Now Arriving at Gate 10—Acceptance
Stephen Lipman July/August 2025As early-morning travelers rushed to catch their flights, a scene played out that was, at once, both mundane and extraordinary.
The waiting area for Gate 10 of Terminal 5 at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York City is not zoned as a site for a vasikin (sunrise) minyan for early-morning Jewish travelers—but you would have thought so one recent day.
An early riser, I normally recite my shacharit (morning) prayers at the first possible moment. Since the onset of COVID, avoiding crowds, I have stayed away from the crowded pews of synagogues, opening my siddur (prayer book) in my Queens apartment.
Earlier this year my venue changed. I had an 8:00 a.m. flight to spend two weeks with family in the Houston area, and arrived at JFK nearly two hours before takeoff time, per TSA guidelines. It was too early in the winter’s short daylight hours to do my davening (praying) at sunrise at home or, if I chose, in a neighborhood shul. But, at an isolated seat in the terminal’s carpeted waiting area, it would be convenient to daven when the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon.
The interdenominational International Synagogue in Terminal 4 was already open by then for holy business, but it was a three-tenths-of-a-mile walk away by foot, or a ride of several minutes on the AirTrain. Who wanted to make that shlep while steering bulky luggage?
Gate 10 would suffice.
I had brought a small siddur with me. I would daven in my seat, in the near-empty airport space; that’s my custom when traveling at that first-light-of-dawn time. As an Orthodox male, I would later don my tephilin, wrap the black leather straps around my head and my left arm, when I reached my sister’s home in Texas, where I keep an extra set.
This is my familiar procedure.
The afternoon Mincha prayer, which is brief, I often daven standing up inconspicuously in a corner of an office or airport when the proper time arrives. Doing Shacharit, a longer prayer service, this way would, in the airport, surely draw attention of passersby, which I was uncomfortable doing in this time of increasing anti-Semitism. I’ve heard of too many reports of Orthodox Jews accosted for visibly living their faith. The suede kippah on my head already established my religion. Why take the further risk at the start of a trip?
After I davened, the near-empty region of Gate 10 soon became less empty. Many early-in-the-day-traveling Orthodox men there, it turned out, shared my need for Shacharit that morning. But they did not share my concern about drawing attention to themselves.
One after another, Orthodox men, some with beards and some clean-shaven, some with spouses and some traveling alone, some with conspicuous kippot atop their heads and some bare-headed, quickly picked spots in the waiting area, usually alongside the floor-to-ceiling observation windows that offered a panoramic view of the heavens and of the tarmac. They put on their tephilin (and some, presumably the married ones, slung a tallit prayer shawl over their shoulders), pulled out a siddur, and began shuckling. (Single, I daven sans tallit.)
Surprised by the appearance of this unexpected ersatz synagogue, I watched the number of participants in the quasi-minyan grow to seven, all praying separately, not acknowledging each other. They were just addressing G-d.
The dark sky grew light as the men’s davening continued. As they prayed, some birds—I didn’t note their species—winged their way through the hall, a not-unusual occurrence in an airplane terminal.
The typical loudspeaker announcements about soon-to-commence airplane boardings sounded in the background, apparently not disturbing the men’s kavanah (concentration). Or the women’s—some of the wives who were accompanying the men to their destinations also davened nearby.
I was heartened by the presence of so many Orthodox soul mates in the area where I was awaiting my flight. Maybe, I thought, I would have some like-minded seatmates with whom I could spend some of my upcoming three hours on my flight.
No such mazel (luck).
None of the men, it turned out, boarded my flight; they all were headed elsewhere. They simply had chosen the spacious Gate 10 waiting area as their venue for that morning’s Shacharit. If I noticed the men at prayer, apparently no one else did.
While not davening, I noted the reactions of the people—presumably, most of them not Jewish, probably a mixture of Christians, and some Muslims, and some of various or no religion—to the men and women performing visible acts of worship.
There were no reactions. Not from other passengers, not from passing pilots or flight attendants, not from members of the terminal’s cleaning staff, or from other people who worked there. No one seemed to take note, no one seemed to care, no one seemed to mind. No security personnel bothered the daveners.
Most important, during the half hour or so that each man and woman spent talking to G-d, no one sneered.
It was a silent statement of tolerance, of acceptance. Thankfully, of blessed indifference to an unfamiliar prayer ritual.
This at a time when anti-Semitism has been markedly increasing in the United States. Many U.S. Jews have reported feeling uncomfortable openly identifying as Jews, let alone Orthodox ones—or implicitly as supporters of Israel—in many public settings. Many men have taken to wearing a baseball cap over their kippah; many Jews have tucked the mezuzah around their neck or the Star of David out of sight inside their shirt.
Especially in unfamiliar areas. Are anti-Semitic strangers lurking there?
Apparently, the Orthodox Jews at Gate 10 did not share this fear.
Apparently, an airport terminal is a safe space.
Apparently, people flying out of town are too busy to hate.
Maybe some synagogues should consider relocating to JFK. Or to their local airport.
That morning’s experience gave me hope. Maybe the hate-your-neighbor situation isn’t as glum as we think. Maybe the violent dislike isn’t as widespread as the headlines indicate. Maybe we can feel safe here.
Despite the rising anti-Jewish and anti-Israel tensions in parts of the United States, there are plenty of people of goodwill around; one needn’t fear—literally—standing out as a Jew.
The next time I’m at JFK, I won’t fear standing up to daven.
Article Author: Stephen Lipman
Stephen Lipman, a freelance journalist and former staff writer for the New York Jewish Week, writes from Queens, New York.