It was January 2015 and a close friend from Paris told me she was scared. A few days earlier, jihadi terrorists had attacked the offices of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, murdering journalists who had published a caricature of the Prophet Muhammad. Then another terrorist entered the Hypercacher kosher supermarket and murdered four Jewish shoppers. Her father-in-law and brother-in-law had been there earlier that day.
Although my friend was understandably shaken by these events, what stood out the most was something else she said: that since moving from Israel to Paris, she had barely mentioned to anyone that she was Jewish. She wasn’t open about how she used to live in Israel. She hid that part of herself.
I immediately understood why. Growing up in Hong Kong and London, I learned early that being Jewish could become an issue just because someone else decided to make it one. In Hong Kong, a boy who bullied me marched around doing the Nazi salute while other children laughed. In London, kids spotted the Ten Commandments on my Jewish school blazer and surrounded me while shouting, “Get that Jew.” I got away physically unscathed. The damage was on the inside, where no one could see.
There were other moments over the years—some subtle, some not. Most Jews know the feeling. You can be moving through life when, without warning, someone reminds you that they’ve already decided what a “Jew” is. So, when my friend expressed her experience, I empathized with her fear. I also hated that she felt she had to live that way. That night, after our conversation, I was inspired to write—as if to her. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.
The first three words appeared on the screen: I’m that Jew. I stared at them, wondering what they meant. Who was “that Jew”? What Jew was I? Was I the stereotype? The caricature invented before a real Jewish person had even entered the room? What does “that Jew” even mean?
I kept writing. About the thinking Jew, the working Jew, the funny Jew, the arrogant Jew, the humble Jew, the brilliant Jew and the ridiculous Jew. I wrote about our contradictions, flaws, achievements, and humanity. No longer just to my friend, those three words became my own declaration. My personal testimony. Something that had been sitting inside me for years, since childhood, was finally finding its way out. I wanted to flush that familiar, hostile stereotype of the Jew down the toilet and replace it with everything that we truly are. Real people in all our beauty, breadth, and messiness.
I posted the piece online. People shared it. Strangers responded. One person commented, “I’m that so-nice-to-know-I’m-not-the-only-one-who-feels-that-way Jew.” Right then and there I realized that what I had written wasn’t mine alone. I started imagining the written piece as something people could experience visually. A video with every characteristic paired with a real Jewish person. Albert Einstein would be “that wild-haired-genius Jew.” Jerry Seinfeld, “that not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that Jew.” Amy Winehouse, “that damn-I’m-gone-too-soon Jew.”
I committed to my vision and went to work. After months of writing, editing, and producing, I had a six-minute film. People I trusted loved it but told me it was too long and that nobody would watch it. Though I understood their point of view, shortening it didn’t sit well with me. The hateful stereotypes we were facing were already doing the cutting—taking millions of people and reducing them to one or two ugly characteristics. I didn’t want to respond by reducing us again. In fact, I didn’t want to respond at all. I was making a statement.
Then came October 2015. Israel was swept up by a wave of terrifying stabbings across the country. Jews were attacked by Palestinian terrorists in shopping centers, on streets, at bus stops and restaurants. Ordinary people in ordinary places. The world’s condemnation was absent, and the silence was deafening. Angry and frustrated, I became consumed with finishing the film and worked for 48 hours straight without sleep. When it was finally ready, the anxiety of posting and putting my name on it became real.
It meant I’d be telling my friends, colleagues, and clients exactly where I stood as a proud Jew. Knowing it would come with risks, I momentarily considered releasing it anonymously, but doing so felt absurd. “I’m That Jew,” by someone who would rather not say who they are. Sure, I was concerned about inviting hatred into my life (and, possibly, into the lives of my wife and kids) but hiding felt wrong. Hiding would make the whole thing meaningless, and meaning is everything to me. If I was going to say, “I’m that Jew,” I had to be willing to say it as myself. I quickly drafted a caption for my Facebook post, as much for myself as for anyone else:
Lest any Jew forget, because of all the violence directed at us, the hatred, the incitement to harm and kill, the vile words, the missiles, the rockets, the knives, the rocks, the deafening silence of the world that we all feel right now, we should be proud of our heritage, accomplishments and spirit. Just like anyone else on this planet. And we shouldn’t be shy about it.
Rise up, speak up and keep your chins up. We’ll get through this because we love life, and we’re strong, smart, funny, beautiful, talented, resilient, educated, hardworking, positive and so much more. We’re okay. In fact, we’re more than okay. We rock. And here’s a little reminder.
The video began spreading within hours. The emotional reaction was nothing short of staggering. Thousands shared it and, in doing so, put their own names on it. The numbers kept climbing, reaching a million views within days. Strangers offered to translate the script. Ten languages later, Jews and non-Jews continued commenting, liking, and sharing from around the world. Alone in my study, reading messages from people I’d never meet but who had found their self-expression through something I had made, I sat and wept. What had begun as a letter to a frightened friend had become something much larger than either of us.
Years went by and the film went on to be seen over 15 million times. Anti-Semitism, unfortunately, also held strong. I continued writing, expressing, and creating on social media. Jewish advocacy became my passion.
Then came October 7, 2023. Like so many people in Israel and across the Jewish world, my life changed that morning. I immediately made the decision to pause new client work and turn all of my attention to giving Jews and Israelis strength, hope, and a way to express what I knew we all needed: a reminder of who we are and that we would get through this too.
I created non-stop, often working 18-hour days. I made new films, wrote articles, designed posters, created campaigns, and collaborated with Jewish and non-Jewish allies alike. I travelled to the U.S., Canada, and Australia to support Jewish communities and strengthen their Jewish identity. More often than not, I was trying to give words to what so many people felt but were struggling to articulate. Every time I put a piece of work out in the world, I hoped others would make it their own. I wanted Jews to feel less alone in whatever they were trying to express. I wanted to help them fight the good fight. Above all, I wanted the world to truly see us.
I didn’t create “I’m That Jew” to defend Jewish identity. I created it to own it.
“I’m that Jew” has never been about me. It’s about Jewish people embracing and openly celebrating everything about who we are.
That desire was the motivation behind ZIONisM, a recent project of mine, co-created with Dr. Einat Wilf. We’ve all been watching in horror as the word “Zionism” is bastardized to the point of becoming unrecognizable, and many Jews are understandably hesitant to use it themselves. Combining Einat’s unique subject material and historical expertise and my emotive storytelling and communication skills, we tried to explain what Zionism is clearly, accurately, and without apology.
Jewish identity isn’t a subject I casually dip into whenever it’s convenient to do so. It’s my home, my history, and my core. I’m a creative director by training and manage my own agency—Natie Branding. I understand how stories can inspire and move people bravely to action. These are the tools I have, so these are the tools I use. I didn’t create I’m That Jew to defend Jewish identity. I created it to own it.
I imagine that most Hineni moments don’t arrive with grandeur. Sometimes they begin with a conversation. In 2015, a dear friend living in Paris told me she was too scared to reveal her Jewish identity and show the world who she really was. In solidarity, I wrote her a letter that turned out to be a letter for all of us. I had no idea that three words, “I’m That Jew,” would lead to years of creative work more personal and rewarding than I could ever have imagined. I only knew that silence felt wrong.
And so, I continue.
I’m that Jew. And here I am.
Hineni.
