I was walking out of the Old City recently, and my mind turned to Rabbi Reuven Biermacher. He taught three classes at Aish that fateful day in 2015. A wonderful man with seven children, he did what thousands do every day—walked out the Jaffa Gate on his way home. There, he was viciously murdered by a terrorist whose only criterion for choosing his victim was that he was Jewish.
I remember what struck me most in the aftermath: the deafening silence. No interfaith outreach. No international outcry. A rabbi who came from Argentina, a religious educator, a father, was murdered for being Jewish in Jerusalem. We mourned in solitude.
I thought perhaps Oct. 7, 2023, would be different. Surely, the largest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust—marked by unspeakable brutality, rape and the kidnapping of innocents—would awaken the world’s conscience. Instead, protest tents appeared on campuses within days. The same voices that championed #MeToo refused to believe Israeli women’s testimonies of sexual violence. The narrative was set before Israel even responded: genocide, apartheid, occupation and lies repeated so often that they became truth in too many minds. Even some Jewish ones.
The loneliness has been profound. We watched as Israel went to extraordinary lengths to minimize civilian casualties while fighting an enemy that uses hospitals and schools as military installations. We knew that our hostages were in Gaza, and specifically, in Rafah, yet the world demanded we not enter the Palestinian city to retrieve them. World leaders and governing bodies, as well as social-media influencers and celebrities, offered no other alternatives. Just condemnation.
A few weeks ago, we witnessed Iran’s brutal suppression of its own people seeking freedom, when tens of thousands of civilians were killed. Their sacrifice for freedom was met with crickets from most of those who claim moral authority. There were no campus protests. No op-eds. The silence spoke volumes and reminded us that when Jews aren’t the perceived aggressors, suddenly, human rights cease to matter.
This hypocrisy reveals an uncomfortable truth: What angers so many, particularly on the radical left and far right, is not Israeli policy, but the very fact that Jews can defend themselves. The image of someone wearing a kippah and carrying a weapon, declaring “Never Again” as more than a slogan, fundamentally disturbs those who have grown comfortable with Jewish vulnerability.
Here is what these two-and-a-half years have taught me: The isolation we’ve experienced has paradoxically strengthened us. It has deepened our connection to each other, our resolve to stand with Israel and our understanding of why a Jewish homeland is a necessity. The loneliness has been bearable because we have each other.
Yet we must learn from our mistakes. Too many young Jews embraced the false narrative about Gaza because they don’t know what we stand for as a people. And for some, surviving the Holocaust was their only connection to Judaism, but we can’t raise a culture on pain. We need to provide them with knowledge and pride.
The generations who grew up disconnected from their heritage—never studying Torah, never learning the stories of our ancestors—were bereft of knowledge as to why Israel is so important for Jews everywhere.
Israel cannot thrive without Torah, and Torah loses its meaning without Israel. We are the “People of the Book,” but if our children don’t read it, if they don’t understand the profound moral and ethical tradition they inherit, then they will be vulnerable to the lies that surround us.
The lesson is clear: We cannot go back to the way we were before Oct. 7. We cannot return to the divisions and infighting that weakened us. We cannot afford the luxury of Jewish communities fractured by denomination, politics or practice.
Our unity is existential. It is our path to survival, but more than that, it is our path to pride and growth.
We won’t agree on everything. But we must approach every fellow Jew with love. I challenge everyone reading this to choose wisdom over judgment. To recognize that the forces arrayed against us make no distinction between Israeli and American, religious or secular, between engaged and distant. To them, we are simply Jews. Perhaps it’s time we saw ourselves the same way.
The path forward requires us to double down on what has sustained us through this painful period: love, support and unity among our people. It demands that we invest in Jewish education; that we ensure that no Jewish home lacks connection to our tradition; and that we meet every Jew, regardless of where they are in their journey, with patience and compassion.
History has shown us that those who seek to destroy the Jewish people end up in its dustbin. But it has also shown us that we are strongest when we stand together. The resolve I see in young, committed Jews today gives me hope. They understand what’s at stake. They’re ready to fight for our future.
We’ve been shaken into reality these past few years. The loneliness has been our teacher. Now, let us take that lesson and build something stronger: a Jewish community that will never again allow itself to be divided from within while threats gather from without.
Resolve alone isn’t enough. We need unity. We need each other. This is what Rabbi Biermacher taught, and it is a lesson that will stay with me forever. We may at times stand alone in the world, but we will always have the Almighty, and we will always have each other.
