By Anouchka Ettedgui, Staff Writer
My whole life I’ve been categorized. It usually starts with a simple question, asked casually, like it’s no big deal. “So… what are you?” Not “who are you?” or “what do you believe?” Just “what are you?”
Are you Charedi? Modern Orthodox? Chabad? Reform? Breslov? Dati Leumi?
I used to pause when people asked me that. I would try to think of the answer that made the most sense to them. The one that would put me neatly into a box they understood. But the truth is, the older I get and the closer I try to grow to Hashem, the more I realize that I don’t fit in one box. And honestly, I don’t want to.
Every part of the Jewish world holds something beautiful. Something true. Something that has helped shape the Jew I want to be.
I want to be Charedi in the purity of my home. I want my home to feel holy. A place where you feel the spirituality and warmth the moment you walk in. Where the table is full, where Torah is spoken about as a part of everyday life, where modesty and dignity create a quiet kind of holiness. A home where Hashem isn’t just Someone we talk about, but Someone we can actually feel.
I want to be Chabad in the way I love other Jews. The Lubavitcher Rebbe taught the world something radical in its simplicity: love every Jew exactly as they are. No conditions. No interrogation about their level of observance. Just genuine love. Because every Jew carries a spark of Hashem inside them. Sometimes all they need is someone to remind them of that.
I want to be Breslov in my faith and in my joy. Rabbi Nachman taught something that has stayed with me since I first heard it: despair doesn’t belong to a Jew. Life gets confusing. Life gets painful. Sometimes we feel lost. But even then, there is always hope. Always a path back to Hashem. Sometimes that path is through prayer, sometimes through tears and sometimes through something as simple and powerful as joy.
I want to be Chassidic in how I serve Hashem beyond the letter of the law. Judaism was never meant to feel robotic. It was meant to make us feel alive. To sing louder during davening (prayer), to dance when we feel grateful. To do a little more than what is required simply because we love Hashem. Because when your relationship with Hashem is real, it’s not just about obligation. It’s about connection.
I also want to be Dati Leumi (religious Zionist) in my love for Israel. Because loving Am Yisrael (the nation of Israel) also means loving Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel). It means recognizing the miracles unfolding before us, and embracing a time when the Jewish people have returned to our land after thousands of years. It means understanding that Jewish identity is not only spiritual. It is also national. Historical. Alive in every breath.
Each of these worlds carries something sacred. So why do we treat them like they are competing against each other? Why do we divide ourselves into categories when Hashem created us as one people? Sometimes I wonder how Hashem looks down at us.
Do you think He sees labels?
Do you think He sees Charedi, Modern Orthodox, Chabad, Reform, Breslov, Dati Leumi? Or does He simply see His children, each one trying in their own way to come closer to Him?
The beauty of Judaism was never meant to come from uniformity. It was meant to come from harmony. Different voices, different paths, different communities, all moving toward the same things. Torah. Faith. Love for Am Yisrael. Love for Eretz Yisrael. Love for Hashem.
My whole life, I felt the pressure to categorize myself. But not anymore.
Now, when people ask me what I am, I don’t hesitate. I tell them the truth. I am Charedi in the holiness of my home. I am Chabad in the way I try to love every Jew. I am Breslov in my faith and joy. I am Chassidic in my desire to serve Hashem with my whole heart. And I am Dati Leumi in my love for the Land of Israel.
Because before any of those labels existed, there was only one thing that mattered. We are all part of Am Yisrael. We are all Hashem’s children. And that is enough.
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