The world moves faster than our minds and hearts were built to process. Each day brings a new wave of headlines, feeds and alerts—each more urgent than the last. What outrages or inspires us at noon becomes background noise by nightfall, and is a fading memory by the next day’s scroll. We are swept along by the current of digital chaos.
And the Jewish people, in the Diaspora and beyond, are not immune. We are buffeted by trauma and triumph—by war, hostages, campus threats and antisemitism—alongside resilience, solidarity and hope. But increasingly, there is a creeping sense that we don’t own any of it. Not our stories. Not our fears. Not even our ideas.
Too much today is rented—temporarily borrowed from the ether of online discourse and returned as soon as attention moves on. Our connection to values, to dreams, to purpose feels fleeting. As a people whose identity is rooted in transmission—in l’dor vador (“from generation to generation”)—this transience is not just uncomfortable but dangerous.
This is why I believe ownership—deep, rooted, meaningful ownership—must be at the center of our communal vision going forward.
We need to own our ideas, and we need to invest in the institutions that allow us to do so. Jewish camps, JCCs, day schools and synagogues aren’t just legacy organizations. They are platforms for ownership. Places where we are not passive observers of Jewish life but active stewards of it. They are spaces where Jewish values aren’t just taught—they are lived, wrestled with, challenged and embraced.
When people have ownership, they have a stake. And when they have a stake, they build. They build identity, build institutions, and, perhaps most importantly in today’s fractured world, they build bridges.
The Jewish Diaspora is at an inflection point. Traditional alliances have frayed. Longstanding relationships with other communities have grown brittle. But the solution isn’t retreat, it’s recommitment. It’s doubling down on our own identity so that we can show up in coalitions not as guests, but as partners.
The Abraham Accords, for all their geopolitical complexity, are at their core about shared ownership of a better future. Not agreement on everything but agreement on enough to move forward.
We need that model in our communal life, too. We need to own ideas like dignity, empathy, learning, justice—not just as abstract values, but as foundations we build from. When we own those values, we can offer them to others not in a transactional way, but as a covenant.
One beautiful example of this ethos in action is NJY Camps’ “Am Echad” program. In the wake of the crisis, they welcomed Israeli teens who had experienced unimaginable trauma, integrating them into the life of Jewish summer camp not as guests, but as family. It wasn’t charity; it was solidarity.
A demonstration of what happens when we invest in relationships, not just relief. Programs like this don’t just offer healing; they build bonds that last far beyond one summer. They reflect a powerful kind of ownership: of responsibility, of community, of one another.
Dan Senor recently said on his podcast “Call Me Back” that he fears more for the Diaspora than for Israel, even as rockets were falling. I understand that fear. I feel it as well. But I also believe that we have the capacity to meet this moment not with panic, but with purpose.
The Jewish community must treat this time not as a period of renting hope from headlines, but as a moment to make long-term down payments on our future. That means investing in Jewish education, in institutions that cultivate belonging, and in leaders who encourage curiosity and courage.
Because ownership is generational. Renting only lasts as long as the lease.
Let us choose to own our future—together.
