#hebrewlanguage

In a quiet residential neighborhood in East Berlin, 11-year-old Sara lives with a fear that no child should have to carry. Artificial cobwebs from Halloween still hang on hedges, plastic pumpkins grin from doorsteps, but for Sara, the real fright is not from ghosts and ghouls—it’s from speaking Hebrew outside her home.

Sara, whose name has been changed for her safety, is a sixth-grader with dark curls that bounce as she moves. Like many children her age, she enjoys dressing up—this year, she went door to door on Halloween as "Wednesday" from The Addams Family. But unlike most of her classmates, Sara carries a deep anxiety with her every day.

"I'm afraid to speak Hebrew when I leave home because I fear someone will hear—and then yell at or attack me," she says, fidgeting with the sleeves of her striped shirt.

Her mother sits beside her at their large dining table, placing a gentle hand on Sara’s bouncing leg as she speaks. The fear is real, and it lingers in their home like an uninvited guest.

A Childhood Marked by Fear

Sara was born in Israel, where she spent her early childhood in a country accustomed to war. Air-raid sirens were a part of life. “When there were sirens and Sara started screaming, we would pull her out of bed,” her mother recalls.

It was precisely this kind of fear that her parents wanted to leave behind when they moved to Germany. “As a teenager in Israel, you live in fear that someone will blow up the bus on the way to school,” her mother explains. Wanting their children to grow up in a safer environment, they chose Berlin as their new home.

For years, the family felt secure. But after the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, tensions in Germany have risen dramatically. Anti-Semitic incidents have surged, pro-Palestinian protests have become heated, and Jewish families like Sara’s are feeling increasingly vulnerable.

The Fear of Being Recognized

Sara used to speak Hebrew with her parents during her subway ride to school. Now, they only speak German in public. She still calls them every morning as she commutes, but the familiar comfort of their native tongue has been silenced by fear.

Even in her dreams, this fear follows her.

"Yes, I sometimes have nightmares," she says hesitantly.

What kind of nightmares?

"That I speak to my mother in Hebrew and then someone starts insulting me or something."

For Sara, Germany was supposed to be a place of refuge, a place where she could feel safer than in Israel. Instead, she now finds herself in a different kind of fear—one that exists in whispers, sideways glances, and the quiet self-censorship of her own identity.

A Divided Life

One of the hardest things for Sara is being away from her extended family. “It just sucks that my family is in Israel,” she says bluntly.

Her uncle, her mother’s brother, volunteered for the Israeli army and is now stationed near the Gaza Strip. The family had planned their annual visit to Israel over the holidays, but with the war, they’ve canceled their trip.

At school, things feel normal—for now.

"There’s no one there who I'm afraid of," she says. Her teacher briefly mentioned the war once, but it hasn’t been a major topic in class.

Her closest friends are Muslim girls, and so far, their friendship remains unaffected. “Fortunately, the war against Hamas and the protests in Berlin haven’t been an issue between our families,” her mother says.

But when classmates ask Sara about the situation in Israel, she chooses the safest answer:

"I don’t know."

A Childhood That Should Be Free

Sara is only 11 years old. She should be worrying about homework, friends, and what to wear for the next Halloween—not about whether it’s safe to speak her native language in public.