, we had a family dog, and he would always feed her before he ate. I do that now with my own dog. I never thought much of it, only to realize years later that’s a Jewish value—you feed your animals before yourself. It was eye-opening. I realized a lot of the things he taught me through action were Jewish values.
In public school, I had friends from all backgrounds. Still, I always saw myself as Jewish because of my dad and his family history. Learning about the Holocaust in middle and high school also made me feel connected. Recently, when I started looking into my family history, I found relatives who had died at Auschwitz. That gave me another layer of connection.
When October 7th happened, I saw the posts on social media and felt devastated. It was the worst attack since the Holocaust. The only thing I could compare it to was 9/11, which I was just old enough to remember. My Catholic side of the family didn’t react the same way to October 7th. For them, it was more like, war is war. But for me, my dad and my stepmom, it was deeply personal and tragic. We still talk about it almost every day.I wanted to do something, to stand up as a Jew. I started posting and sharing, making it clear where I stood. It wasn’t much, but it was something. When I went to Israel Fest at Hopkins Hillel, from that moment on, I felt like I had found a home. I started going to Shabbat, services, fellowships, and events. What I love about services is the conversations. You’re encouraged to ask questions. You don’t feel embarrassed if you lose your place or don’t know something. People invite you to participate—light the candles, say a blessing. It feels like being part of something, not talked down to or lectured.
When the chance came to go on Birthright Israel, I won’t lie, the war made me anxious. Friends and some family didn’t want me to go. But I felt like I had to. To me, Birthright wasn’t a vacation. It was a commitment—to the Jewish people, to who I am, to my faith. I saw it as sealing my place in the Jewish story.
I was a few years older than the undergrads, but the age gap didn’t matter. I was included in everything and had an amazing time. We had heavy days—visiting the Nova site, Yad Vashem, the military cemetery—but even those moments, while painful, were meaningful. And we had joyous ones, too—climbing Masada, floating in the Dead Sea, camping in the desert.
One moment that stuck with me happened walking down a street in Israel. From one side, I heard the Muslim call to prayer. Down the block, in a traffic circle, stood a giant Christmas tree. No one batted an eye. Seeing that diversity and coexistence with my own eyes was beautiful and affirming. With all the negative claims I’d seen about Israel, just witnessing that everyday reality made me feel secure in what I believe.
Another highlight was camping in the desert. After visiting the Nova site, our group went out under the stars. We each found a spot alone. Staring at the night sky, I thought about how 3,000 years ago, my ancestors looked at these same stars. They prayed for the chance to live safely here. And now, I was able to hop on a plane and stand there, looking up at the same sky. It was breathtaking.
Even little moments mattered, like meeting a Palestinian man at a gas station who let me ride his camel. He was FaceTiming his girlfriend and told me to say hi. We laughed. It was so simple, but so human. No hate, just two people sharing a small moment.
At Nova, what moved me most was how the memorials celebrated life. Every sign had a smiling photo, a story, and personal items brought by family and friends. It wasn’t a graveyard of victims—it was a testament to the souls who lived. To me, that reflected the Jewish people: we celebrate life, even through pain.
Yad Vashem was equally powerful. Walking through its cold, sharp architecture felt like walking through history’s wounds. I’ll never forget the glass floor filled with shoes, or the handwritten notes in Yiddish, English, and Hebrew. But the museum ends with a view of trees and sunlight, symbolizing hope. That meant a lot to me.
Some people say Israel exists because of the Holocaust. I don’t see it that way. I think the Holocaust happened because there wasn’t an Israel. In Israel I felt immediately welcome—the same feeling I had at Hillel. Those are the only two places I’ve ever felt that way 100%. No one cared what I looked like or where I came from. Everyone talked to me, helped me, wanted me there.
Israelis came up to us just to say thank you for being there. They said that our presence meant the world to them. It showed them they weren’t alone. I realized something simple but powerful: despite all the differences among Jews—Moroccan, American, Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Orthodox, Reform, Secular—we’re all connected. We all share the same values.
Birthright Israel cemented my values: kindness, acceptance, celebrating life, and resilience. It deepened my love for my dad. It showed me what Israel means for our people, and it made me want to do everything I can to support Israel and the Jewish future. When I stood in the desert under those stars, I promised myself that I would do everything possible to ensure future generations could stand there, too—safe, free, and proud.
If I could speak directly to the donors who made my trip possible, I’d simply say: thank you for changing my life. And I’d give them a hug. Now is the most important time to support Birthright Israel. There are so many Jews like me—people from interfaith families, people who are new to Judaism, people who want to step up but don’t know how. This trip gives us that chance. And it doesn’t just matter for the participants. It matters for the Israelis, too. When they see us, it reminds them they are not alone.