My year of living Jewishly

I grew up in a militantly atheist house. Religion was seen as a superstition and an inability to think for oneself, linked with intolerance and violence.

I remember my stepfather chasing Christian doorknockers down the drive. Offended by the affront to his rationality, he’d delivered some choice words that sent them scurrying away. They stopped a little way from the house, perhaps to regroup, and he launched himself at them with a shooing sound.

At the same time, I was always aware of my Jewish heritage. My grandmother talked often about her famous ancestor Emanuel Solomon, who was an outsize figure in South Australian history: a convict who ended up a successful businessman, parliamentarian and philanthropist.

Growing up in the outskirts of Melbourne, envying the kids who had something more than vanilla culture, it felt like being related to a celebrity.

I didn’t grow up anti-religious, just indifferent. I never felt the need for it in my life. I described myself as humanist or atheist. 

But I thought it was important to ensure my children were aware of their ancestry. When we visited Adelaide, we went to see the cemetery as well as the zoo and the Haigh's Chocolates factory. The children loved finding their ancestors among the oldest crumbling tombstones in the Jewish section.

So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when my youngest, J, started to explore belief systems. As an adolescent, they began reading history and theology and learning Hebrew.

When J decided to start keeping kosher, I said I would too. It could be very lonely otherwise. We live four hours and 330 kilometres from the nearest synagogue. The census says our population of 23,000 includes 26 Jews.