The Israeli government will begin issuing gay-friendly state ID for children of same-sex parents by the end of November, Ynet reports. Currently, non-biological parents can be listed on the card, but one parent must be registered in the wrong gender category as either mother or father. On the new cards, “mother’s name” or “father’s name” will be listed twice, allowing both parents—and their nature of their relationship—to be acknowledged by the state.

The decision was made after the children of four same-sex couples filed a petition with PIBA, Israel’s Population, Immigration and Border Authority. “After we lodged the request, the authority said it would accede,” representing lawyer Michal Eden told Ynet. “As far as we are concerned this is groundbreaking, and ends an ongoing injustice towards the children of gay couples attempting to use governmental services.”

One of those children was 20-year-old Noa Evron, the daughter of lesbian parents. BBC reports that Noa’s mother Aviva had to be listed as “father” on her ID card, prompting the army to enquire if one of her parents was transgender. Aviva said the new cards would make things easier for their daughter, with less explaining required in bureaucratic situations. “This is simply a correction of a distortion in a series of distortions relating to same-sex parenthood,” she said.

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As a child, celebrating Purim was about dressing up and making noise when our rabbi chanted Haman’s name during his reading of the megillah. But two different life-changing events during my adolescence have led me to understand the holiday in a more complex light. What was once a day of dressing up and acting out has become, for me, a call to social justice.

Unlike most of my Orthodox peers, I celebrated my bar mitzvah on Purim. I traded the usual weekly Torah portion read on a Saturday morning for the much longer Megillat Esther. Although my Hebrew birthday—the eighth of Adar—was actually six days prior to Purim, the holiday became the time that, according to Jewish tradition, I entered adulthood.

Back then, I read the megillah primarily as a coming-of-age story. Esther went from being a shy, sheltered child to a brave and courageous woman in a matter of chapters. I understood her hesitation when she invited King Ahasuerus and Haman to a banquet, but decided at the last minute to push off her revelation to a second banquet. Esther’s reticence echoed my fears about assuming the role and responsibilities of an adult man in Jewish ritual life. Here was I, a kid of thirteen, trying to take off the mask of childhood and become a fully-fledged member of the Jewish people. My own family was firmly modern Orthodox, but I was raised in an ultra-Orthodox community. Would I ever be able to live up to the expectations set out for me by those far to my family’s religious right?

Three years later, Purim was the holiday during which I came out to my best friends. Since middle school, I had worked to keep my true identity hidden from my peers. I refused to do or say anything that might be even remotely been seen as stereotypical and lead people to the (correct) assumption that I was queer. I refused to listen to any music that was seen as “gay” or to wear skinny jeans or brightly-colored clothing. I was sheepishly quiet, lest I slip up and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

When I came out, the pretense finally began to fall away, though it happened gradually. Around a few friends, I began to open up and leave both the closet and the personal cocoon that I had set up to protect myself. As I came out to my parents (who were probably just as surprised to find out that I was queer as Ahasuerus was to find out that someone was planning to eradicate his queen’s nation) and to more of my friends, I began to feel more comfortable with who I was. I began listening to music that I genuinely enjoyed, stereotypes be damned. I fully embraced the phenomenon of brightly-colored skinny jeans, which were already popular at my Jewish prep school.

Coming out also led me to see a new dimension in the Purim story. It was not only Esther’s fear of taking responsibility that scared her: it was the peeling away of the false identity she had created to conceal her Judaism. As a child, I had read rabbinic stories of how Esther would light Shabbat candles and practice Judaism in secret, with only Mordechai and a few of her maids aware of her real identity. After hiding for so long, she feared the response to her true self. Would she be rejected by her husband, the king, who had approved Haman’s plan to exterminate her people? What if she couldn’t save her people? And what if the king decided that she, despite being queen, would not be spared?

Like I did when I was coming out, Esther shed her false identity in stages. Initially she does not mention her Jewishness, only that a nation is about to be exterminated. Later, she reveals her affiliation with Mordechai and the greater Jewish community. Ahasuerus  becomes angered not at the fact that the Jews are in danger, but that a single minority is in danger. In executing Haman, Ahasuerus sent the message that intolerance of any kind was unacceptable in his kingdom, which was known for its diversity (the beginning of the megillah tells us that the Persian empire included no fewer than 127 distinct nations). Megillat Esther is story about—and a call for—social justice, as much as it is about shedding the false identities we create so as to not be rejected.

Interpreting the story of Purim as a story of social justice has helped me identify my goal as an aspiring advocate for LGBT Jews. I should not only be fighting for the inclusion of those who feel excluded because they are queer. My goal is to create a community that encourages and celebrates diversity, a community that not only accepts LGBT people, but also other disenfranchised Jews. For me, the final goal is the creation of a stronger, more inclusive Jewish community: it is not only I, as a queer person, who benefits from this, but the Jewish people as a whole, which benefits from becoming more diverse.

Amram Altzman is a first-year student in a joint program with the Jewish Theological Seminary and Columbia University. He is also a blogger for New Voices, a website for Jewish college students. You can find him on Twitter @thesubwaypoet.

Related: DIY: Fighting Homophobic Bullying
“I’d Be Much Happier Married To A Religious Gay Man”

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This article originally appeared on Repair the World.

Here’s what we’ve learned about gay teen suicides: it takes a village to make them happen, and also to make them stop. Yes, those kids who recently took their lives, in cities across the country, were particularly targeted by particular bullies. But both the bullies and their victims were caught up in systemic webs of hatred, ideology, and culture. Our rabbis, politicians, and community leaders are all responsible, as are all of us, for spreading the fundamental message that gay is not okay — a message that is lethal, and insidious.

The good news is that, since we’re all responsible, if you’re outraged and want to do something, there are a lot of things you can do.

First and most importantly is to “come out,” whether you’re gay, straight, bisexual, questioning, transgender, lesbian, queer, or Whatever, as a supporter of equality. Every study that has been done on homophobia and public opinion of gays has shown the same thing: the most important factor is knowing gay people, or at least knowing visible allies. It’s not geography or ideology — it’s personal contact. If you’re LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender), just being yourself is a form of activism. Obviously, you have to decide when it’s safe to be flamboyant and when it’s wise to be discreet. But know that simply by showing up, you are opening people’s minds.

This is true for allies as well. It can be as simple as wearing rainbow pins, or “Gay? Fine By Me” t-shirts, or other ways to show your solidarity.  But that’s just the beginning. When someone in school says “that’s so gay!” let them know that “gay” is not a synonym for “stupid.” If you’re in an all-straight crowd and someone makes a homophobic remark, don’t let it slide – call them on it, just like you (hopefully) would if they said something anti-Semitic or racist.

In terms of formal volunteering, one way students can get involved is by starting gay-straight alliances (GSA’s) at schools, camps, yeshivas, youth groups, and just about anywhere else. Of course, it’s kind of weird to have a GSA with no (out) gay people in it. But think about it — if you were gay, and not so sure it was safe to come out, imagine how important it is simply that the GSA exists. Even if no gay kid ever joins your GSA, its mere existence has a huge impact on closeted kids, and on would-be homophobes and bullies. There are resources for how to do this online.

You can also take action in your Jewish communities. Here’s the thing: GLBT people have been actively excluded from Jewish life for 2,000 years. So, if synagogues really want to be welcoming, they have to be pro-active. There should be a “GLBT” tab on their websites. Rabbis should periodically talk about GLBT issues. And you, as a gay person or an ally, can help make that happen.

Chances are, your rabbi or community leader will say “But we are welcoming! We just don’t have any gay people!” Ask them how they know that. Ask them what they’ve done to balance out those 2,000 years of oppression with pro-active statements and deeds. Once again, even if no gay people actually come out of the woodwork, just taking these public statements can have a massive impact. They send a clear message: that sexual diversity is natural and healthy, and that all people are truly welcome – even, if you like, made in God’s image.

There are a lot of problems in the world today. Millions of people die every year from preventable disease, our economic system is in disarray, and the world is getting hotter every day. Equality for GLBT people is only one of many important issues — but it is one about which we can act effectively in our home communities. Unlike some of those other macro-problems, equality for GLBT people is ultimately local. We’re not going to change hearts from the top down; we’re going to do it person to person, neighbor to neighbor. You can make a difference, because as the saying says, kol yisrael arevim zeh la’zeh — all of us are responsible for one another.

Sign the Jewish community pledge against homophobic bullying See also: “Paladino’s Bias And The Charedim: Time To Speak Out” by Jeremy Burton and “The Cost Of Standing Idly By” by Rabbi Steven Greenberg.

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