By JESSICA TAMI COHEN, Cape Town architect living in Kommetjie
Long before she met my father and decided to become Jewish, my mother loved Israel.
She loved it for its ancient stories, its vibrant music and traditions, its resilience and beauty, its people who sang and danced even through hardship. She loved the freedom it promised – for everyone, regardless of race, gender, or religion. She even loved Israeli salad for breakfast. But she struggled with the language, spoken at such speed that only the well-trained ear could keep up.
Born in England before World War II, my mother’s understanding of persecution came early. As a child, she was evacuated to the countryside during the Blitz. There, she met Jewish refugees fleeing extermination in Europe –haunted children, wide-eyed and desperate to hide their identity. That early experience left its mark.
As a young adult, she travelled Europe on a shoestring – bootlaces tied with chewing gum, sleeping on ferry decks – until she reached Israel. On Kibbutz Amiad, she fell in love with the land and its people. She befriended a Holocaust survivor whose trauma had shattered his mind. She joined archaeologists at Masada, volunteered with the IDF, travelled through deserts under red skies, and ventured into Jordan in the back of a Jeep. Israel, for her, was not just a place; it was a profound calling.
Later, in South Africa, she met my father. He gave up his Orthodox roots so they could build a Jewish life together, centred on Temple Israel. She threw herself into Judaism, teaching Hebrew and Jewish history, writing academic theses, and amassing a library of books on Israel, Judaism, and the Holocaust.
She visited Israel often. I was six the first time I went. By 13, I’d floated in the Dead Sea, climbed Masada, placed my prayer in the cracks of the Western Wall, wandered through Al Aqsa mosque and the forests of the Golan Heights, and tasted hummus and halva in Jerusalem’s colourful shouk. I’d walked the tree-lined Avenue of the Righteous at Yad Vashem, seen the piles of shoes and glasses taken from gas chamber victims, and learned about the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust.
But my mother never taught me hate. She taught me to understand history, to resist brainwashing and discrimination, and to recognise resilience. I grew up knowing that Israel had turned swampland into a thriving democracy, that Jews had fought to survive from the moment the State was declared, and that peace – when it came – was hard-won.
As I matured, my Jewish identity took
on a quieter tone. Life moved forward, and while I remained connected, that deep sense of urgency dulled. Until October 7th.
When Hamas attacked Israeli civilians – ripping people from their beds, slaughtering families, beheading babies – something shifted. The dust on my Jewish identity was shaken off completely.
Suddenly, I felt the weight of inherited memory and current reality converge. I needed answers. I began listening – obsessively. I found comfort and clarity in podcasts like Jew Oughta Know, Israel Daily News, and Times of Israel’s Daily Briefing. I listened to What Came After for stories of strength and survival. I started relearning Hebrew through Streetwise Hebrew, KAN Israel, and the i24 News app.
I also began questioning – deeply. I listened to Yuval Harari critique Netanyahu’s attempts to weaken Israel’s Supreme Court on Lex Fridman’s podcast – and then listened to Netanyahu defend those same efforts. I played Lex’s prologue on love and dialogue again
and again.
I found myself wearing my “יח” necklace again, alongside three small yellow flowers, even as anti-Israel protests flared around me. I held firm in the face of banners outside Jewish shops, watching brave souls at intersections proudly wave Israeli flags. Through it all, I was bolstered by my husband. Though not Jewish, his unwavering sense of justice grounds me. He claims he’s not necessarily pro-Israel – just anti-evil.
I’ve listened to survivor testimonies from hostages held in Gaza – damaged, yet defiant. I’ve drawn strength from Rachel Goldberg-Polin, mother of murdered hostage Hersh, and peace activist Rawan Osman, a Lebanese Syrian who speaks bravely for shared humanity.
My mother’s tales of Israel are no longer just stories – they are a legacy I carry more urgently than ever before. Her passion, her teachings, her moral compass – they have shaped how I see the world, and how I choose to stand today.
I will always try to keep my mind open, to listen deeply, to consider both sides. But I will also speak up – loudly when needed – and keep searching for joy, even in the darkest moments.
Because that’s what my mother taught me. And that’s what it means to live fully – alive, aware, and unafraid. ●
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