From Paris with Ahava (Love)

By: Ruth Zuraw ’25 (studied in Paris, France with APA)

The sound of muffled conversations filled the theater as I stood just outside the door, heart pounding. I had been in Paris for only a few weeks, but tonight felt like a turning point. I was about to enter a discussion event on Jewish themes in representation and art—my first real foray into the city’s Jewish community. As I took a deep breath and walked inside, I was immediately surrounded by French voices. I was nervous, but there was a certain excitement too. This was exactly the kind of experience I had been hoping for when I decided to study abroad in Paris: a chance to engage with others on topics close to my heart in a city that had long been home to vibrant Jewish intellectual life.

I found a seat, trying not to look too lost when a friendly French woman around my age introduced herself. Her enthusiasm put me at ease immediately. We started chatting, and soon enough, I found myself shifting effortlessly between Hebrew and French as we exchanged ideas. It was the first time I realized how much I’d grown linguistically. Without even thinking about it, I could discuss complex ideas without needing English as a crutch. That moment made me feel not only proud of my language skills but also like I was beginning to find my place here.

Emerging from the event later that evening, I walked down the bustling Parisian streets with a spring in my step. I hadn’t expected to feel so invigorated so early in my time abroad. I had connected with people, shared my opinions, and felt a growing sense of belonging. That night, I went to bed excited about what else the city had in store for me. I couldn’t wait to explore more of Paris and dive deeper into its Jewish culture.

But as the weeks went on, I began to feel a bit of a void. Sure, I was having amazing experiences and getting to know Paris, but something was missing—a larger, more connected community. My interactions at events were enriching, but they were fleeting. I wanted something more continuous, something that felt like home.

It was around that time that a couple of friends and I planned a trip to Central Europe, eager to explore beyond France. We visited Budapest, Vienna, and Prague, cities with rich and complex Jewish histories. While my friends explored museums and popular tourist spots, I spent most of my personal time seeking out Jewish landmarks—synagogues, memorials, and the remnants of once-thriving Jewish communities. Each place I visited had its own story of loss and resilience. In Budapest, I wandered through the Jewish Quarter, imagining the lives that once filled its streets. Vienna’s Jewish Museum presented amazing excavations of a medieval synagogue. And in Prague, walking through the Old Jewish Cemetery, I felt the weight of centuries of Jewish life, death, and survival.

Those moments were both painful and exciting. I could feel the loss, but at the same time, I was conscious of the fact that I, a Jewish student, was here now—re-exploring these spaces. I was a part of the continuity, in some small way, ensuring that these histories were not forgotten.

When I returned to Paris, I wanted to strengthen my connection to the Jewish community. A friend recommended KAHAL, a program designed to help study abroad students connect with local Jewish life, and I reached out. It was one of the best decisions I made during my time abroad. Soon, I found myself meeting with another study abroad student involved with KAHAL, and we grabbed coffee at a quaint Parisian café. It was a lovely conversation, one that touched on shared experiences we hadn’t been able to discuss with our other study-abroad friends. There was something deeply comforting about connecting with someone who understood that part of my identity.

One of the most meaningful experiences that came from that connection was attending a second-night Passover seder at one of the few reform congregations in Paris. It was a heartwarming event, filled with a mix of expats and locals, and I was once again struck by the fluidity with which I shifted between languages—praying in Hebrew while chatting in French and English. The sense of community was palpable, and for the first time since arriving in Paris, I felt truly anchored.

As my time in Paris drew to a close, I realized how much this experience had shaped me. Coming back to the U.S., I couldn’t help but reflect on the incredible opportunities that exist abroad for Jewish connection and identity-building. It became clear to me that these experiences are not just about academic or cultural exchange—they’re about finding ways to stay rooted in who you are, even in unfamiliar places.

Since returning, I’ve made it a point to share what I’ve learned with other students at Amherst who are either planning to study abroad or are already abroad. I want them to know that no matter where they go, there are ways to enrich their experience through their cultural, ethnic, and religious identities. I’ve shared resources and tips on connecting with local Jewish communities, finding student programs like KAHAL, and making the most of the opportunities available. It’s also become more important than ever to remember the challenges that Jewish communities face worldwide. Antisemitism is rising globally, especially in some of the most popular study-abroad destinations. It’s these moments that make connecting with local Jewish communities becomes even more powerful and meaningful.