My husband and I were sitting on a tarmac at Newark Airport, just having landed from a vacation in France, relieved to come home, where we could be openly Jewish again. Visits to that country are always laced with stress for us, Orthodox Jews whose appearance broadcasts our identity. Being home meant that my husband, a rabbi, didn't have to hide his kipa or tuck in his tzitzis. It meant we no longer had to check emergency exit signs in kosher restaurants, or change the subject when cabdrivers asked us where we're from.
Then I turned on my phone.
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