We Refuse to Be Silent

I recognize that this message may not sit easily with everyone. Some will disagree with my words, or with the tone. That’s okay. We are a community capable of holding complexity and discomfort together. I’ve tried to write from a place of compassion, integrity, and deep Jewish conviction—even as I share something that may challenge the status quo.

In recent days, I’ve been thinking about the advice we are so often given when antisemitism rears its head: don’t say anything. Don’t draw attention to it. Don’t give the haters a platform. Don’t “amplify” the darkness.

It’s a line I’ve heard my entire life, and it’s often said with care, with strategic concern, even with love. But I believe it is profoundly wrong.

It is 2025. We live in a time when perpetrators of antisemitic hate crimes are not lurking in shadows—they are livestreaming their hatred, uploading it to dark corners of the internet, where it is celebrated and spread. Do we really believe that our silence denies them a platform? That not acknowledging them somehow robs them of power?

No. The only people our silence confuses and harms are our own. Our children. Our neighbors. Our fellow Jews. Our allies. Our silence creates a vacuum. It leaves our community with no clarity, no response, no sense that we are willing to stand up for ourselves and speak the truth.

And let’s be honest: If this happened to any other community—a swastika on a mosque, a racist slogan on a Black church, a hate crime against an LGBTQ center—the response would be swift and loud. There would be public statements, media coverage, solidarity marches. People would demand justice, accountability, change. But when it happens to Jews? Too often, we do nothing. We clean it up in the middle of the night. We whisper. We move on. And we rationalize the silence in the name of strategy.

Let me say this clearly: silence is not strategy. It is surrender.

I want to be clear: I have tremendous respect for organizations like the Secure Community Network, who work tirelessly to protect Jewish lives and institutions. They are dedicated, skilled, and mission-driven. But on this point, I believe they—and we—are making a dangerous mistake. Choosing silence is not protecting the Jewish people. It is isolating us further.

Jewish history has already taught us, in excruciating detail, what silence brings.

Silence allowed Pharaoh to enslave our ancestors for generations until one man—Moses—finally said no more.

Silence allowed the blood of Jews to flow in the streets of Europe for centuries—during the Inquisition, during the pogroms, during the ghettos—while the world watched, or worse, turned away.

Silence allowed the MS St. Louis, carrying more than 900 Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi Germany, to be turned away from American shores and sent back to Europe. Most of its passengers did not survive the Holocaust.

Silence accompanied Kristallnacht, when the world saw Jewish homes and businesses destroyed, synagogues burned, and neighbors arrested—but still did not act.

And silence hung like a shroud over Auschwitz and Birkenau, even when the smoke rose, even when the truth was known.

And now—most recently and most unbearably—on October 7, 2023, Jews were hunted in their homes, in their beds, at a music festival, in kibbutzim, and slaughtered. More Jews were killed on that day than on any day since the Holocaust. Entire families. Infants. Elders. And for days, weeks, the world seemed silent once again.

We must remember: The Jews of Auschwitz and Birkenau could not speak.
The Jews whose homes were destroyed on Kristallnacht could not speak.
The Jews aboard the St. Louis, rejected by the world, could not speak.
And the Jews murdered on October 7 could not speak.

We speak for them. From the grave, we speak.

Our tradition commands us not to be silent in the face of injustice. “Lo ta’amod al dam rei’echa”—you shall not stand idly by while your neighbor’s blood is shed. (Leviticus 19:16)

When someone paints a swastika on a Jewish home, we must not rush to erase it like it never happened. I understand the impulse—we want to protect our kids, shield them from fear. But what if we’re also shielding them from identity? What if erasing the hate becomes a way of erasing who we are?

I want my children to see it—not because I want them to be afraid, but because I want them to be strong. I want them to understand that being Jewish means being different. It means standing for something eternal. It means facing hatred with courage and pride. Let them feel that in their bones. Let it shape who they are.

To my fellow adults: Antisemitism is not a historical footnote—it is a present reality. It has never disappeared, only mutated. Let us not be naïve. And let us not be so assimilated, so desperate to blend in, that we forget we are part of a story—an ancient, sacred, defiant story—that demands we carry it forward.

Other communities raise their voices when they are attacked. And we show up for them. We show up in solidarity. Why, then, do we so often fail to show up for ourselves?

I say: no more.

Antisemitism is real. It is rising. It is here. But it will not be answered with shame or silence. It must be answered with unity, with pride, and with truth.

We must stop isolating ourselves. We must start isolating those who target us. We must say: This is not acceptable. We are still here. And we are not afraid.

There is nothing shameful about being Jewish. There never was. The only shame is hiding it. Denying it. Apologizing for it. A policy of silence is not humility—it is denial. And it is dangerous.

Perhaps before October 7, I could tolerate the old ways. But not now. That day changed everything. My tolerance for silence, for erasure, for pretending—it is gone.

Throughout our history, silence has never saved us. And it never will. Silence has only allowed the worst chapters of our story to unfold. And yet, somehow, we are still here.

So now it’s time to speak. Loudly. Clearly. Proudly. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

We speak for those who were silenced.

We speak because we are alive.

And we will not be silent again. With strength and with hope.