“But aren’t you Ashkenazi?” 

As an Ashkenazi Modern Orthodox woman, I am inevitably asked this question whenever I describe my research background and interests into the experiences of Sephardi families in Jewish American educational and institutional life. 

The question, though usually asked with earnest curiosity and good intentions, underscores a troubling and misguided assumption that only someone of Sephardi descent would or should be studying the Sephardi world. What I have come to realize is that I didn’t fall into this research area despite my Ashkenazi Modern Orthodox background, but because of it.  

If Modern Orthodox Jews are to engage with and understand our increasingly interconnected secular society, we must first engage with and understand our increasingly diverse and interconnected Jewish brethren. To prepare Jewish children and adolescents for the diversity of viewpoints and lifestyles they will encounter in American society, Jewish educators, families, and communal leaders must thoughtfully shape educational environments that respect, elevate, and accurately portray the diversity of the Jewish people.

I have found that in their efforts to celebrate a united Jewish people and to strengthen American Jewry, educators often inadvertently elide the rich diversity within contemporary American Jewish communities. Sometimes this means Sephardi communities are treated as tangential to “mainstream” American Jews or are exoticized as intracommunal “others.” 

In much of my work, I analyze the impact of this approach in two dimensions: First, how does a school’s attitude about Sephardi heritage affect Sephardi students’ and families’ feelings about Jewish identity, cultural pride, and school belonging? Second, what messages are Jewish educational institutions instilling in all of their students — intentionally or not — about what Jews look like, what they do, and who may claim the “mainstream” American Jewish narrative? 

Regarding the first question, everyone I have interviewed on this topic — from school administrators and faculty to parents and lay leaders — agrees that schools with Sephardi representation should commit to creating inclusive environments that foster belonging among students and families of all backgrounds. Several decades ago, this focus on inclusive schools, which may seem obvious now, was less of a priority.  

Speaking with Sephardi adults who themselves attended predominantly Ashkenazi day schools, I have heard numerous accounts of educators who inadvertently marginalized their Sephardi students. For instance, one woman in her 30s remembers her teacher explaining Passover customs by saying, “We don’t eat kitniyot on Pesach,” casting Sephardim, who generally do eat kitniyot (foods like rice and corn) on Passover, as outside of the communal “we.” Other interviewees recalled their feelings of isolation when teachers casually incorporated Yiddish words and phrases into their lessons without explanation, assuming students would all understand. Adults whose schools did not offer Sephardi siddurim or minyan options reported that they had to relearn how to pray once they graduated, despite their many years of formal Jewish education.

Compared to 20 or 30 years ago, Sephardi parents as a whole now feel more empowered to speak up when they notice such imbalances in their children’s educational settings, and the overwhelming majority of parents I interviewed felt that school leaders are generally responsive to their concerns and are actively seeking to be more inclusive of Sephardi families. Indeed, my discussions with school administrators are less concerned with convincing them that Sephardi inclusion is important and more focused on ironing out the logistical details of how Sephardi inclusion policies should be implemented. 

A harder sell, however, is the idea that Ashkenazi-led institutions should emphasize Sephardi culture and content regardless of whether there is Sephardi representation among the students and their families. If Ashkenazi students are only exposed to Jewish history, culture, and practice through an Ashkenazi lens, they will profoundly misunderstand the rich intercultural tapestry of Judaism that has existed for millennia. For Modern Orthodox communities, such blindspots in our educational priorities may profoundly limit our children’s ability to effectively maintain their religious identities while navigating secular American society. 

As I see it, the future of American Modern Orthodoxy will be heavily determined by how our children see their Jewish selves and communities within our dynamic and diverse world, and it is the province of Jewish educators to prepare young American Jews — especially those in homogeneous communities — for that world.  

Years ago, before the internet and social media shrunk the distances between disparate geographic, religious, and cultural communities, it may have been possible for Ashkenazi Jewish children to encounter only other Jewish children who looked, celebrated, and practiced Judaism just like them. Twenty-five years into the new millennium, however, such limited exposure is no longer possible. Given our rapidly changing society, Jewish educators and leaders must reconsider and re-conceptualize the scope and diversity of American Jewish communities. 

Every generation of Jews has faced similar turning points. For centuries, Jewish philosophers and halakhists have debated the role of the sciences and humanities in Judaism, the nature of Jews’ interactions with their non-Jewish neighbors, and the position of the religious Jew within broader society. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, a.k.a. “The Rav,” widely considered to be the father of contemporary Modern Orthodoxy, offered a helpful framing of this paradoxical existence. When Avraham seeks to purchase land to bury Sarah in Hebron after her passing, he pleads his case to his neighbors: 

גֵּר-וְתוֹשָׁב אָנֹכִי עִמָּכֶם תְּנוּ לִי אֲחֻזַּת-קֶבֶר עִמָּכֶם וְאֶקְבְּרָה מֵתִי מִלְּפָנָי

“I am a stranger and a resident among you: give me a possession of a burial place with you, that I may bury my dead before me.” (Genesis 23:4) 

Says the Rav:

Abraham’s definition of his dual status, we believe, describes with profound accuracy the historical position of the Jew who resides in a predominantly non-Jewish society. He was a resident, like other inhabitants of Canaan, sharing with them a concern for the welfare of society, digging wells, and contributing to the progress of the country in loyalty to its government and institutions… However, there was another aspect, the spiritual, in which Abraham regarded himself as a stranger… His was a different faith and he was governed by perceptions, truths, and observances which set him apart from the larger faith community. In this regard, Abraham and his descendants would always remain “strangers.” 
(Reflections of the Rav, p. 169)

In the Rav’s formulation, faithful Jews are forever balancing their secular and their spiritual selves. In broad historical strokes, Sephardi Jews in the Muslim world were usually able to maintain strong Jewish communities and identities while regularly engaging with their non-Jewish neighbors. By contrast, Ashkenazi communities in Europe experienced unending cycles of begrudging tolerance and violence, and achieving this balance was more difficult.

Throughout American history and until today, many Jews, especially from Ashkenazi backgrounds, have rejected the secular/spiritual duality and have chosen to be either exclusively “stranger” or “resident,” to either shun the outside world and only engage when absolutely necessary, or to reject religious observance altogether. For Jews who continually aspire to the Rav’s balance of both “stranger” and “resident,” life can be a constant barrage of internal negotiations between the secular and spiritual selves. 

As we move into the next quarter of the century, a commitment to the stranger-resident balance will present new challenges. Indiscriminately opening the floodgates of American culture is a non-starter for many families and educators of young children, especially in religiously observant households and communities. At the same time, erecting strict barriers between Torah and the “outside world” can only hold back so much. While parents and educators certainly should protect their children’s physical and emotional safety in digital and analog spaces, we need to operate on the assumption that most Jewish American children are interacting with both Jewish and American worlds, and that they are actively navigating the balance of their Jewish and American identities. 

The question is not whether Modern Orthodox children should engage with the outside world, but how: How can we guide our children and inculcate in them the skills to navigate the broader world around them, all while still maintaining their own identities as committed members of the Jewish community? In other words, how do we teach our children to remain both “stranger” and “resident” without sacrificing either part of themselves? 

To achieve this goal, I propose that a core mission of Modern Orthodox Jewish education, especially in 2025 and beyond, should be to prepare the next generation to become comfortable living with uncertainty, to be able to hold multiple truths at once, and to live lives that are simultaneously Jewish and American, to identify as both stranger and resident. Such a mission cannot be achieved with single-use school-wide initiatives or isolated curricular units. Cultivating mindsets and dispositions that embrace, and even expect, nuance and complexity requires holistic shifts in the ways educators talk about Judaism and Jewish peoplehood. And teaching about the Sephardi world is a pivotal piece of this puzzle.

Children are naturally curious and creative, open-minded and hungry for new experiences, and they are capable of understanding that there is more than one way to be Jewish. In early childhood and early elementary classrooms, teachers can use picture books, music, personal narratives, and visual aids that depict the multiplicity of ways that Jewish communities from across the world look, practice, and experience Judaism. Similarly, in elementary and middle schools, formal lessons and school-wide programming about Jewish holidays can incorporate songs, foods, and customs from a range of Jewish cultures. As they learn daily, Shabbat, and holiday prayers, students can use tunes from different parts of the world, and teachers can introduce them to multiple liturgical traditions. 

Children will see that Jewish communities around the world may embody different, and perhaps even contradictory, religious laws and customs and yet those varying approaches to halakha and minhag can all be equally valid, equally rooted in Jewish traditions and history. The legitimacy of a family’s religious practices is not determined solely by whether they eat rice on Passover or whether they wait three hours between meat and dairy meals, and one family’s religious behaviors need not threaten or undermine the practices of others. Learning about Jews from different countries of origin can expand children’s understanding of and deepen their emotional ties to their Jewish brethren throughout the world, creating lifelong investment in global Jewish peoplehood.

These early foundations rooted in nuance and acceptance will serve children well as they grow into early and late adolescence, enhancing their appreciation and understanding of Jewish history, society, and peoplehood. As they study the development of halakhic traditions, teachers can emphasize the impact of local events and interactions on historic rabbinic rulings, noting the divergence of laws and customs across geographic areas and cultures. 

The diverse trajectories of halakhic discourse, across the world and across time, speak to the adaptability, dynamism, and resilience of the Torah, and demonstrate the innovative ways Jewish communities across the world have responded to change while maintaining allegiance to their traditions and values. By broadening the scope of Jewish history curricula beyond European settings, adolescents can appreciate Sephardi communities’ cultural contributions to their fellow Jews and to their non-Jewish neighbors, and they can feel proud of the impact the Jewish world has been making on human society for literally thousands of years. 

Learning about modern and contemporary Sephardi communities also provides a fuller picture of the history of Zionism and the modern State of Israel. Most of all, adolescents on the cusp of adulthood can graduate Jewish day schools with a richer and more accurate understanding of what it means to be a part of the Jewish people and what it means to stay true to yourself and your traditions while also appreciating those around you. 

Will this goal be achieved solely by incorporating Sephardi content and culture into Jewish day school curricula? Obviously not. But Sephardi inclusion can encourage and bolster a school culture that fosters openness, nuance, and acceptance, and that nurtures future graduates who implicitly know how to be both “stranger” and “resident.” 

Although the Rav roots his discussion of the stranger-resident duality in the words “ger v’toshav,” I humbly suggest that the next two words are existentially important as well. Avraham says, גֵּר-וְתוֹשָׁב אָנֹכִי עִמָּכֶם “A stranger and a resident I am among you.” How might a modern observant Jew achieve the status of גֵּר-וְתוֹשָׁב, a stranger-resident? By being אָנֹכִי עִמָּכֶם, “among you,” by deeply knowing to the very core who the אָנֹכִי, the self, is before going out among others, עִמָּכֶם.

Before we can effectively engage with and make a mark on American society and the broader world, we must first know who we are. We must prepare our children for the diverse, nuanced, and complicated world, and we can do that by committing to know, understand, and invest in our diverse, nuanced, and complicated Jewish histories, in our contemporary Jewish communities and schools, and in our interconnected Jewish destinies.