When the last living hostages from October 7 finally arrived home the morning of October 13, I remember the palpable change in my body. I was sitting at my kitchen table, scrolling through the news updates, and suddenly everything stopped.
For the first time in months, I let myself exhale. That deep, aching breath – the kind you don’t realize you’ve been holding – wasn’t mine alone. It swept through our community like a wave. Together, we had lived in a suspended state: grief, rage, fear, and hope all tangled into one. Now, at last, families are reunited. That relief was real. It was necessary. It was sacred.
But relief is not the same as closure.
Hostility around the world
Even as we welcomed the hostages home, the world around us felt increasingly hostile. Since the October 7 Hamas mega-attacks, antisemitism in America hasn’t just risen – it’s metastasized. Conversations that once masked antisemitic tropes are now expressed plainly. Criticism of Israeli policy has, in many circles, morphed into something darker: a denial of Israel’s right to exist, and by extension, a denial of Jewish legitimacy itself.
We’ve seen it on college campuses, where Jewish students are harassed and isolated. We’ve seen it in public spaces, where assaults and threats have become disturbingly routine. We’ve seen it online, where conspiracy theories and hate speech flourish unchecked. And we’ve felt it in our bones, our synagogues, and in our homes.
This dual reality – the joy of reunion and the dread of rising hate – is emotionally disorienting. Many of us are exhausted. Communal leaders, rabbis, educators, volunteers – we’ve been running on fumes. We’ve poured ourselves into security, advocacy, pastoral care, and emergency response. The temptation to step back, to hope the worst is behind us, is understandable.
But we can’t afford to look away.
The progress we’ve made over the last 60 years, the normalization of Jewish life, the building of strong institutions, the hard-won acceptance, didn’t happen by accident. It was earned through relentless organizing, moral clarity, and political engagement.
And it can be undone. If we allow antisemitic rhetoric and behavior to take root in spaces we once trusted, we risk losing more than comfort; we risk losing safety, dignity, and belonging.
The importance of communal relationships
Here's the truth: we cannot do this alone.
In my more than two dozen years of community organizing – whether at the ADL, Community Security Service (CSS), or now at Jewish Federations – I’ve seen firsthand that the most powerful antidote to hate is relationship. Real, sustained, face-to-face relationships.
When we build trust with leaders from other faiths, show up for their communities, and they show up for ours, we create a moral firewall against isolation and extremism.
We know that tackling the hard issues at home takes partners from all faiths and communities, and meaningful partnerships start with friendship and shared values.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured this truth with piercing clarity when he said, “Jews cannot fight antisemitism alone. The victim cannot cure the crime. The hated cannot cure the hate. The only people who can combat antisemitism are those active in the cultures that harbor it. That means that the fight against antisemitism is not a Jewish fight. It is a fight for the honor of humanity.”
That’s why we need allies, not just in moments of tragedy, but in the daily, quiet work of building a just society. It means engaging not just within our own circles, but across lines of faith, race, and ideology. It means inviting civic leaders, pastors, imams, educators, and elected officials into honest dialogue – not just when there’s a crisis, but consistently, with humility and purpose.
Allies don’t just exist, waiting to be called upon to step up. They must be cultivated through the painstaking and long-term process of genuine relationship-building, a process that asks us to give of ourselves; and learn, grow, and show up for others the way we would want them to show up for us.
This is not just strategic, it’s sacred. It’s the work of repairing the world, one conversation, one partnership, one shared moment at a time.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously said, “In a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” That responsibility belongs to each of us – not because we caused the hate, but because we are the ones who must confront it: For the student who hides their Star of David necklace; for the parent who hesitates before sending their child to Hebrew school; for the survivor who still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart pounding.
We owe it to them and to ourselves to keep showing up, keep building, keep fighting for a Jewish life that is safe, proud, and unafraid.
Because if we don’t, who will?
The writer is vice president for community relations at the Jewish Federations of North America.