Throughout history, Jews have navigated the complex terrain of belonging in a world that too often reminds us we are different. We’ve changed our names, downplayed our traditions, dressed to blend in, and worked to prove that we deserve a seat at the proverbial table. We have joined the clubs, paid the dues, followed the rules, and contributed to our communities in the hope that we would be fully embraced—not just tolerated, but accepted.
And still, despite our efforts, the message comes through: our presence is conditional.
There’s something uniquely painful about encountering antisemitism in a synagogue—it feels like a violation of the most sacred kind. But there is something arguably more insidious about finding it in the places where we’ve labored to fit in. A swastika spray-painted on the wall of a synagogue is horrifying. A swastika etched into a locker at a country club—where we pay to belong, where we try not to draw attention, where we walk a little more carefully so we don’t disrupt the decorum—is a gut punch of a different order. It exposes the lie that assimilation equals safety.
When antisemitism appears at the country club, it is not just an act of hatred—it is a rebuke. It tells us, in no uncertain terms: you may dine here, you may golf here, you may smile politely and make small talk, but you are not fully welcome. Your belonging is an illusion we allow you to entertain, until we decide otherwise.
And yet, how often do we respond to such incidents with silence? How often do we quietly report the damage, clean it up, and move on—grateful it wasn’t worse, wary of drawing too much attention, hoping it’s an isolated event? We need to ask ourselves: Why does our outrage feel safer when antisemitism happens in a synagogue than when it happens in a place like the country club? Why is our voice louder in spaces where we expect to be seen as Jews and quieter in the spaces where we’ve worked to downplay that very identity?
The Torah demands more from us. “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor” (Leviticus 19:16) is not situational. It doesn’t say, “Speak up if it’s in your own house, but be polite if it’s somewhere upscale.” The imperative to act, to protest, to name hatred when we see it applies everywhere—and perhaps especially in the spaces where we are told to blend in, behave, and be grateful for the invitation.
It is time for a moral reckoning. We must stop measuring our responses based on the venue in which hatred occurs. We must stop prioritizing comfort over principle. Antisemitism in a synagogue is an affront to our sacred spaces. Antisemitism at a country club is an affront to our dignity. And neither should be met with silence.
The Jews of Kishinev in 1903, brutally attacked in a pogrom that left dozens dead and hundreds wounded, did not have the power to respond. They had no recourse, no political leverage, no media platforms, no institutional allies. Their cries were muffled by the indifference of a society that either abetted or ignored their suffering. Their silence was not complicity—it was the silence of people trapped, voiceless, and unseen. It was not a choice; it was the cost of their vulnerability.
Now contrast that with us. We are not hidden in ghettos. We are not voiceless. We are not powerless. We have seats at the table, we have influence, we have agency—and yet, when hatred slaps us across the face in the very places we’ve tried hardest to blend in, we sometimes say nothing. We act as though discretion is dignity, when in truth it is abdication. To remain silent today, with all the power we hold, is not only a moral failure—it is a betrayal. It is a betrayal of our ancestors who died with their mouths shut because they had no other option. We have every option. We have the megaphone, and to leave it unused in the name of social comfort or institutional reputation is, quite frankly, criminal.
But we are not them. We have agency. We have power. We live in a time and place where our voices can be heard, where the rule of law—however imperfect—offers us recourse, and where communal institutions give us a platform. To not use that power, to retreat into the comfort of silence or the fantasy of acceptance, is not merely an oversight—it is a moral failure. To choose silence now is not only cowardly—it is criminal. It is a betrayal of those who had no voice, of those who endured unimaginable suffering so that we might one day live free and proud.
Our ancestors did not survive pogroms, expulsions, ghettos, and genocide so we could remain quiet and cautious in the face of hatred. They survived so we could live—openly, proudly, and unapologetically. Silence today betrays their sacrifices. Outrage is not only warranted; it is required.
We must raise our voices—not only where we expect to be Jewish, but precisely where we are told not to be. That is where resistance is most powerful. That is where pride becomes protest. That is where we honor our history and protect our future.
Let us be loud. Let us be visible. Let us never again whisper our pain just because the locker room is well-appointed or the company prestigious. Our dignity does not depend on decorum. Our belonging is not up for negotiation. If a single act of antisemitism occurs in any space we inhabit, it deserves our full-throated, unflinching response—because our presence matters, our voices matter, and our lives, in every space, are sacred.
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