Two Jewish books, and writers, that make me proud

It used to irritate me how my mother couldn’t enjoy a book or a painting without first enquiring about the writer or artist: “Is s/he Jewish?” Myself, I’ve never been into so-called “Jewish pride”. Such emotional and linguistic bouquet hasn’t been my way of perceiving the world. I’ve never felt the need to be proud of any of my inherited characteristics. Fond of them, maybe. But why pride? Pride is generally not a virtue I admire, when it is self-directed.

But lately I’ve had to reconsider this position.

Since October 7, the Australian literary world has become obsessed with the same question as my mother, but for different reasons. Is this writer Jewish? Then where do they stand on the Palestine question? (Can you imagine a Chinese-Australian author being asked to publicly declare their stance on Uighurs?) And, increasingly, it’s been more straightforward: Jewish? Then let’s shut them up…

I am not being sarcastic, merely transcribing the new reality. On multiple occasions I’ve heard of Australian Jewish writers being told that “now is not the time for Jewish stories”. The tellers are never the readers, but professional gatekeepers – publishers, literary agents, grant assessors, festival organisers.

This state of affairs runs contrary to the current emphasis on diversity in the arts. Jewish authors, a tiny-tiny minority in this country, are the exception. Not only are we denied representation in cultural conversations, but often the denial is explicit. Some literary publications even make it their stated policy not to publish “Zionists”, meaning Jews who haven’t publicly denied Israel’s right to exist. Meaning most Jews.