Some thoughts on being Jewish in America, two years after October 7

I have been struggling to find the right words to describe what it feels like to be Jewish in America right now. Two years after October 7, I tried.

Two years ago, the world changed, not only for Israel but for Jews everywhere, myself included. Since that day, antisemitism has not merely resurfaced; it has roared back, louder, more visible, and more tolerated than I ever imagined possible.

We have seen what happens when hate is left unchallenged. This year alone, there was an arson attack on the Pennsylvania Governor’s Mansion, a mass shooting at the Capital Jewish Museum, a firebombing in Boulder, and a road-rage attack on a Jewish congressman.

And just days ago, on Yom Kippur, Jews were murdered outside a synagogue in Manchester, simply walking to pray as generations before them have done.

I wish I could say I am shocked, but I am not. And I know that more pain will come. Every act of violence begins with permission: the jokes left unchallenged, the vandalism dismissed as graffiti, the threats brushed off as noise.

Jewish life now requires visible protection. Jews are hiding mezuzahs and Star of David necklaces, while relying on armed guards at synagogues and day schools. This has become ordinary, and that should terrify us.

For two years, Jews have begged for action and solidarity, met instead with gaslighting, silence, indifference, or moral gymnastics.

I have always been proud to be Jewish, but it was never something I thought much about. I grew up surrounded by other Jewish families, attended Hebrew school (and hated it), became a bar mitzvah, celebrated the holidays, and eventually moved on. My Jewishness — my heritage and conscience — asked little of me. It did not need defending.

Now it does. I remind my parents to be cautious at synagogue, and to consider exits just in case. I have been the punchline of jokes that were never funny. I light Shabbat candles not just out of tradition, but as an act of defiance in a world that too often wishes we would disappear.

The kid I once was, who happened to be Jewish, would not recognize the man I am, who must now live openly, visibly, and unapologetically Jewish.

The war in the Middle East has given new cover to antisemitism. Too many cannot condemn hatred of Jews without a political qualifier. Empathy has become conditional. Even the simplest grief for Jewish lives now demands a disclaimer.

This is not normal, and it cannot be normalized.

For decades, Jews have marched beside other marginalized groups. We showed up because we know what happens when people do not.

So I ask again, two years after October 7: Where are you? What will it take?

Your Jewish friends, neighbors, and coworkers are not okay.

To my fellow Jews: I see you. I feel your exhaustion and admire your strength.

To everyone else: If you truly believe hate has no place in this world, now is the time to prove it.

Two years on, the pain remains. But so does our resilience.

We grieve together.

We rise together.

We remain, defiantly, joyfully, unshakably Jewish.