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Never in my life have I felt so afraid to be Jewish — not just for my safety, but for what it means to be Jewish in the world right now.

What began on October 7th — the horrific Hamas attack on Israel — has ignited in me something I never expected: an identity crisis. Before that day, if you had asked me if I was a Zionist, I would have said no. Unlike many of my Jewish friends, I had never been to Israel, nor did I have a particular desire to visit. I didn’t feel a strong connection to the land or a calling to make Aliyah. America felt safe for Jews like me, far removed from the antisemitism that enveloped Europe in World War Two.

I grew up the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. That legacy has profoundly shaped my Jewish identity. For much of my life, I believed the Holocaust was a turning point in history that could never fade in significance or be met with indifference. I assumed Holocaust education would always have a place in schools. I was wrong. Today, we are witnessing a troubling shift. Holocaust education is being challenged, minimized, or in some cases, banned entirely from school curricula. The fact that school boards and political leaders question its importance is deeply alarming. Holocaust denial has always existed, but without education, how will future generations learn from the past and prevent history from repeating?

Israeli Flag (photo: Pexels

And all this is occurring in the aftermath of October 7th.

That day shook me to my core. The news was devastating: babies murdered, women raped, entire families slaughtered, hostages dragged into Gaza. The rape of Israeli women was met with silence by a global community that so readily championed #MeToo. The death of the Bibas children, two beautiful redheaded boys, broke my heart. I was frozen by fear, but I was also moved by the solidarity of my community. For the first time, I began loudly and publicly defending Israel — not out of nationalism, but out of anguish and necessity. I wrote, I posted, I engaged, trying to make people see what had happened. To understand that Hamas was not just launching rockets, but using civilians — homes, hospitals, schools — as shields. It was a terror campaign hiding behind the illusion of resistance. And they were winning the propaganda war. That became evident by the backlash against Jews in the diaspora.

I’ve stood behind Israel for over a year now, firm in my support. Whenever I watched or read the news, particularly reports that were critical of Israel’s actions, I always questioned the sources. This is something I learned to do in college, when I studied journalism. Are the sources biased? Are the reported numbers real? Is the narrative being distorted? Is information coming from just one outlet or many? What is fact or imagined truth? 

And one question continued to nag at me as anti-Zionism became so mainstream: Is the world forgetting the original atrocity that triggered this war? How could people forget so quickly?

Recently, however, news reports and images of civilian deaths in Gaza have become hard to ignore. 

Slowly, a new feeling has begun to grow inside me, a gnawing feeling I can’t ignore. 

What if some of what is being reported in the news is true? What if Israel’s government has gone too far? As the war drags on with no end in sight – no ceasefire, no resolution – I find myself questioning if the original reason for the war is still pertinent. Is there still an imminent threat from Hamas? What is Prime Minister Netanyahu’s objective now? 

I’ve never agreed with Netanyahu’s government, either before the war or currently. Before October 7, many Israelis protested his leadership, and now many want peace, want to see an end to the war as well.

This is the heartbreak of being Jewish right now. 

Yet despite this seed of doubt, I still believe in a Jewish homeland.

Now more than ever, in fact. I believe we need Israel precisely because of the antisemitism that has reignited with such venom around the world. I worry every single day that the world views Jews as the enemy, as murderers. They already shout that we are colonizers (not true), committing genocide. I worry that we, as Jews, are becoming scapegoats again. I worry that my children will grow up in a world where antisemitism isn’t whispered in dark corners but shouted in plain sight. That every “From the river to the sea” chant, whether understood or not, signals an intent to erase us.

My Jewish identity will always fill me with pride. 

I will wear my Star of David proudly and unapologetically. I love our culture, our history, our perseverance. But I am also filled with worry, doubt, and confusion over what is happening in Gaza, over how complicated and tragic this war has become.

I want people to understand that being Jewish does not mean supporting the death of innocent Palestinians. We can want peace for both peoples. We can hold grief for the hostages and those suffering in Gaza. We can stand against antisemitism and against war crimes. We can be both proud and deeply conflicted.

It is exhausting. It is defeating. It is terrifying to not know where you belong politically, spiritually, or emotionally. And the worst part? There is no answer. There is no clear “right side of history” when everyone is bleeding.

I try to hold all of this in my mind at once, but some days, it feels like too much. The weight of this identity, in this moment, is almost unbearable. But still, I carry it. Because I have to. Because we always have.