December 2023 marked my first trip to the United States since the Oct. 7 terrorist attacks in Israel. I live in Israel but travel to the States regularly for my work with M²: The Institute for Experiential Jewish Education. But this visit felt entirely different.
I sensed it the moment I got into an Uber at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. The driver asked where I was from. Normally, I’d say “Israel” without any hesitation. This time, I paused—then deflected, asking about him instead.
Later that day, I walked to a nearby coffee shop. As I reached for the door, a quiet question surfaced in my mind: Should I take off my kippah? Am I safe? And then another voice responded: How could you even think that? This is who you are.
That moment—and others like it—ushered me into something unfamiliar: Jewish loneliness.
Growing up, I learned about the loneliness of the Jew. Our history and theology are filled with periods of physical, communal and spiritual isolation. But I was born and raised in a different era—one of communal pride, cultural presence, social integration and spiritual creativity. The Israel I grew up in was strong and innovative. Its people—Jews in Israel and abroad—were industry leaders and cultural icons.
Now, I find myself asking: What is this moment doing to us? To the next generation?
Since Oct. 7, the Jewish community has responded with strength and urgency. We’ve approached antisemitism with what I’ve come to think of as the three C’s: confronting it publicly; contending with it in legal and political arenas; and combating it through advocacy, coalition-building and media. These responses are essential. And they will continue to be.
But there’s a fourth C—one that belongs not to the arenas of policy or protest but to the realm of education. And that is coping.
By “coping,” I don’t mean just getting by. I mean developing the inner strength to integrate, own and proudly express one’s Jewish identity in a complicated world. Coping, in this sense, is not passive. It’s the work of becoming whole in the face of pressure to fragment. It’s the ability to make meaning, claim one’s story, and emerge with clarity and conviction.
Jewish leaders and educators are being called into a different kind of work—deeper, quieter and no less vital: helping our communities, especially our youth, the next generation, make sense of what this moment means for who they are and who they want to become.
Much of that work lives within the world of experiential Jewish education—a field dedicated to identity development, values exploration and cultivating a sense of belonging. In camps, fellowships, travel programs, service learning initiatives and immersive retreats, experiential educators meet young Jews not just as students but as human beings trying to hold complexity and find clarity.
And they are holding so much.
At a recent seminar in M²’s Yated program, which trains Jewish educators to use narrative and Jewish values to cultivate resilience in the face of uncertainty, one participant shared a story. She had been walking her 5-year-old son to an afternoon activity when they turned a corner and found themselves in the middle of a violent anti-Israel protest. “What do I tell him?” she asked. “How do I explain this? What will it do to his sense of self?”
What will it do to all of our young people?
Are they internalizing fear? Negotiating shame? Wondering whether to hide their Jewishness or to fight for it? Will they grow angry, disengaged or defensive? Will they quietly pull back from Jewish spaces—not because they reject them but because they fear what comes with them?
My generation (and that of our parents) did not grow up with this. But young Jews are. And we must ask: What will this mean for the people they will become? What kind of Jewish identity will they carry into adulthood? What will Jewish life look like? What will it be made of—10, 20 years from now?
These are the things we carry. And what we carry shapes who we become.
So, what does coping look like in this context? I believe it requires three things.
More spaces of Jewish pride
Some of the most powerful expressions of Jewish pride I’ve witnessed were at BBYO’s International Convention. In a crowded convention center, thousands of teens danced, sang and celebrated their Jewishness with abandon. There was no fear. Just joy. Just the unmistakable relief of being surrounded by people who believe, practice and celebrate like you do.
I’ve seen it elsewhere—at Hillel International’s Global Assembly, in summer camps, and as part of service programs like Repair the World and immersive programs like the Diller Teen Fellowship. These are not luxuries; they are vital spaces where Jewish pride is built in real time.
The Jewish world needs more of these spaces. Because pride isn’t just a feeling—it’s armor. It’s grounding. It’s the beginning of resilience.
More Jewish learning for self-definition
When Jews are defined from the outside—when we are reduced to a label, a stereotype or a target—we must define ourselves from within.
And we do that through learning. Not just any learning, but Jewish learning—the kind that invites us into our texts, our stories, our questions, our aspirations. The kind that helps us ask: Who am I? What do I stand for? What does my tradition teach me about how to live, how to lead, how to belong?
That’s why, in my work with M², I’ve seen growing interest in Jewish learning, both formal and informal, as a way to anchor Jewish identity and respond to the complexity of this moment. Since Oct. 7, three dimensions have risen to the top: God, spirituality and prayer; Jewish texts and core narratives; and Judaism’s relevance to life’s big questions. People are searching for something deeper. Something lasting.
Organizations like Pardes, Hadar, Hartman, the Bronfman Fellowship and the Institute for Jewish Spirituality are offering exactly that. Through deep Jewish learning and reflection, by navigating critical questions and through spiritual exploration, they’re creating space for young Jews to feel grounded in a more thoughtful and richly textured Judaism. They’re helping students learn not only what Judaism is, but also to decide what it means to them.
That is coping. Not retreat. Not reaction. But self-definition.
Greater conviction
Finally, coping requires clarity. It requires knowing what we stand for—and standing by it.
When I was growing up, the Jewish world rallied behind Soviet Jewry. We marched. We organized. We believed in something, and we acted from that belief. Today, amid grief, anxiety and fear, we must return to those same questions: What do we believe in? What do we stand for?
Are we a people of memory? Of justice? Of obligation? What are our responsibilities to one another—and the world?
Jewish youth are asking these questions. And they’re looking to educators and community leaders for guidance—not perfect answers, but grounded ones. Rooted ones. We must give them something to hold on to. Something to believe in.
Community leaders must continue to confront, contend with and combat antisemitism. And as educators, we must also help our students—and ourselves—cope with what it’s doing to our inner world. Not by shrinking, but by growing. Not by hiding, but by becoming.
Because these are the things our generation carries. And the way we carry them will shape the people we—and our students—will become.
Let’s make sure they don’t have to carry it alone.