By Kathryn Fleisher

Across from my bed, on the wall of my bedroom, is a sheet of paper with three Hebrew words: “tzedek, tzedek tirdof.” Justice, justice you shall pursue. 

This commandment – to do what is right by others, to stand up and speak out against injustice – is the first thing I see when I wake up and last thing I see before I go to bed. It drives me to be the best version of myself. 

But this relationship with Judaism wasn’t always the case.  

For me, Judaism was never a given. I grew up in an interfaith household in Dubuque, Iowa, where our synagogue had 20 families, no rabbi, and no kids except my sister and me. My parents approached religion by giving me space to ask questions, to push back, and to wrestle with my beliefs, but they never forced me to go to temple. For me, Judaism was always a choice.

When I was in third grade, though, our family moved to Cleveland, where we visited a new temple. From the moment I stepped into that tiny synagogue, I knew I was where I needed to be – that I was home. Joining this community brought me a sense of belonging I didn’t know I was missing. It also introduced me to an amazing organization that shaped my values, connected me to my best friends, and became the most transformative movement I’ve ever been part of. 

You may have heard of it. It’s called NFTY. 

 NFTY taught me why Judaism resonated with me: that, at its core, Judaism is about repairing our broken world so that everyone – even future generations we’ll never know – can live in a more whole, just, and compassionate world. That’s what Judaism is. Judaism is pursuing justice. And it’s belonging to a community where everyone shares that same understanding.

Last year, I experienced a heartbreaking reminder of why this understanding of Judaism is so fundamental – not only to me and to my identity but to the very survival of our people.  

As a student at the University of Pittsburgh, I think about October 27, 2018, every day. On that Shabbat morning, I watched as ambulances and police cars raced past my apartment to the nearby Tree of Life synagogue, where a known anti-Semite with an AR-15 and three handguns stormed inside and fired at random. We lost 11 members of our community that day.

Afterward, I couldn’t eat or sleep or go to class. How could I, after this terrifying, antisemitic, xenophobic act of gun violence had happened just down the street? I couldn’t lift myself from the fog of grief and blame. 

Eventually, though, that sheet of paper on my wall – my reminder of “tzedek, tzedek tirdof” – did what nothing else could do. It reminded me that despite the worst possible circumstances, we, as Jews, have to keep fighting for our rights and the rights of all people. When nothing else made sense, I found comfort in the work of pursuing justice.

In the aftermath of the shooting, I helped organize rallies and vigils throughout Pittsburgh to denounce white supremacy and call for commonsense gun reform. Very quickly, however, I realized I would need to do more. So I decided to take up my generation’s fight against gun violence, throwing myself into working to end the senseless, preventable violence by firearms that plagues this country.

I decided I would not allow myself to be driven by fear, as the shooter had intended, but rather by unconditional compassion for people who look, speak, love, believe, and pray differently than I do. I decided to embrace a questioning of the unknown – just as my parents taught me to do – so that I could find a different path forward towards justice.  This approach and ideology motivated me to found Not My Generation, a nonprofit organization that pursues localized, intersectional gun violence prevention advocacy for young adults. Standing together, we at Not My Generation declare that an attack against one marginalized community is an attack against us all – and that our generation refuses to be victims any longer. 

I’m proud of this work and grateful for the support this community has provided, from leadership development training I received in NFTY to the opportunity to help build and lead the RAC’s gun violence prevention campaign as a member of the Commission on Social Action. But what I’m most grateful for is that my faith — my Jewish identity is at the very core of my work. When I’m organizing and marching and lobbying for gun violence prevention, that is me practicing my Judaism. 

And that’s why I love this movement so deeply. It’s why I wake up and chose to be Jewish every single day. Because I believe that my purpose on this Earth – our purpose – is to do justice. Because of Judaism, because of the Reform Movement, this is who I am.