Jewish South African or South African Jew?

It’s a question I’ve pondered for more than two decades, and one that feels more urgent than ever since 7 October 2023. That date is seared into our global Jewish consciousness, even as our own government refuses to acknowledge the grief behind it.

Having lived in Israel, the United Kingdom (UK), and South Africa, I’ve often asked myself: am I a South African Jew, or a Jewish South African? The order of those words may seem subtle, but the distinction runs deep, especially when identity, belonging, and loyalty are tested.

While living in the UK, I became acutely aware of the cultural differences between the South African and British Jewish communities. British Jews integrated into national life in a way that felt, to me, surprising: they shopped for Christmas; attended holiday parties; sang “G-d Save the Queen”; and were unapologetically patriotic. Their identity was British first, Jewish second. It felt natural for them. And I admired it.

Returning to South Africa more than 20 years ago, I felt a deep pull to re-root myself, not just in the Jewish community, but in the country itself. It was important to me to immerse myself in South African life, to contribute with my skills and experience, and to make a difference beyond my own immediate circle. This country gave me a career I doubt any other place could have offered. South Africa let me build, grow, and live with purpose.

Over time, I reassessed what mattered most. Yes, my Judaism is central to who I am. But so is my South Africanness.

Our presence here isn’t random. It’s not incidental. The Jewish people in South Africa have always punched above their weight – in business, philanthropy, civil society, and the arts.

Deuteronomy tells us, “G-d will scatter you among the nations, and you shall be few in number.” And yet, across history and across this country, we’ve done what Jews do best: we’ve shown up, stood up, and helped lift others up.

But then 7 October happened

In the months since, I have felt shaken. Not just by the tragedy and horror of that day, but by the indifference of our government in South Africa. Its public stance hasn’t just been disappointing, it has been devastating.

Many of us have felt betrayed. Not just as Jews, but as citizens. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: this government has let down all South Africans, not only Jews.

And so the question resurfaces: am I now more Jewish South African than South African Jew? Has my order of identity changed?

In many ways, the South African Jewish community has become more insular. We’ve closed ranks. We’ve protected our own. And understandably so. When the world feels threatening, we retreat to safety. But in doing so, I fear we are losing something vital: our outward gaze. The very thing that has always defined Jewish contribution in South Africa – our willingness to look beyond ourselves – is at risk.

In my own work, I see it every day. We are focusing inward, often at the expense of the greater society in which we live. Yet our moral obligation to South Africans remains.

We aren’t just Jews in South Africa, we are South African Jews – of this land, for this country.

Despite everything – failure of leadership, loadshedding, crime, corruption – I still believe there’s no better place to live than South Africa. We can – and must – care for our own. But we cannot isolate ourselves while our neighbours live in poverty and hopelessness. We still have so much to offer. So much to share. So much good to do.

Too many have lived here with a foot halfway out the door, always eyeing Sydney, Toronto, or London. Yet those very cities are now witnessing rising antisemitism, eroding the illusion that “somewhere else” is always safer. If we keep running, we will always be running. My cousin, who left South Africa more than 40 years ago, was visiting recently. He has lived successfully in America and Australia. He walked out of his hotel in Johannesburg, turned to me, and said, “I love this place. This is truly my home.”

The harder path is to stay, stand tall, and build. Not blindly. Not naively. But bravely.

I’m a Jew. I’m a South African. The order may shift depending on the day. But the truth remains: our people, not our politicians, define us. And in this beautiful, broken country, we still have a role to play.

• Martine Schaffer is an entrepreneurial changemaker and purpose-driven consultant for non-profit organisations. She was founding chief executive of an education foundation, led The Homecoming Revolution, and now helps build impactful projects.