This past spring break, I went to Poland on a heritage trip. While there, I was struck by how present the absence of Judaism was everywhere we went. We walked the streets of Warsaw, passing memorials and monuments left and right, watching as the people of Warsaw walked on by. We walked through Checiny, peering into the ruins of the old synagogue. We explored Krakow, running our fingers over dents in the doorways where a mezuzah (a piece of parchment inscribed with Hebrew verses from the Torah which is customary to put on one’s doorpost) once was. 

Seeing the space which was once the hub of Jewish life, and then seeing the destruction that occurred there during the war, I found myself begging for one last piece of the narrative: one where Jewish life is rebuilt and on the rise in Poland. 

While walking the streets of Kazimierz, the old Jewish neighborhood of Krakow,  I encountered a piece of Yiddish graffiti which kept repeating itself on the town’s walls. The graffiti says, in Yiddish, “Where are the Jews?”

Seeing this graffiti calling out the absence of Jewish life in what was once a Jewish neighborhood felt like a recognition of sorts. I began to fixate on this question – ‘Where are the Jews’ –  both literally and figuratively. Where is the Jewish presence that was once in this space? Where are the Jews, as a people, globally? Where is my Judaism? 

My final project explores the answers to these questions.

In Poland, I sought to capture photos which embody the emptiness I felt: a shul turned construction site, never-ending barracks, memorials amidst bright blue skies. These photos are displayed below on a rotation, each photo appearing for a few seconds before fading away into memory, much like the experience I had in Poland as I thought of my ancestors who were once there.

Since returning from Poland, I’ve focused on capturing spaces which I connect to in my Judaism. There’s a certain sense of connectedness amongst the Jewish community globally — a recognition of sorts. It’s there when you make eye contact with a stranger wearing a kippah on the subway or when you catch a glance of the person next to you checking for a kosher certification in the supermarket. The photos I include represent this feeling, images which embody a sense of connection and understanding, despite religious differences. To me, this link, the feeling of being both an individual and a community, is the defining piece of Judaism.

The last group of photos I chose to include are representative of my family’s Jewish history, and some of the most formative pieces of my identity: my family ring symbolizing graduation from a Jewish education; daily talmud study; my mother lighting Shabbat candles. 

My project takes each of these pieces and threads them together, forming a visual testament to the optimistic search for Judaism.