My mother died on Dec. 4 of last year. On her deathbed, she begged me not to raise my children Jewish. In life, she worked for the CIA, in the Near East Southern Asia Division, for six years as head of the Arab-Israeli Division. She was an expert on Syria and political Islam.
We were watching footage of hostages being paraded around Gaza when she said it. “I worry about them,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the TV. “It’s too dangerous a religion,” she told me. “I don’t want that target on their backs.” I couldn’t tell what she was asking of me: Did she want me to skip the few traditions my family has held onto? Hanukkah candles and meager Seders? Or was she saying I shouldn’t tell my kids that they were Jewish at all? I didn’t ask. I was too afraid of what she would say.
