I was, aptly, at the pub, when I truly began to appreciate how much my Jewish friendships meant to me. Growing up outside of Boston, I would never have associated pub chats with Jewish life. But going to college in Scotland completely changed my perspective on what being Jewish means to me.
I grew up in a place where being Jewish was easy. Though I was raised secular, my parents were raised Modern Orthodox, my hometown is known for its large Jewish population and I attended a pluralistic Jewish high school. Being Jewish, in my mind, was just one of many aspects of my life. It was no more or less important than other parts, such as being involved in politics, working at a local day camp in the summer or being a Boston sports fan. It never occurred to me that it would, or could, be any other way.
I chose to go to college in Edinburgh in part because it already felt like home. I found many similarities to Boston when I first visited; like Boston, Edinburgh is small, historic and cold. The sandstone Victorian tenements of Marchmont, a popular student neighborhood, resembled the brownstones of Boston’s South End. Even the seagulls reminded me of home; one particularly welcoming one pooped on my mom’s head when we first visited. In Edinburgh, I believed, I could have all the benefits of home, except in a foreign country, experiencing a new culture. It didn’t hurt that the University of Edinburgh was also well-respected, attractively close to the rest of Europe and had tuition fees that were half that of U.S. equivalents. Edinburgh felt like a match made in heaven.
I was prepared to be in the minority as an American. But it was a bit of a shock to my system, when, in my first year of college, a close friend informed me, “You’re the first Jew I’ve ever met.” I should not have been surprised; Scotland is not exactly known for being a hub of Jewish life, and on some level, I had expected this. Whenever I told family that I would be going to college in Scotland, their first reaction was usually a genuine “Wow!”, closely followed by a well-meaning “You know there aren’t many Jews there…”. In response, I usually retorted optimistically, “But there are some!” — the subtext being, “I know, and it doesn’t really matter much to me.” To my mind, it was simply a problem of proportion: If I was able to replicate most of my home life in Edinburgh, one aspect falling by the wayside should not be a big deal.
As it turned out, my family’s concern was misplaced: Edinburgh has a growing Jewish Society (JSoc), and when I started school they welcomed me with open arms. I had not planned on Judaism being a big part of my life in Edinburgh, so JSoc was a really pleasant surprise. I became a staple at weekly bagel lunches and never missed the big student Friday night dinners. I developed many close Jewish friendships through JSoc, and in my second year, those connections became vital to my life in Edinburgh.
When the war in Gaza broke out in October 2023, my non-Jewish friends expected me to take a political stand, specifically one that matched their own. I didn’t feel I owed them one. I felt this expectation went beyond politics and bled over into antisemitism. I was trying to parse through my own huge feelings, and it felt unfair to be on their timeline to react to something that I had no part in enacting. But they didn’t ask what my relationship to Israel was; they decided it for me. It felt like my Jewishness alone made me suspect. I was ostracized. It shook me to my core.
Having grown up where and how I did, I never imagined that antisemitism would affect me. My semi-isolation in a large Jewish community had actually left me woefully unprepared for dealing with one of the biggest obstacles of my life: antisemitism at university. I was heartbroken. I could not reconcile feeling so othered while living in a city that felt so much like a second home. I considered dropping out or transferring to a school back in Boston. What kept me in Edinburgh, though, was what I had originally brushed aside: The Jewish friendships that I never expected to have — or need so badly.
The friends I made at JSoc never faltered in their support of me; two of them, my closest friends, were going through similar experiences. We met weekly — secretively — at a pub, to chat and to process what was happening. We jokingly called it “shtetl time.” It was funny, in a way. I truly solidified my Jewish community — something my family at home was so worried I wouldn’t be able to do in Scotland — because of the challenges I was experiencing as a Jew. My Jewish life felt meshed with the rest of my life in Edinburgh. Where else, and with who else, could I so easily discuss antisemitism over a pint?
As I begin my third year at Edinburgh, I am still trying to figure out how to balance my Judaism with my life here. I do not regret choosing to go to school in Scotland. I have met many wonderful people, Jewish and not, whom I could not imagine my life without. I am grateful for Edinburgh’s Jewish community — and my Jewish friends — for carrying me through such unsettling times. Beautifully, I have never felt more connected to my Jewishness. It is something that is ever evolving and adapting. And while I did not ask for my Jewish identity to become important to my life in Edinburgh, I am grateful that it has. It is not the “easy” Judaism I was raised with, but it is here, and it is mine.
