But, against all odds, Jewish life is coming back to Germany, predominantly to the capital, to Berlin. Israeli students and young professionals appear to be very attracted to Berlin’s multicultural and laid-back way of life. According to recent estimates there are 20.000 Israelis living in Berlin – with rising tendency.

How does it feel for Israelis to live in Berlin? Were there reservations prior to moving to a city from where over 50.000 Jews once have vanished? “No”, says Dinah, a language student from Tel Aviv, “I do not constantly think about the Holocaust just because I am in Berlin now. I barely think about it anyway.”

“The Shoah plays no part in our daily life here”. Lior adds “at least not anymore.” Dinah and Lior are a couple and in their early twenties. They met in Berlin while attending German class. Lior, a good-looking young freelance writer and blogger from Haifa, always knew that one day he would be living in Berlin. “I wanted to be a part of this unique city ever since I can remember”, Lior’s Grandfather who survived the Holocaust in Poland and who later emigrated to Israel, was appalled by his grandson’s desire to move to Germany. “But Berlin is not Germany, as they say. It’s different”, Lior argues with a smirk. His parents always encouraged him to try his luck in Berlin. Europe is safe for Jews – isn’t it? After what happened in Paris and Copenhagen, European Jews are alert. There is a growing anti-Semitism in certain parts of European society that no one can deny. Antiquated views, ignorance, and animosity towards Israel and its government bring about hatred and discord. And even though the number of anti-Semites in Europe is still vanishingly small, the impact of our personal sense of security is grave.

Dinah admits that her family in Israel would be relieved if she decided to come home. They are worried. Dinah and Lior both simultaneously shake their heads. They will not leave. They feel save in Berlin, despite the recent events.

Scene change. Kollwitzplatz. A picturesque town square in the Prenzlauer Berg district. Yael and her husband Daniel are both in their mid-thirties. They met as students in Israel and moved to Berlin six years ago. Being from Israel, they say, was never something they hid from the locals or from other expats. On the contrary, they visited the nearby synagogue at Rykestrasse, met at the Kosher Deli and spoke Hebrew openly. They never felt unsafe in Prenzlauer Berg, which is located in the eastern part of Berlin. Unfortunately, things have changed. “We sense a subtle anti-Semitism among European Muslims and some people on the far left”, says Yael. She even had some unpleasant encounters whilst shopping in other parts of the city. “One day, a group of young men overheard a friend and me as we were having a conversation in Hebrew. Out of the blue they began to curse at us in a mix of Arabic and German. I knew it was about Palestine. It is always about Palestine.” Luckily, such incidents are extremely rare. Both the Jewish and the Muslim community are anxious to live together peacefully. And still, Yael now avoids speaking Hebrew in public.

In spite of negative predictions for the safety of Jews in Europe, Jewish life and culture is flourishing in Berlin. Within the old Jewish quarters one can get the best hummus in town. Kosher Delis, restaurants and cafes spring up, events and festivals with typical Israeli music and food take place in all parts of the city, and even a magazine is being published. The magazine named ‘Spitz’ is written exclusively for Israeli expats in Berlin. The (Israeli) community is growing steadily. Within Germany, Berlin has become an enclave for people from Israel. If you listen carefully, you can hear a variety of different languages in the streets. Apart from German, English, Spanish, Turkish, and Arabic you can also hear Hebrew all across the city. At mild summer nights you can see Arabs and Israelis sit together in the city parks, blithely, smoking shisha and laughing lustily. They come together in a respectful manner and manage to see behind each other’s curtain. Far away from home it is easier to reduce prejudices.

I am very Jewish in Berlin. A sentence you get to hear quite often. Israelis, who used to live a secular life at home, suddenly become religious once they are in Berlin. They discover their Jewishness and begin to value their religion and spirituality highly. There is even talk of a “new exodus to the promised city of Berlin”. The city, too, profits from the huge attraction that it has on young people from Israel. Berlin needs this diversity to thrive.

Some Israelis are going to return home one day. Some of them will return with only good memories, some of them won’t. However, it is fair to say that to Israelis Berlin is more than just a cheap party metropolis. It is a place of history. And to some, Berlin is their very own journey to self-discovery.

Gina Chaja Reimann is a postgrad of communication science and media studies, and works as a freelance writer in Berlin.

 (Image: Sean Pavone / Shutterstock.com)

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 And then there’s the Jewish holidays: the cost, the timing and the general toll of transatlantic travel mean I’m more often absent than present when my family sits down at the table together.

 Passover remains the exception. When I left for Brussels, my mother and I reached an accord that I would make it home every spring to celebrate with them. I’ve kept that promise and next Thursday I’ll be boarding an Air Canada flight (well two) to Toronto. Truthfully, I wouldn’t miss my family’s seder for anything: the debating of the historical inaccuracies of the story, the good-humoured ridiculing (my late grandfather still gets the brunt of it) and the off-key singing are hard to substitute.

 Passover aside, I’ve had to adapt and forge my own traditions – specifically when it comes to Rosh Hashanah. When I lived in DC, it was rather fluid. I joined a synagogue and celebrated holidays with others who, for whatever reason, did not travel to their families. It was beautifully simple.

 Brussels is in some ways similar and in others rather different. Like DC, it is a city replete with young professional “orphans”. But the Jewish community within the EU bubble is rather small and most travel home. So I’ve become more industrious.

 And so Jew Year’s Eve was born.

 It started rather modestly: my Israeli flatmate and I invited ten friends – some Jewish, some not – for a home-cooked dinner and a fair bit of wine.  In five years, the celebration has morphed into more of an extravaganza. Last year’s affairs (well this year if we’re going by the Jewish calendar) was attended by nearly 40 people, raging from one and a half to 55-years of age, and lasted until the wee hours. The simple dinner is now a vegetarian smorgasbord of traditional dishes and other culinary delights. There’s challah (affectionately known as Jewish brioche), soup with matzah balls, lokshen (noodle) kugel, tzimmes (roasted carrots, pineapple and prunes), and honey cake (paired with a salty cinnamon vanilla ice cream), to name a few. Still all homemade. It’s a two-day labour of love.

 For my Jewish friends not able to make it home, it’s a comforting alternative. What’s most interesting, however, is how my non-Jewish friends – who comprise over 90% of those in attendance – connect to it.

 One Greek-French friend noted it was the first Jewish celebration of any kind he had ever been to and was overwhelmed by the cultural experience (so much so that he washed all the dishes, bless him).  Another friend of Korean heritage was surprised by how similar lokshen kugel is in taste to her mother’s yakbap, a sweet rice cake. And indeed they are, as I discovered a few week’s later when over at her place for dinner.

The best aspect of it all, however, might just be the curiosity my friend’s bring to the evening. They don’t just want to eat (and drink), but they want to learn more about how what is in front of them became a part of my tradition. It has wonderfully forced me to trace my history and I think I’ve learnt to appreciate it all a bit more.

 I may leave Brussels before the next Jew Year’s Eve and if I do, I will truly miss this wonderful tradition. How I celebrate Rosh Hashanah in the future will depend on where I next land. But to keep the Brussels memory alive in some form, I think I’ll forego the lokshen kugel and serve yakbap instead.

Joshua Goodman is a Brussels-based radio host and an LLM candidate in Public International Law at the University of Kent, Brussels. Follow him on Twitter @lumber_josh.    

(Image: The famous Jewish brioche. Credit: Joshua Goodman)

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I probably heard about Paideia from Aunt Evi since its very beginning (2000), when I was 10. Later on I involved myself more and more into Jewish youth life -as most East Central European Jews, I was a camper and a madricha in the Jewish youth camp in Szarvas. It just felt it natural that at some point I should apply to Paideia. Now I feel happy that I spent the past few months at Paideia and I did not miss this experience in midst of the rush for academic titles.

I have just graduated from the one-year program of Paideia (“The European Institute for Jewish Studies in Sweden”) and now it is probably time to tell what it is. By definition, it is an institution of higher learning of Judaism, a place whose name is not by coincidence; a Greek word, Paideia(meaning education). Actually, each and every word of the institution’s long name is to be emphasized.

The choice of a Greek word for a name reflects the founders’ intention to make it a European institution, functioning in the spirit of a European community. And it is indeed such an institute, a very particular one, since while it provides an almost insanely intensive study program of Jewish texts, religious streams, philosophy and history, it is not a university. The aim of transmitting so much knowledge is not solely for the sake of knowledge, but for the sake of engagement and commitment too. But why is the “European Institute for Jewish Studies” in Sweden?

The answer lies in history. After a conference established in the very end of the 20^th century concluding that Sweden’s role in the Second World War was not that innocent as Swedish collective memory had regarded it for decades, the Swedish government initiated the foundation of an institution which should promote Jewish life in Europe. Among other things, I learned during the past year that Sweden’s role in the Second World War was more controversial and complicated than I had thought.

The past few months at Paideia enriched my knowledge immensely, not only in the field of Jewish Studies. They gave me so much more life experience than any other seven-eight months, since I spent them with fellows coming from so many different countries and professional background and from slightly different age groups. I have studied in international settings even before Paideia, but mostly with fellow students with the same field of professional interest. At Paideia I had the chance to get to know really well fellows from nineteen countries. And precisely because we work in different fields (historians, librarians, museum educators, teachers and many more), we can really create new projects that will make a difference in European Jewish life. We were taught by many Israeli scholars, and above that we traveled to Israel for three weeks and visited places where Taglit groups are not taken, such as a rocket-proof indoors playground in Sderot. My expectations were fulfilled and some of them were exceeded.

I heard a lot about Paideia from my family and from alumni before I applied and it always appealed to me. For instance, studying Jewish texts with Muslim fellow students, which happens in Paideia, is an unlikely scenario in my home country, Hungary. Another fantastic aspect of Paideia is –as opposed to universities –the encouragement of cooperation for good causes rather than of competition. I feel privileged for my time at Paideia, which made me believe again that academic studies can go hand in hand with social engagement.

Agnes Kelemen is a student of Jewish Studies. Her research focus is 20th century European Jewish history. She has worked in the Hungarian Jewish Museum, in the international Jewish youth camp in Szarvas and she volunteered for the Hungarian Jewish Archives.

(Image: A view of Stockholm. TTStudio/Shutterstock.com)

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It is not to say that some people aren’t racist, nor to say that some people aren’t anti-Zionist; quite frankly not everyone in the world is as nice as I would like (especially during rush hour on the tube when people seem to morph into animals,) and forget all pretence of manners, forcing their way onto the tube as if it is the last life boat leaving the Titanic. Being openly Jewish could mean you receive nasty remarks, being openly a Zionist may force you to face difficult and uncomfortable questions. But, neither of these are to be assumed. They could also lead to genuine interest, stimulating conversations and surprising connections.

Being a Jewish student on a London campus, and indeed on any of the 64 campuses (representing 8,500 students) that UJS represents can, in reality, mean whatever you want it to mean. In the words of our current president, and my wonderful colleague, Ella Rose, we are unified not uniform. In much the same way the Jewish people are not a homogenous entity, the Jewish student population continues to surprise and amaze me in their diversity and ingenuity.

Jewish Societies (J-Socs) have term planners boasting a rich variety of events that frankly could mean their members never have to engage in an event other than Jewish Society. Lunch and Learns, Friday Night dinners, Interfaith events, Booze for Jews, Balls, Textual study name just a few of the regular programming that happens on campus. This does not include the broad Jewish religious spectrum that is represented in most J-Socs that have Egalitarian, Orthodox and Masorti (Conservative) minyanim. Furthermore, no Jewish festival goes unmarked, and there is a constant stream of events based around the Jewish calendar. No festival goes uncelebrated, and I believe the Purim parties are always a particular highlight (I, of course, would have no idea, having spent my three years at University in the library reading, learning and revising.)

Of course if a student wants to get involved in fighting anti-Zionism on campus, UJS has a campaigns team dedicated to ensuring the Jewish voice has a meaningful impact on campus life. Similarly, we have an Israel engagement officer who allows Jewish students to connect to Israel through art, culture and food organising events that see students put on art shows, raise money for Save a Childs Heart, an incredibly worthy Israeli charity, and taste Israeli chocolate whilst learning about Israeli culture. (The latter, unsurprisingly, has proven to be immensely popular.) And if you enjoy blogging (like me) then UJS can offer plenty of opportunities to have your voice heard.

British Jewish Student life is rich and colourful, with a variety of options available. Our campus life is exciting and exhilarating (and occasionally frustrating, especially as dissertation deadlines loom).

If have any more questions or want to get involved please email me, helenab@ujs.org.uk and I would be happy to accommodate.

Helena Baker is from the best city in the world- the Northern town of Manchester. She graduated from University in 2014 from Royal Holloway, where she studied French and History. She previously studied at the University of Durham and has lived in both Paris and Brussels. Tweet at her @helenambaker.

(Image: Union of Jewish Students)

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Those are the compositions of young Jewish couples in my immediate circle of friends and colleagues, and I think it’s quite telling.

You see: If you are looking to date a Jew in Europe, chances are pretty good you’ll end up with someone from a different country. You might even consciously consider the entire continent of Europe your dating pool.

My own first venture into this was the annual Bnei Akiva “Eurovision Song Contest” – A Jewish spin on Europe’s beloved kitsch fest, bringing together teams of 15 and 16 year-olds from all around Europe to spend Shabbat together, and then compete against each other on Sunday morning. That’s where I met my first boyfriend – A cute Italian guy that I didn’t actually talk to at the event, but managed to find on MSN Messenger later on (and who luckily remembered me, and was able to type basic English). For my other Swiss friends, it was a summer camp with Belgians, Italians, and Austrians, or a Jewish student skying camp organized by Swiss, Italian and Hungarian students. And for my friends from Central Europe, Szarvas summer camp, gathering kids and teenagers from Central Europe, the Balkans and beyond, was the place for, ehem, intercultural Jewish identity building.

Language barriers weren’t really an issue. Communication magically fell into place, even though, at best, most people had had two or three years worth of English classes at that point in their life. But little can stop teenage love, as you probably remember very well from your own days at summer camp.

Back in public high school, it was somewhat of a novelty to have a boyfriend from a different country, but this being the early days of the internet made it all gloriously possible. For several months, we chatted away on MSN Messenger (I remember discussing Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay”), and he told me about some new thing called “Skype”, which he pronounced “sky-pee” with an Italian accent (yes, that was adorable). I didn’t manage to install it, though, so we stuck with MSN. But alas, despite our long chats and him visiting me in Switzerland once, the whole story puttered out after a couple of months. But to be clear: The reason for our break-up was not the fact that he lived in Rome, and I lived in Schaffhausen. Distance was definitively not to blame.

And so I merrily continued with long-distance, border-hopping relationships, and I only stopped to reflect more deeply about it when one day, while talking to some friends from university, I realized: I had never had a boyfriend from Switzerland, let alone my hometown. My non-Jewish girlfriends were in shock.

Most Jewish communities in Europe – with some notable exceptions like Paris, London or Berlin – feel like a village. Chances are extremely high that you went to the same Jewish kindergarden, Jewish school or Jewish youth group as any other young Jewish person in your community. Sure, some people were lucky enough to fall for someone from their own community, or perhaps the neighboring community. And sometimes, people moved to town. I will never forget the excitement when one day there was a new kid from Germany in our youth group. But for most of us – if it was important to us – it was just obvious from the start: If you want to date Jewish, you don’t date local: You date European (and Israeli).

Jewish organizations, more or less consciously, help this along by offering a broad range of international conferences, parties and seminars. These activities are international in nature mostly because of the small size of many Jewish communities. They tackle all kinds of topics relevant to young Jews in Europe, but if you put lots of young Jews together, friendships (definitely) and love (sometimes) results. That is a welcome side effect (or explicit aim, depending on the event). I myself, for example, met my Swedish fiancé at Matara, a program for Jewish educators at Limmud UK, and the majority of my best Jewish friends are not from Switzerland. I know for a fact that generations of international Jewish couples met at my organization’s annual Summer University, which has been bringing together 300 to 500 young Jews from all over Europe for a week of fun and learning for over 30 years now.

The EU, Erasmus and EasyJet play their roles as well. Young Europeans are on the move across Europe. We are the so-called “Erasmus Generation”, which refers to the EU-wide study abroad program that has helped millions of young Europeans spend a semester or two in a different European country. This program, since its inception in 1987, has had consequences such as an estimated 1 million children born to “Erasmus couples”. Furthermore, the free movement of workers is a fundamental right guaranteed by the European Union for EU citizens, which means: As an EU citizen, you can look for a job and move anywhere you fancy – or love – within Europe. In addition, the boom in low-cost airlines offering at times insanely cheap airfares within Europe has made it quite possible to see your partner every other weekend, or even more frequently.

So to sum up: Dating long-distance isn’t littered with as many obstacles as it used to be. Us being the plugged-in Erasmus and EasyJet generation makes this all actually possible, and not that crazy – Although, to be crystal clear: Long-distance relationships are hard and connected with strain and heartache. Obviously nobody prefers it over dating locally, but if you hang out at a lot of international Jewish events or you’re looking to date Jews in Europe, it is so often part of the package.

In part two, I will be talking to my friends about their take on international Jewish dating. So stay tuned, and keep an eye on “Voices from Europe”!

 Jane Braden-Golay guest edits “Voices from Europe” for Jewcy this month. When she is not busy wading through cheesy pictures to illustrate this article, she is the president of the European Union of Jewish Students in Brussels, Belgium. Follow her on Twitter @JaneBradenGolay.

 (Image: Nengloveyou/Shutterstock)

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However, my husband, our toddler daughter and I packed our bags for Basel in the north of Switzerland last year. We were convinced that moving to a German-speaking country would ease the transition, but even now, a year later, we are still trying to come to terms with the significant differences in culture and mentality of these neighboring countries. I am far away from really understanding Swiss-German – quite different from the standard German I speak – and commit social blunders wherever I go. Germany is so close that I can even take a streetcar there, and yet, we did leave the European Union. The move was followed by a period of euphoria about living in a place where three different countries share borders: France, Germany and Switzerland. Both countries being only ten minutes away from my apartment in the city center, I could buy my beloved dark bread in Germany and wine and cheese in France, which made me feel lavishly cosmopolitan.

During these days of international, multi-lingual delight in Basel, my three year-old daughter committed a small act of transgression. It happened in broad daylight, at the playground. She suddenly came running with a piece of black fabric squeezed between her fingers, and asked me why a child would wear such “silly hat“. Upon closer inspection, I saw that she was holding a kippah and soon discovered its crying owner. We attracted the wrath of a group of very angry, very orthodox mothers who were not prepared to believe that we were Jewish, too. In their world, every Jewish child would know better than to steal a kippah and use it to collect pebbles and leaves.

So why didn’t my daughter know better? The answer was simple: In Germany, mostly elderly men wore the kippah, and the place she’d seen them was in synagogue. She had never before encountered a child wearing a kippah on a playground. My own adult Jewish life in Germany had also been quite private and hidden behind the walls of Jewish institutions. Later it was focused on my activities within the Ernst Ludwig Ehrlich Scholarship Fund, a program for gifted Jewish Students. It was for this reason that during the first weeks in Basel, I was giddy with pleasure every time I met orthodox Jewish families on city playgrounds or at the zoo. The feeling only grew when I met observant men wearing their kippot to work or upon discovering that there was a quite decent selection of kosher wine in several supermarkets. I didn’t actually intend to buy it, but the possibility existed! At first, I was startled to hear people I barely knew shouting “Gut Shabbes“ at the top of their lungs across the street. It caught me by surprise just how liberating the visibility of Jewish life in Basel felt.

However, my enthusiasm soon suffered a reality check. During a Purim party gathering Jewish students and young adults, the conversation inevitably moved towards the topic of anti-Semitism in Europe. Especially us students from Germany were seen as crucial witnesses to a situation that was bound to worsen in time. Asked whether he felt safe wearing a kippah in Basel, an Israeli, who has lived in Basel for over a decade, replied, that indeed he felt safe, but that “They (the Swiss) don´t like us. They don’t like strangers in general. Especially us.“

Though his statement was bold and generalizing, he made an interesting point: A visible Jew remains a stranger amongst the tight-knit social circles in Switzerland. His kippah might not attract the questioning gazes or even dangerous attention it does in other European cities, but it marks him as a foreign element in the social structure of the city.

Yves Kugelmann, chief-editor of the Jewish weekly “Tachles“ described the Swiss anti-Semitism as dormant, but certainly palpable, especially when conflicts in the Middle East heat up (Neue Züricher Zeitung, 30.07.2014). It is because the anti-Semitism is latent, that it needs to be addressed more openly. A recent incident in the Swiss town of St. Gallen shows just how much work there still is to be done: A group of soccer fans mockingly chased a man dressed up as a cliché version of the Hasidic Jew through the streets after their club won the match. The management of the club had been informed about the nature of this event beforehand, but failed to react accordingly.

One could write a lot about historical predicaments of Jews in Switzerland: About the fact that it was the last Western European country which in 1874 gave Jewish citizens full legal emancipation. Or about those Jews, who were refused at the Swiss border during World War II, because they were not granted the status of political refugee (until 1944). But I will limit my account to personal impressions gathered during the last year. Of course Switzerland, as every other country where Jews live, has to deal with different forms of anti-Semitism. But this particular country didn’t experience the same profound disruption of Jewish life as Germany. Of course it wasn’t untouched by the horrors of the Holocaust, but the murderous isolation and systematic annihilation of European Jewry happened beyond the borders of the this neutral country, and it showed in the deep roots of many Jewish families in Switzerland.

There is a big comfort deriving from the fact that many of the families of my Jewish friends from Basel have been around here for over a century. That they haven’t suffered a family history of flight, emigration and violent death during World War II. I like the easy-going manner in which Jewish topics are addressed in public and the naturalness of Jewish life in this city. Talking about or with Jews in Germany can be difficult, and the topics and conversations can be stiff with the weight of history. The haunting past tends to be more important then the possibility of a bright and lively future for Jewish communities.

It took my moving to Switzerland to become more comfortable with my Jewish identity in public. A Swiss friend, one who considers the prohibition of kosher slaughter in Switzerland a scandal and complains about the marginal size of the kosher section in the super market, made a curious observation: Whenever I talked about myself, I would talk about me “being Jewish“ or my “Jewishness“. Not once did I simply say that I was a Jew. At first I dismissed this as a ridiculous observation. But soon enough I had to admit that he was right and that things had to change in order for me to get rid of the rigidity that stifled my speech for such a long time.

Upon further thought, the little incident at the playground appeared more and more like a parable. Whatever small act of childish pettiness happened that day, it happened because of ignorance. My daughter stole the kippah and laughed about it, because at that time, she didn’t know better. There are so many types of anti-Semitism and it is not my intention to generalize, but many acts of anti-Semitism I experienced in my life happened because people simply didn’t know much about Judaism or had never met a Jew before. So more then ever I felt obliged to tackle ignorance concerning Judaism that even made it´s way into my own home when I wasn’t watching.

During the last year I learned to appreciate the complexity of two Jewish worlds that lie so close to each other and yet are so different. I don’t deny the frustrating moments of being a Jew in Switzerland: The loneliness of being the only person who speaks no Hebrew in a room full of Jews or the lack of understanding towards people who came from Eastern Europe, not even knowing what being Jewish was supposed to mean. But the frequent sightings of big groups of people heading to the synagogue on Friday evenings or strolling through the city on Shabbat has, indeed, inspired me. I cherish the Shabbat mornings when we manage to get out of the house on time to join them, even though we are not a religious family. And I learned to laugh about the way people sometimes inquire where I got such a natural-looking wig, after they learn that I am Jewish.

Olga Osadtschy was born in Kiew (Ukraine) in 1985. She has lived, worked and studied in Germany, France and Italy and is currently a PhD candidate in history of art and media studies with the University of Basel. She is also an active member of the Ernst Ludwig Ehrlich Scholarship Fund for gifted Jewish Students (www.eles-studienwerk.de).

(Image: The city of Basel. Credit: Shutterstock/Arianda de Raadt)

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There can be no argument over facts, but the crux of the matter is how we fuse them into a distinct narrative and what that narrative does to our ability to change reality on the ground.

Europe is a wasteland. Anti-Semitism has reached a new historical pitch. European Jewry is in its terminal stage. Assimilate or emigrate.

In the last few years, I have repeatedly been exposed to this narrative and it would be dangerous and foolish to deny the facts upon which it rests. There is no question that anti-Semitism, fueled by the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression and unsuccessful integration policies that have failed to tackle social exclusion, has gone on the offensive in Europe with fatal results. The recent terror attacks at the HyperCacher kosher market in Paris and the synagogue in Copenhagen are cases in point.

There can be no argument over facts, but the crux of the matter is how we fuse them into a distinct narrative and what that narrative does to our ability to change reality on the ground. At their best, narratives become inspirational frameworks for action and empowerment. At their worst, narratives of failure transmute into self-fulfilling prophecies.

Beit Makhshava, the project I started two years ago, came into being out of a conviction that if there was to be a future for European Jewish life and culture, we needed an alternative to the narrative of victimhood and decline. At the same time, the challenge was to give birth to a voice that was rooted in a sober assessment of reality, and the point of departure was that the future of the Jewish presence in Europe is uncertain, for better or worse. Thus, Beit Makhshava was born with a clear agenda: to serve as an incubator for the conceptualization of the role of the Jewish presence in a rapidly changing Europe.

It is important to note that Beit Makhshava endeavors to look at the Jewish-European equation from both sides, as a way to understand Jewish life and culture in relation to the European context in which they are inscribed, but also as a way to read European current affairs from a text-based Jewish perspective. The programmatic goals of Beit Makhshava are only half of the story, though. The other half, without which Beit Makhshava would make no sense, was the idea to create a space for open discussion and reflection.

I am surely not the first one to claim that the pace of life has sped up substantially in the last two decades or so. Opportunities to work, travel, and communicate have been greatly increased and made accessible to the average citizen. The benefits of such developments are tangible, but they have come with a price. Arguably, a net loser in that operation has been the availability of spaces – both spatial and temporal – for unhurried discussion and reflection, what I would affectionately call “slow thinking.” In the near future, I wouldn’t be surprised if the non-Jewish world adopts a ‘lite’ version of theshabbes: the digital Shabbat, a day of rest for and from screens. In a similar vein, Beit Makhshava aims at providing a space where a minyan of participants can take a break from their daily lives and devote a week to learning, writing and discussion. That was the starting point for the retreat that Beit Makhshava organized last September in Glämsta, a summer camp located in the unique setting of the Swedish forests.

There is, it could be argued, an inherent tension between Beit Makhshava’s two main stated aims. On the one hand, it is a project with a clear agenda to foster creative thought bypassing narratives of victimhood and decline. On the other hand, it is a space for debate and deliberation that thrives in openness and lack of preconditions. But this tension is productive and fulfills a purpose. The constitutive elements for a new narrative cannot be created out of nothing – they must already have been recognized by the stakeholders.

Beit Makhshava is the place where those loosely linked ideas get a chance to crystallize into a larger, coherent whole. A remarkable example is the Glämsta Declaration, a four point document authored by the participants in the last Beit Makhshava retreat that calls for an overcoming of the centre/Diaspora dichotomy and seeks to reclaim the beit midrash as the main locus of Jewish life and culture.

It is our hope that 2015 will be the year where we harvest the fruits of the work from the Beit Makhshava retreat. We are planning an event in Brussels to officially present the Glämsta Declaration and discuss it with policymakers. We would like to invite European MPs and delegates from European Jewish organizations with representation in Brussels. We are currently looking for the necessary funding to make that possible.

We strongly believe that the time is ripe for a project such as Beit Makhshava. Europe is going through turbulent times, with the conflict in Ukraine threatening to escalate into an all-out war with Russia. The EU is not in a good shape either, with unbearable levels of youth unemployment in the Mediterranean basin and the rise of xenophobic and populist parties across the Union.

Fortunately, not everything is bad news. A new, more confident generation of cultured and well-traveled activists is taking the lead in the renewal of Jewish life and culture, often outside the established structures. The outcome of the complex and interrelated processes briefly outlined above will affect the ability of European Jewish life and culture to flourish, the magnitude of the opportunities and challenges lying ahead only matched by the amount of talent ready to be tapped.

Oriol Poveda is a PhD student in sociology of religion at Uppsala University, Sweden, and the founder of Beit Makhshava. 

This article originally appeared on EJewishPhilanthropy, February 19th 2015. It is republished here with permission of the author and EJewishPhilanthropy.

(Image: Jane Braden-Golay)

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I am excited about “Voices from Europe” because I see it as an opportunity to explore some of the core questions of Jewish peoplehood across communities, across the big pond and across different frames of reference. While I try to bring a variety of experiences and stories together, I’d also be really interested in hearing about what you want to know. Tweet at me and don’t be shy!

So without further ado:

1. Introducing JewSalsa

Meet David, Sterna and their friends, a group of young French Jews who have been mixing up the Jewish scene in France with their combo of Klezmer, Salsa and Oriental music, lots of dancing, flash mobs in downtown Paris and trips to Cuba and Israel all exploring and expressing a new spin on Jewishness!

They have been good friends of mine and my colleagues here at EUJS, teaching countless Jewish students the basics of Salsa and Bachata (or as they call it when done on a Friday night: Shabbachata!) and leading an incredible mash-up Havdala at our annual Summer University (more on that later). They also made a fun Shana Tova video (“Apple is dancing Salsa”) with our participants at Summer U’ 2012 in Budapest. They are definitively worth checking out… And if you find yourself in Paris, drop by one of their events!

2.  Is being hated just part of the deal?

I believe that the diversity of experiences, reactions and opinions about anti-Semitism in Europe and our future as a Jewish community here is connected to the fundamental question of how we understand what it means to be a Jew, and how we want to live as Jews. There are, of course, many different point of views and opinions on this.

One take is by author and broadcaster Michael Goldfarb, who concludes in this article about his personal experience with anti-Semitism in BBC Magazine that “(…) being hated is part of being Jewish.”

What do you think? What is part of being Jewish for you? Let me know @JaneBradenGolay!

3. Meanwhile, in communities across Europe:

Thousands are checking out the Jewish “return rights” in Portugal.

Italian city celebrates the reopening of their 13^th century Scolanova synagogue.

Local Muslims mobilize help to save Belgian synagogue, but also: Jewish students targeted by BDS activists on Belgian campus.

German Muslim leader says Jewish fears are “justified”.

(Image: David JewSalsa, www.jewsalsa.org)

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When I started telling people I was leaving Washington, DC for Brussels, Belgium, I received one of three responses. My cynical Republican friends would ask why would you leave the greatest nation in the world for a bastion of communism? (Admittedly, I started to wonder that myself after I received my first tax bill). Others would simply ask where is it? (A question that speaks wonderfully to the inferiority complex that Brussels has towards its fellow European capitals). But the most common response was how cool – you get to live in Europe!

That was the summer of 2009. Today, the responses are completely different.

When I now tell people I live in Brussels, the why is asked in the context of why would a Canadian Jew choose to live in Europe and the how in relation to the level of danger I face every day. Even the where question is less common as Brussels has become rather familiar to friends and family across the pond: “that’s where the Jewish Museum was attacked, right?” It is a tragic legacy for a truly wonderful city.

I get rather annoyed by this shift as it underscores a serious conceptual problem of how some see Europe today. My life in Europe (and I would argue that Jewish life in general) has become defined by one issue and one issue alone – anti-Semitism.  At least that is the case when back home in Canada or visiting the US.

The reality is so much more complex. I do question my long-term future here, but there are a range of reasons driving that assessment: Europe’s security infrastructure is beyond inadequate and has thus failed to deal with ISIS and the wave of fighters returning from Syria; it has failed to integrate immigrant populations; its economy is in shambles and the prospects are rather bleak; and, the EU is politically unstable and its future uncertain (I’m being kind here). I could go on.

Anti-Semitism is linked to some of these challenges and independent from others. It is part of the overall calculus, but it is not the single defining issue for me.

Why? I could speak at length about the reasons why the situation will eventually improve in Europe, but there is one constant that trumps all those arguments: anti-Semitism will never disappear. It remains nascent or near that at times, yet it is always present.

I was raised in Toronto, Canada, a generally peaceful place where Jewish institutions all take daily security measures and synagogues have a police presence on the high holidays (with regular security the rest of the time). I lived in Washington, DC for three years at a time when John Mearsheimer and Stephen Walt published their conspiratorial book The Israel Lobby and U.S. Foreign Policy (incidentally, I worked for two of the named organizations). I studied in Israel for two years, during the second Intifadah, where I was constantly in danger. Indeed, I wrote my dissertation on the use of anti-Semitic imagery in Egyptian political cartoons during the conflict. I’ve seen hatred everywhere.

Interestingly, the most anti-Semitic encounter I have had with a person in Europe was with an American – a fellow student – who repeatedly argues that Jews control the US government and that we are all rich (my student budget really wishes the latter was true).

Perhaps it is the Jewish historian in me (I’ve spent 6 years studying that field), but anti-Semitism has always been present. It has gone through its ebbs and flows throughout the centuries and it has taken many forms. I have no doubt it will continue to do so. Policies and laws can certainly be adopted to remove the most violent elements of the hatred, even curb its mass appeal. Yet the regrettable, simple truth is that it will always be there.

So when people tell me the Jews should leave Europe, I have trouble accepting it. It is such a simple response, but fleeing from Europe is not going to solve the problem. If the Jews leave, attacks will not stop. They will manifest in other forms and in other places. It is tragically only a matter of time.

Thus, I think the best way forward is to work towards improving the situation (undoubtedly you will hear more about efforts to do so on this site of the next few weeks). It’s scary and troubling, but it is not hopeless and it really is the only option we have.

I may well leave Europe one day, but I doubt that if you ask me why the response will be “because of anti-Semitism.”

Joshua Goodman is a Brussels-based radio host and an LLM candidate in Public International Law at the University of Kent, Brussels. He’s also a big hockey and rugby fan. Follow him on Twitter @lumber_josh.

(Image: The Jewish Museum of Brussels after the terror attack on May 24th 2014. Credit: skyfish / Shutterstock.com)

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Europe is so many things, and Jews, too, are so many things. I have had the very good fortune of diving into all this over the past couple of years, as president of the European Union of Jewish Students. And I can tell you, it overwhelms me and my colleagues time and time again. From Sweden to Macedonia, France to Lithuania, Bulgaria to Portugal: Stories of great pain and loss, stories of pride and confidence, stories of rediscovery and creation. Stories of joy and belonging.

The Jews and Europe.

We are knowingly launching Voices from Europe today, on Purim. Former Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes: “There are so many parts of the world today where ancient grievances are still being played out, as if history were a hamster wheel in which however fast we run we find ourselves back where we started. Purim is a way of saying, remember the past, but then look at the children, celebrate with them, and for their sake, put the past behind you and build a better future.”

Europe. Anti-Semitism. “Oh, you two know each other? Come on, just between you and me: Will things between you ever change?”

Whoever builds the future here in Europe will be giving the answer to that.

Over the next couple of weeks, “Voices from Europe” will share stories and opinions of young Jews living in Europe. I hope you will gain a sense of the texture of Jewish life, the individuals shaping their Jewish communities and the hopes, fears and frustrations of young Jews. To be clear: I will not shield you from the tough stuff, the very real difficulties and dilemmas so many of us are facing. That is part of the at-times seemingly paradox coexistence of heartbreak and hope here in Europe. Being Jewish in Europe can be about redefining a Jewish community’s place in society with full confidence in what we have to offer. It can be about feeling great when you’re doing Jewish things. It can be about awakening those around us to the Jewish heritage of their city and society, and inviting them to embrace it. It can be a deep exploration of meaning, purpose and obligation. It can be about family, friends, and love. This list is – of course – not exhaustive.

Expect posts every other day or so, by yours truly and other contributors. Also, be prepared for pop-quizzes about European Jewry, and the “Swiss-German word of the day” (It’s like German, but better.) Find me on Twitter @JaneBradenGolay – But keep the time difference in mind. Dankeschön, and see you around!

Jane Braden-Golay is president of the European Union of Jewish Students.

(Photo: Love Blomquist)

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