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Illustration by Juliana Neufeld
These days, it’s not easy to have the name Israel. Almost every day, I hear my name associated with war, conflict and genocide.
But for me, Israel is not an embattled country in the Middle East. It is the name of my parents, sister and grandparents. It is a link to my ancestors and a connection to Jewish people all over the world. In Hebrew, Israel means to wrestle – referring to the name Jacob was given after struggling with God. I, too, have wrestled with this loaded yet deeply meaningful name.
As a child who attended Jewish school in Montreal, I envied friends who had more Anglicized names. I fell into the group of students who could be easily identified and targeted – Cohen, Levy, Israel. Here I was, a Jewish minority within an Anglophone minority within a French-Canadian majority. Not an easy reality to navigate for a young girl. It was my Uncle Mac’s relationship with his Québécois girlfriend, Georgette, that taught me that religious, cultural and social boundaries could occasionally be transcended.
As I matured into adolescence and learned about the horrors of the Holocaust, I knew that there were people in the world who would hate me without even knowing me – just because I am a Jew. “Why don’t you change your name?” I was asked. “Make it easier on yourself.” I declined, thinking it would be a betrayal of my Jewish heritage and history.
My father’s best friend, Erich, survived Auschwitz. I recall going to a Jewish bakery in Montreal, where the woman behind the counter had a tattoo on her arm. That image always haunted me. The spectre of the Holocaust still haunts Jews to this day – it is in our collective DNA.
As an elementary school teacher, I have fielded questions about my name: “Where were you born?” “Are you Israeli?” “What’s your religion?” At one school, a student approached me after the first day of class. I had been hired to teach music, and I anticipated a question like “Who’s your favourite singer?” Or “Do you like Taylor Swift?” Instead, they asked me – point blank – “Do you support Israel?” (this was pre-Oct. 7). I was shocked by the boldness of the question. “Yes,” I said. In retrospect, I could have given a more nuanced answer if I were conversing with an adult: I don’t always agree with Israeli policies, but I believe in Israel’s right to exist as a sovereign state.
The story might have ended there, had it not been for a conversation I had later that day with the student’s teacher. She agreed that they had crossed a line. Moreover, she reiterated how important our names are – something teachers are always emphasizing to students, in efforts to affirm their identities in our classroom. “I have a long ethnic name that’s hard to pronounce,” she said, “but I have my students say it, instead of calling me Mrs. P because it’s easier.”
Ultimately, the student apologized, and I showed them a photo of my grandfather, Morris Israel, dressed in his First World War uniform. I explained that my family had roots in Quebec that dated to 1900 – I am third-generation Canadian on my father’s side. We were Israel before Israel was Israel!
I have learned that the only way to get to know “the other” – someone outside our own group, religion or culture – is to engage in dialogue. In 2017, I travelled to Israel and befriended a Palestinian man while on a hiking trip. He was the last person I ever expected to meet, let alone spend time with. I remember how nervous I was when I went to Bethlehem to have lunch with him. But I trusted my gut – that I would be safe with him. Ultimately, we got to know each other – not as Jew and Muslim or Canadian and Palestinian, but as two human beings.
During that fateful trip, I toyed with the idea of making Aliyah – moving to Israel – but ultimately decided to continue living my life in Canada. I wanted to live the rest of my life as a Jewish individual in a multicultural society, instead of as a Jew in a Jewish state. I wanted to continue living in the country that had opened its doors to my Lithuanian and Russian grandparents, who had fled the persecutions and pogroms of Europe.
I am one of Canada’s 400,000 Jewish citizens – 1 per cent of the population. We are statistically insignificant, yet we are on the receiving end of so much hatred and bigotry. I know what it’s like to open up a textbook and see multiple swastikas and the word Jew crossed out. How do children learn to hate at such a young age?
My goal as a teacher is to share my culture and identity with students who have no clue about Judaism. I want to do what I can to combat the hate, ignorance and antisemitism I see being unleashed in my country of birth. I am a proud Canadian named Israel. Get to know me beyond my name.
Robyn Israel lives in London, Ont.
Editor’s note: A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that Jewish citizens comprise 0.1 per cent of the Canadian population. They are 1 per cent of the population. This version has been updated.