October 7, 2023, did not simply mark a tragic day in Jewish history; it also marked the collapse of a long-held illusion. For many American Jews, especially those who found a home in progressive spaces, it was a moment of devastating clarity: the movements that had promised solidarity, inclusion, and justice abandoned them when the test came. The framework of intersectionality — celebrated for its sensitivity to overlapping identities and systemic injustices — proved, at best, indifferent and, at worst, hostile to Jewish pain and Jewish survival.
Intersectionality, a term coined by legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, originally described how systems of oppression overlap, particularly for Black women who faced both racial and gender discrimination. It was a corrective to a social justice framework that often treated identity categories as isolated silos. Over time, intersectionality evolved into a dominant framework across activist spaces, emphasizing that race, gender, class, sexuality, and other identities must be considered together when analyzing injustice. It promised to create a broader, more inclusive vision of solidarity. Yet, ironically, it created new exclusions.
The Palestinian cause was masterfully woven into this evolving framework. Over several decades, Palestinian activists and their allies rebranded the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as the quintessential example of “white oppressors” versus “brown oppressed.” Israel’s complexities—a refuge for Jews of all ethnic backgrounds, including Mizrahim and Ethiopians—were flattened. Jewish historical trauma was ignored or reinterpreted as justification for new forms of hatred. Palestinian activists positioned their struggle within the language of decolonization, indigenous rights, and anti-racism—powerful currents within intersectional discourse.
This strategic reframing proved extraordinarily effective. In spaces where social justice language holds moral authority, Palestinians became seen as the ultimate victims, while Jews—even those with refugee backgrounds—were cast as privileged colonizers. It did not matter that Israel is the historic homeland of the Jewish people, nor that the Jewish presence there is ancient. What mattered was that Zionism could be painted as an extension of European imperialism, fitting neatly into intersectionality’s oppressor-oppressed binary.
The betrayal was not theoretical. As news of Hamas’s atrocities spread, many Jews expected expressions of horror, solidarity, and compassion from their progressive allies. Instead, they encountered rationalizations, silences, and, chillingly, celebrations. Posters of kidnapped children were torn down in New York and Los Angeles by people who claimed to stand against oppression. University statements that rushed to support every marginalized group hesitated, equivocated, or ignored Jewish suffering. Protests that once championed “human rights for all” cheered the butchers of Sderot.
Intersectionality was supposed to be a remedy to the blindness of older, simpler models of social justice. It taught that identities were complex, that systems of oppression interlocked, and that true liberation required an attentiveness to all forms of marginalization. In theory, Jews — especially Jews of color, Mizrahim, queer Jews, and others — should have been embraced within this expansive vision. But in practice, intersectionality became an exclusive club with ideological gatekeepers. Entry required an implicit agreement: your Jewishness was welcome only if it was abstract, religious, or cultural—never national, never sovereign, never Zionist.
Zionism—the belief in the Jewish right to self-determination in their ancestral homeland—was cast as an unforgivable sin. It did not matter that Zionism arose as a desperate response to centuries of persecution. It did not matter that Israel is home to millions of Jews who would otherwise be refugees. Within many progressive spaces, Zionism was rebranded as colonialism, apartheid, white supremacy. Jews were no longer “the oppressed”; they were recast as “the oppressors.”
This distortion demanded that Jews perform a kind of self-erasure to belong. Renounce Zionism. Distance yourself from Israel. Accept that your people’s story of survival was a stain, not a source of pride. Many complied, out of fear, out of a desperate desire to remain within communities that spoke the language of justice they had been raised to revere. Others—and here is where the hope begins—refused.
The events of October 7 exposed a brutal truth: too often, intersectionality’s moral compass is broken when it comes to Jews. The solidarity it promised was conditional, contingent on Jews downplaying their own survival, their own narrative, their own particularity. In this framework, Jewish victims became inconvenient. Jewish suffering became politically complicated. And Jewish strength—Israel—became unforgivable.
But Jews are not required to apologize for surviving.
Jewish dignity does not depend on the approval of broken coalitions. It is rooted in something far older and far stronger than the fluctuating winds of political fashion. It is rooted in Torah, in memory, in covenant, and in the relentless insistence that life—Jewish life—matters.
We do not need to justify our existence to people who rationalize our murder. We do not need to erase our love for Israel to make ourselves palatable to movements that cannot accommodate complexity. We do not need to choose between being universalists and being Jews. We have always carried both: a commitment to human dignity and a fierce loyalty to our particular story.
Jewish dignity after October 7 requires a reorientation. It demands that we stop outsourcing our moral worth to movements that cannot or will not see us. It calls us to build new alliances—not on the basis of fashionable hashtags, but on the basis of shared commitments to life, freedom, and truth.
This does not mean abandoning the fight for justice. Quite the opposite. It means reclaiming our own moral agency. It means remembering that the Jewish story has always been a struggle against dehumanization, whether by Pharaoh, by Haman, or by those who today chant for our extinction. It means affirming, without apology, that Jewish survival and sovereignty are not obstacles to justice—they are testimonies to it.
We must resist the temptation to retreat into bitterness. Yes, we have been betrayed. But our response cannot be cynicism. It must be renewal. We must teach our children to stand tall as Jews, not to shrink in the face of accusations and slanders. We must invest in communities, institutions, and movements that affirm the legitimacy of Jewish life, Jewish peoplehood, and Jewish self-defense.
Intersectionality promised that none would be free until all were free. It is a beautiful ideal, but in its current practice, it has become selective and conditional. Jews are asked to surrender their history and homeland to prove their worthiness of inclusion. We must reject that bargain.
Our ancestors wandered stateless for two thousand years. They dreamed of Jerusalem with broken hearts and tear-streaked faces. They endured expulsions, massacres, and gas chambers. Today, we have a state, an army, a voice. We will not apologize for that miracle.
October 7 shattered many illusions. But it also clarified enduring truths: We are responsible for our own survival. We are responsible for our own story. And we are responsible for standing, with dignity and without shame, as Jews in the world.
If progressive movements wish to include Jews, they must accept us as we are—a people with memory, with sovereignty, with strength. If not, we will walk another path, carrying our story forward with pride.
Our dignity was never theirs to grant. It is ours to claim.
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