Category: Women

The Bay Area has emerged as a significant hub for a growing alliance between Jewish and Hindu communities, marked by shared experiences and mutual support in the face of adversity.

Tali Klima walked in the chilly rain in San Francisco, surrounded by thousands of fellow Jews carrying Israeli flags and signs denouncing antisemitism during the Unity March in early 2024. The atmosphere shifted when a group of protesters appeared, prompting tension among the marchers.

“They were heckling us from the sidelines, and everyone tensed up,” Klima recalled. “It was uncomfortable. It was scary.”

However, a powerful moment unfolded when two Hindus stepped between the marchers and the protesters, brandishing Indian flags in orange, white, and green as a protective barrier. “It was such a sign of strength and protection for us,” Klima said, describing the emotional impact of their gesture. “I saw so many people come up to thank them afterward.”

For Klima, a South Bay resident and spokesperson for the grassroots advocacy group Bay Area Jewish Coalition (BAJC), this incident symbolizes the deepening alliance between two minority groups. Over the past two years, Hindu and Jewish organizations across the Bay Area have increasingly found common ground, sharing resources and supporting each other at rallies, holidays, and political events.

Barry Kramer, a regional board member of the American Jewish Committee (AJC) and its local liaison to the Hindu community, noted that the relationship took a significant turn following the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. “The Jewish and Hindu communities have had good relations for a long time, but the level of connection has increased significantly since Oct. 7 in many areas,” he said. “It’s been very heartening and rewarding to see this growth in our relationship.”

The alliance between Hindus and Jews has been developing nationwide for decades. A notable milestone occurred in 2003 with the launch of the Hindu American Foundation (HAF), which was explicitly modeled on the Anti-Defamation League. Since then, Hindu advocacy groups have established lobbying operations similar to AIPAC and diplomatic efforts aimed at strengthening U.S.-India ties, paralleling the long-standing efforts of Jewish organizations to bolster U.S.-Israel relations.

By 2007, the relationship had matured enough to host the first Hindu-Jewish Summit in New Delhi. Both communities in the United States share many similarities, including comparable income levels, similar political leanings, and a strong connection to their ancestral homelands.

Vijay Rajvaidya, who has observed these parallels for decades, explained that both groups are ancient civilizations with rich histories. “We both are ancient civilizations with old religions and beliefs,” he said. “We became independent nations at around the same time. And post-independence, our challenges were also the same.”

The Bay Area is home to large populations of both communities, with hundreds of thousands of individuals identifying as either Jewish or Hindu. According to the Pew Research Center, the region hosts the third-largest Indian American population in the country, with nearly half identifying as Hindu.

In Silicon Valley, many Israeli and Indian immigrants encounter one another in the tech industry, where both groups have a strong presence among entrepreneurs and software engineers. Oded Hermoni, co-founder of J-Ventures, a venture fund focused on Israeli and American Jewish entrepreneurs, noted the synergy between the two communities. “The best people of India and the best people of Israel sometimes are here in Silicon Valley, and then you can work with them directly,” he said. “It makes a lot of sense. We feel like brothers. It’s a very similar culture.”

These relationships have fostered joint events, including holiday celebrations. In December 2021, the Peninsula Multifaith Coalition brought Jews and Hindus together at Peninsula Temple Beth El in San Mateo to celebrate Hanukkah and Diwali side by side. About 40 attendees shared stories behind each group’s festival of lights.

In September 2023, AJC and HAF hosted their first joint cultural gathering in San Francisco, pairing Janmashtami, the birthday of Hindu deity Krishna, with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. The largest event to date occurred in March 2025 when HAF collaborated with Jewish Silicon Valley and the Jewish Community Relations Council Bay Area for a Holi-Purim festival at the Addison-Penzak Jewish Community Center in Los Gatos, attracting over 500 participants for music, dancing, and cultural festivities.

BAJC also plans to participate in the annual India Day parade and festival in Fremont in mid-August. Mihir Meghani, a co-founder of HAF, noted that the October 7 attack sparked a wave of solidarity among Hindu Americans, as it resonated with their own historical experiences of violence. He attended several vigils and rallies following the attack, emphasizing the shared vulnerability felt by both communities.

“We didn’t look at it like ‘these were Jews killed,’” Meghani said. “This could have been us on a different day. It could have been a Hindu. It could have been an Indian. It could have been us at a local Hindu temple.”

In April 2025, a tragic incident in Pahalgam, Kashmir, where Islamist terrorists killed 26 people, mostly Hindus, further solidified this bond. Jewish groups like StandWithUs and BAJC participated in memorials and events across the Bay Area in response to the attack.

“It was almost like Oct. 7 flashing back, just replace the actors,” BAJC co-founder Oded Shekel said. “The victims were attacked not because of what they’ve done, but just because of who they are and what their identity is. I think that’s what connects immediately to us.”

Gilli Yahalom, who oversees BAJC’s partnerships with non-Jewish groups, pointed out that the two communities have bonded over shared threats. “Our people really felt such a strong connection because we really share the same pain and fear from radical Islam,” Yahalom said.

However, Klima emphasized that the relationship has evolved beyond a mere reaction to shared fears. “If that is all it was, then I think it wouldn’t hold over time,” she said.

Grassroots activism has flourished around local issues of mutual concern. Ahead of California’s June 2026 primary, BAJC-Action, the group’s political affiliate, mobilized hundreds of volunteers to create an online voter guide, collaborating with the Hindu American PAC to assess candidates’ positions on antisemitism, Hinduphobia, and the geopolitics of Israel and India.

Yahalom expressed a commitment to supporting public figures who advocate for both communities. “We are committed to supporting public and political figures in every role who are good for both the Hindu community and Jewish community,” she said.

Ties are also being forged around statewide issues. In June, HAF’s Samir Kalra and Jewish civil rights attorney Julie Marzouk articulated a shared grievance in an op-ed, arguing that California’s anti-hate infrastructure often overlooks the needs of both Jewish and Hindu Californians.

Meghani described their partnership as reflective of a moderate faction within both communities. “Our communities, we are, I would say, the silent majority,” he said. “We’re the middle ground, the moderates who don’t really get heard often in primaries.”

Not all Hindu-Jewish alliances in the Bay Area align with this perspective. A left-wing counterpart has emerged, focusing on opposing each other’s nationalistic pride. This dynamic was evident during a pro-Palestinian encampment at Stanford University in May 2024, where Hindus and Jews organized an “interfaith rally against terror” nearby.

Vivek Kembaiyan, a Bay Area organizer for the progressive group Hindus for Human Rights, expressed his motivation for participating, influenced by anti-Zionist activism. “I think JVP’s activism — and seeing people who are Jewish speak up for Palestine — is really significant,” he said.

Kembaiyan and like-minded activists have drawn parallels between Zionism and Hindu nationalism, viewing both as problematic. This perspective has gained traction, as evidenced by a sign at a San Francisco bar that read: “Death to Zionism, Hindutva, YT [white] supremacy.”

HAF rejects this framing, asserting that Hindutva is a cultural philosophy rather than a supremacist ideology. The organization contends that critics who equate it with supremacy misrepresent Hindus who embrace their identity and support a strong U.S.-India relationship.

One of the Jewish activists collaborating with Kembaiyan is Seth Morrison, active in JVP’s Bay Area chapter. In May 2025, they both opposed California’s antisemitism prevention law for K-12 schools, highlighting their shared position as minorities within their respective communities. “When you are a minority within a minority, it becomes particularly important to find allies,” Morrison said.

This evolving relationship between Jewish and Hindu communities in the Bay Area reflects a complex tapestry of shared experiences, mutual support, and differing perspectives, underscoring the potential for collaboration amid diversity.

According to J. the Jewish News of Northern California, the alliance continues to grow as both communities navigate their identities and challenges in a rapidly changing social landscape.

Parivar Bay Area, the only South Asian trans organization in the U.S., faces imminent closure due to a lack of funding, threatening vital support for the Kinnar and Hijra communities.

Parivar Bay Area, a unique organization dedicated to serving the Kinnar and Hijra communities, is on the brink of closure. Founded by Anjali Rimi eight years ago, Parivar has become a crucial resource for transgender immigrants and asylees from the South Asian diaspora. However, Rimi has announced that without immediate funding, the organization may cease operations as early as this week.

“Our public funding has not been awarded back to us, despite quantifiable and qualitative results and deliverables met for two fiscal years now,” Rimi stated. “And therefore our programming, which highly relied on public funding, has been stalled since April 2026.”

This year, Parivar lost both city and state funding, forcing it to pause local programming since April. Rimi expressed her concerns, stating that without new financial support, the organization risks losing its physical space and may have to scale back its services even further.

“It’s heartbreaking after spending eight years and more building this organization,” she lamented. “Our future will become smaller, and eventually we will become history.”

Since its inception, Parivar has assisted over 104,000 individuals globally, with approximately 50,000 of those served in the nine Bay Area counties. The organization is widely recognized as one of a kind, specifically designed to uplift and support trans leadership and the trans community among South Asian immigrants.

Parivar prioritizes various identities within the trans and gender-diverse spectrum, including Hijra, Kinnar, Thirunangai, Mangalmukhi, and Khwaja Sira. Its core programs include trans-specific immigration and resettlement support, a legal clinic called Tilari in partnership with Okan Law, an emerging immigrant leadership program, community and cultural events, and direct crisis response for transgender immigrants facing urgent needs.

Rimi emphasized that the organization’s staff possess lived experiences that foster trust within the community, a quality that cannot be easily replicated elsewhere. However, since April, nearly all of Parivar’s programs have been suspended.

Founded in 2018, Parivar initially relied on a diverse funding mix, including corporate donations and individual contributions. However, as the organization’s programs expanded, its funding shifted significantly. “Ninety-seven percent of our funding since 2022 has been coming from government public funding, primarily through the city and county of San Francisco,” Rimi explained.

This heavy reliance on public funding has become a critical vulnerability for Parivar. The city did not award new funding this year, and a state grant that had been supporting the organization has now been depleted. “That grant kind of allowed us to stay afloat and continue our programming, which only increased the number of community needs, or slots, through the last two fiscal years,” Rimi noted.

Timing has also played a role in the organization’s funding challenges. Rimi mentioned that many involved with Parivar were navigating their own immigration issues during the budget advocacy period, which limited their ability to secure necessary funding. She highlighted the precarious position of trans immigrant organizations both nationally and locally, stating, “We are transgender people who have lived traumatic lives, who have stepped up to be on the front lines of an organization called Parivar Bay Area.”

City officials have recognized the funding gap affecting Parivar. A spokesperson from the Human Rights Commission noted that the city’s budget process has yielded “critical funding gains” for many trans-serving organizations this year, and they continue to work with Parivar.

The funding crisis has also jeopardized Parivar’s headquarters. The organization opened its Turk Street office less than a year ago during a Diwali celebration attended by city officials. Now, the lease, which had been subsidized, is set to increase significantly. “Our rent, if we want to continue to stay here, is now going back to market rate to be four times more than what we are paying,” Rimi stated.

In response to the funding crisis, Parivar is seeking immediate assistance from the mayor’s office, including the release of funds already owed for completed work. Despite the suspension of many programs, Rimi emphasized that community needs have not diminished. “It has not stopped just because Parivar Bay Area has no funding,” she asserted. “We still continue to help folks in critical emergency situations, whether it’s immigration relief or particular transgender struggles.”

As Parivar advocates for emergency funding, the organization has also faced increased visibility, which has unfortunately led to a rise in anti-trans hate directed at Rimi on social media. “This kind of hate reminds us of why our work is so necessary,” she said, noting that negative narratives about trans and immigrant communities often paint them as burdens to society.

Despite the challenges, Rimi remains resolute. “I am not defeated,” she declared. “Every person who walks through our doors looking for hope tells me that I need to keep going and do everything I can to keep us remaining, and not just be remembered.”

Rimi concluded with a call to action, urging the community to support trans and immigrant individuals. “If not Parivar Bay Area, if not Anjali Rimi, you can support or show up, or if nothing else, be a silent ally to trans folks and immigrant folks,” she said. “We are all in this together — If it’s us today, it could be you tomorrow.”

According to India Currents, the future of Parivar hangs in the balance as it seeks urgent support to continue its vital work.

Systems of care are essential for the South Asian LGBTQIA+ community, providing support and understanding amid cultural challenges and the complexities of identity and acceptance.

For the South Asian diaspora, where identity is deeply intertwined with family, heritage, and the challenges of migration, discussions about love and acceptance must begin much earlier in life. Before romance can flourish, a solid foundation must be established—a system of care is vital.

During a recent Chai & Chat event hosted by India Currents, Aruna Rao, founder of Desi Rainbow, and Anjali Rimi, leader of Parivar Bay Area, explored the nuances of the queer immigrant experience. Their conversation shifted the focus from the spectacle of identity to the practical, life-saving structures that enable queer and trans South Asians to transition from mere survival to a state of “competency and brilliance.”

A significant barrier to acceptance within South Asian immigrant households is what Rao refers to as the “immigration bubble.” When parents migrate, they often carry a “frozen” version of their home country’s culture. This leads to the erroneous belief that being queer or trans is “not in our culture” or is merely a “Western phenomenon.”

“As Anjali pointed out, that’s really an error,” Rao explained. “There is a very vibrant heritage in South Asia of queer and trans identities… there is a history and a past that we can draw on for sustenance and strength.”

This cultural bubble creates a tragic disconnect: parents are clinging to a version of culture that no longer exists, while their children navigate a reality that their parents refuse to acknowledge.

In the diaspora, “coming out” is rarely the singular, dramatic moment depicted in Western media. Instead, it is a pragmatic and often repeated process that requires careful strategy. Rao emphasizes that safety must always take precedence over the performance of transparency.

When considering the process of coming out, several safety checkpoints should be evaluated:

Physical safety is paramount. Individuals must assess whether their living situation is secure and whether they have a safe place to go if reactions are volatile. Financial safety is also crucial; economic independence is necessary, as one must have a backup plan in case family financial support is withdrawn. Lastly, mental and social safety should be considered. Coming out is a repeated process, and individuals have the right to choose who is safe to inform and who is not.

When a child comes out, the initial reaction from parents is often one of grief and fear rather than immediate celebration. This response is not necessarily a rejection of the child but rather a reaction to the immigrant dream. Parents frequently mourn the “easier” life they envisioned for their child, fearing the systemic barriers that queer individuals may encounter.

Recognizing that these emotions stem from a protective instinct can help bridge the communication gap. Parents are not just losing a perceived future; they are reacting to the trauma of their own migration journeys and their desire to shield their children from further hardship.

Affirmation is a skill that requires practice. Using a child’s correct pronouns or terms like “partner” necessitates consistent effort. If mistakes are made, it is important to apologize, correct oneself, and move forward. The goal is not perfection but rather a commitment to ongoing improvement.

For first-generation and non-English speaking immigrants, language access is a critical component of safety. Rimi emphasizes that “English is not a measure of intellect.” When resources are available only in English, the most vulnerable members of the community—those fleeing domestic violence or navigating complex legal systems—are often excluded.

The impact of linguistic affirmation is profound. Hearing affirming words in Hindi, Punjabi, Bengali, or Urdu can create an immediate sense of dignity and belonging. Language access is also crucial in legal and medical contexts, where nuances can be lost in standard translation.

Rimi extends a radical invitation to community members to step up as translators, highlighting the urgent need for those who can bridge gaps in regional languages like Bhojpuri and Nepalese.

When biological families are unsafe, chosen families become essential systems of care. However, Rimi makes a distinction between “saviorship” and “empowerment.” While the ultimate hope remains parental transformation—returning to the blood family when it is safe—the chosen family enables individuals to transition from trauma-filled survival to a state of thriving.

Key shifts in perspective are necessary for progress. The older generation must embrace the humility to acknowledge that they do not have all the answers and allow their children to be their teachers. Additionally, it is essential to recognize that modern rigid gender binaries are often a colonial inheritance, rather than a reflection of ancient South Asian traditions.

Reclaiming fluidity is vital, as gender diversity has existed for centuries as symbols of divinity and social presence, proving that queer and trans identities are indigenous to South Asian culture.

By moving beyond shame and fostering intergenerational conversations, South Asians can create an ecosystem where love and identity coexist harmoniously, forming the very foundation of their community.

For more insights, watch the full episode of Chai & Chat, where India Currents hosts monthly discussions with experts on topics that matter, shaped by audience questions.

This text was edited with the assistance of an AI tool and has been reviewed and edited for accuracy and clarity by India Currents.

The Twenty Fourth Vision explores the inner struggles of a Druze woman as she grapples with her faith, her son’s choices, and the expectations of her community.

I rely on Allah for guidance and strength. Forgive me, Allah, for I am juhaal without you. I was born ignorant, and I will die ignorant, but I feel blessed and grateful for the lessons I learn from you. Each day begins with thoughts of you and my son.

Asma’s son, what has he done? Right in the alley behind the pharmacy, and with how many other men?

I am one with Allah. It is through my connection with you that I understand the importance of your words. Whenever I come to you, I hear you. In prayer, I feel gratitude, knowing you listen to me, and through this connection, I find solace.

But today, Allah, I feel a knot in my heart, a constriction that weighs heavily on my spirit. Some days, it untangles, but today is not one of those days. I find myself overwhelmed.

Allah, you are always there to help me, and I heal through my time with you. Will you listen to me, even as I struggle to admit what I am about to say?

No, I will not cross those lines. They exist for a reason. I seek peace. My son’s actions are his own, not mine. As a proud Druze woman, I honor my ancestors and their sacrifices. I live each day with a sense of duty, knowing that my privilege comes from their struggles.

Has my son forgotten his identity as a Druze? To be Druze carries many meanings, but some truths remain unchanged. We do not marry outside our community, and engaging in homosexual behavior is far worse. For us, reincarnation into the bodies of other Druze is a belief that shapes our existence. If we intermix or forgo reproductive relationships, what happens to the souls that need new vessels as their next lives unfold?

Has my son considered this? He thinks of his desires and his freedom, but does he reflect on the legacy of those who came before him and his place within it?

Allah, there is a piece of you in all of us. If you exist so strongly in me, you must also reside in my son. Why has he not come to understand the implications of his actions? Is he testing me? Or is this a test from you, Allah? The whispers of our neighbors weigh heavily on me. They witnessed my son’s actions years ago, yet they continue to gossip as if it were yesterday. Do they think I am unaware? The walls are thin in our community. As I walk the dusty roads to the pharmacy or the market, I can see into their homes and hear their conversations. They sit together, sharing tea, discussing the sins of my family. Deep down, I know they do not care about the truth; they revel in denouncing me.

Allah, it has been years. This is my son’s sin, not my family’s. Why do they persist in their judgment?

Can you answer me?

A voice comes to me, but it does not sound like yours. It seems to speak in a language I do not understand—Turkish? Hebrew? French? Is this you, or perhaps a soundbite from an actor on the news, or a character from a novel I was reading?

Allah…Allah…Allah, you are within me.

Yet, all of it resides within me—the voices, the characters, the people I imagine. I sometimes think I am losing my mind. For so long, I believed I was hearing djinns. Some appear as humans, others as educated figures, some as beings foreign to me. I do not know who they are or why they visit me.

Allah, I have never asked you about them because I viewed them as vessels of evil. I was ashamed to admit I was in conversation with them. I believe only in you, Allah, for you are my source of peace. Thus, I have ignored their presence.

But what if these beings are your messengers? What if they have come to convey something to me?

Allah, I am an ordinary housewife. I live to serve my husband and my community. I do not see myself as anything special. If you are sending me messengers, I feel unworthy. I am not an inventor or a great storyteller; I am simply a human being.

Yet, we are all human beings, including housewives like me, who have been taught to stay at home, pray, and care for our loved ones. I have been given a son, a home, and so much more. I realize now that I have not fully appreciated these gifts because I longed for what others possess—grandchildren, a son who adheres to tradition, who never questions, who never feels the need to rebel.

But I am not that person, and neither is my son.

I once thought I wanted to remain humble before you, Allah, but I now recognize that this was an excuse. I have remained ignorant, hiding behind the guise of humility. In truth, you have been sending me messages, and for ignoring them, I apologize. I will pay attention to everything I receive from now on.

Forgive me, Allah.

I will strive to do better. I may come from a small town in the heart of Jordan, but I can demonstrate that my origins need not limit who I am meant to become.

Forgive me, Allah.

I feel a lightness in my body, as if you are affirming my path. You are guiding me toward a new way of thinking.

I haven’t felt this way in a long time. It feels as though something dark and angry is leaving me, replaced by kindness and warmth.

I am opening my heart, my mind, and my spirit. I will listen to you, Allah. Let us see what this new path will reveal.

According to Global Net News, this journey of self-discovery and spiritual awakening reflects the complexities of faith and identity within the Druze community.