Yes, Jews With Tattoos Can Be Buried In A Jewish Cemetery

When I was 16 years old, I decided it would be fun to convince my parents that I wanted to get a tattoo.

I bought magazines featuring tattoo artists and started cutting out feature articles and leaving them around the house where my mother would notice.  At first, my mother ignored me.  But it was too much for her when I got the business cards of some tattoo parlors in our town and pinned them up on the bulletin board.  

A Tattoo in the 70s Was A Scandal

It was the 1970s, and in the corner of Connecticut that I grew up in, getting a tattoo would have been a scandal that could have crippled the family reputation for generations…

In response, my mother took out the Yartzeit candle (just in case I followed through with my threat and needed to go into mourning).  When that didn’t seem to have any effect, she hatched a new plan to scare me out of getting a tattoo. 

My mother tried to convince me that if I got a tattoo, I would be ineligible for Jewish burial and banned from all Jewish cemeteries.  She was convinced that if I believed I was jeopardizing my eternal resting place in the Jewish cemetery, I would turn away from the shady world of tattoo artists. 

I never asked my mother why she thought that at 16 years old, I would care where I would be buried, but that was what she believed.  

In reality, my parents had little to worry about.  I didn’t like pain, and since getting a tattoo hurt, there was no way I was voluntarily getting tattooed.  

Even so, I have always wondered if my mother told me the truth about tattoos and Jewish burial. 

The Jewish View of the Body

For Jews, the body isn’t just a collection of bones and skin—it’s considered a precious creation, shaped in the divine image and meant to be treated with respect. Jewish tradition emphasizes that our bodies are not mere vessels; they are the means through which we experience the world, do good deeds, and connect to our community.

This reverence for the body isn’t only about health or appearance—it underpins how we conduct ourselves in life and even how we approach death. Honoring and caring for the body is woven into daily rituals and age-old customs alike. Even cemeteries like the one in my hometown view the human body as deserving dignity from start to finish, regardless of whether it has a tattoo or not.

Are Tattoos More Accepted in the Jewish Community Today?

Fast forward a few decades, and the landscape looks quite different from my Connecticut upbringing. These days, it’s not unusual to spot tattoos at synagogue, at a Jewish summer camp, or even on the occasional rabbi (I kid you not). It seems tattoos have shed their “scandalous” status—at least for many Jews under 40—so much so that Hebrew phrases, Stars of David, and other symbols now adorn arms and ankles as badges of identity rather than acts of rebellion.

Walk through neighborhoods like Brooklyn or Tel Aviv, and you’ll see young Jews sporting everything from minimalist hamsas to elaborate Torah verses. The conversation has shifted from shame and secrecy to open dialogue about art, identity, and self-expression. Even my mother, who once clutched her pearls at the mere thought, would have a hard time keeping up with the times.

The Impact of the Holocaust on Tattoo Perceptions

After the Holocaust, attitudes within the Jewish community toward tattoos shifted—and not just a little. Suddenly, tattoos weren’t just about teenage rebellion or scaring your parents. For many, they evoked powerful and painful memories. During the horrors of the concentration camps, Jews were forcibly tattooed with identification numbers on their arms. The act wasn’t about art or self-expression; it was about dehumanization.

As a result, tattoos carried a heavy weight for Holocaust survivors and their families, symbolizing experiences of trauma, loss, and survival. The very sight of a tattoo could invoke all the anguish and sorrow endured by previous generations. So, it’s no surprise that many Jews, especially those with family histories tied to the Holocaust, developed a deep aversion to getting tattoos—an emotional response layered on top of whatever scriptural objections already existed.

Tattoos as a Reflection of Jewish Identity

Though my teenage rebellion fizzled out, I’ve noticed tattoos have certainly found their way into the Jewish community since my glory days of subterfuge. It’s not uncommon now to see arms and ankles adorned with Hebrew phrases, Stars of David, or even a discreet hamsa peeking out from under a sleeve—sometimes on folks who are also running the local synagogue bake sale.

For some, tattooing has become a way to wear their Jewish pride on their sleeve—quite literally. These aren’t just random designs either; many Jews choose symbols or words that carry deep personal significance, turning an age-old ban into a modern statement about identity and belonging.

And before anyone clutches their pearls, let’s remember: cultural expression evolves, sometimes in ways that would have given my mother palpitations.

Myth vs. Reality: Can Tattooed Jews Be Buried in Orthodox Cemeteries?

Let’s tackle the big question: Does sporting a tattoo suddenly make you a persona non grata at an Orthodox Jewish cemetery? Despite the enduring rumor, a tattoo—no matter how big, colorful, or, let’s be honest, questionable your teenage choices were—won’t actually bar you from a Jewish burial.

Here’s the scoop. Jewish law (yes, Leviticus makes its opinion quite clear) does frown on tattoos. But when it comes to burials, no blanket prohibition in the Torah or rabbinic law denies someone a spot in a Jewish cemetery simply for having ink. It turns out, the tradition is more about the dignity of the soul than about policing your bicep art.

That said, there’s a twist. Individual Jewish burial societies (chevra kadisha) have some leeway and, historically, a tiny handful have created their own stricter policies—usually rooted in local concerns or community preferences. These exceptions are rare. In most cases, whether your tattoo is a delicate Star of David or a regrettable cartoon ferret, there’s no red tape keeping you out of the Orthodox section.

So, rest easy—contrary to popular myth, tattoos are not an automatic ticket to exclusion come burial time. If in doubt, it never hurts to check with your local cemetery, but this misconception mostly stems from scattered local customs, not Jewish law itself.

What You Need To Know About Tattoos and Jewish Burial

As it turns out, there is no reason a tattooed Jew can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery and in the all-Jewish section.  

While the Torah has specific commandments banning tattoos (Leviticus Chapter 19:28 – “You shall not etch a tattoo on yourselves.”), There is nothing in Jewish law or liturgy that suggests someone who has a tattoo cannot be buried in a Jewish cemetery.  

This prohibition comes from a broader mandate in the Torah to treat the body with respect and refrain from making permanent markings: “You shall not make gashes in your flesh for the dead, or incise any marks on yourselves. I am the Eternal” (Leviticus 19:28). Historians believe this aversion to tattoos originated as a way for the Israelites to differentiate themselves from their pagan neighbors, who practiced tattooing as part of their rituals and mourning customs.

In more recent memory, the opposition to tattoos was deepened by the trauma of the Holocaust, when so many Jews were forcibly tattooed with numbers in concentration camps. That experience reinforced a cultural discomfort with tattoos in many Jewish communities.

But despite these historical and religious associations, the simple fact remains: having a tattoo does not disqualify anyone from a Jewish burial.

While getting a tattoo is a sin, being a sinner does not preclude Jewish burial.  

In fact, it is quite the opposite; Jewish cemeteries are full of Jewish sinners.  

What About Individual Burial Societies?

Of course, the story doesn’t quite end there. While Jewish law itself does not restrict burying someone with tattoos, the day-to-day management of cemeteries is often overseen by independent burial societies. Each society has the autonomy to create its own guidelines about who may be interred in its specific section, which often reflects the customs or preferences of its particular community.

This means that, on rare occasions, a burial society might choose not to allow someone with visible tattoos to be buried in their plot. Usually, this decision is shaped by tradition, community standards, or the wishes of those already interred. However, it’s important to stress that such rejections are the exception rather than the rule—most Jewish cemeteries have no such restrictions, and the overwhelming majority welcome all Jews, tattoos or not.

There are 613 individual commandments in the Torah, and I am pretty certain I have violated most of them at some point in my life (except, of course, the one prohibiting tattoos). 

I am just as certain that all Jews are repeat sinners.  

From the point of view of burial, there is nothing to distinguish a Jewish sinner who sinned by getting a tattoo from a Jewish sinner who sinned by not following any other commandment. 

The Torah does not contain a hierarchy of sins, nor does it say that sinners should be denied Jewish burial.   So, yes, Jews with tattoos can be buried in a Jewish Cemetery, just like Jews who violate any other commandment.   

The Mitzvah of Caring for the Body

In Judaism, tending to the body after death is considered a sacred responsibility—a mitzvah, in fact, with deep roots in tradition. We treat each person’s remains with respect and dignity, regardless of any tattoos, piercings, or other adornments they may have collected throughout their lives.

Our communities don’t draw lines in the sand over who is “worthy” of this care. Whether your marks are from childhood misadventures, a weekend at Woodstock, or a deliberate tattoo, it doesn’t matter. The mitzvah of preparing the body—taharah—is carried out for all, as an extension of kindness and equality central to Jewish burial practices. After all, once we’re talking about matters as weighty as mortality, it’s compassion and continuity that count—not the ink on your skin.

Mark Sunshine

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