This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
News that hatred came to Tivoli, New York wasn’t shocking, and for that I was surprised. The lack of shock made me remember.
At twelve, I learned neighboring districts in Long Island referred to my high school as “Jewlett” instead of Hewlett. At fifteen, said high school experienced a delayed start due to a break-in in which the vandals painted swastikas all over the walls of the first floor history wing. At age sixteen I was referred to as “a Hebrew” and at twenty I had a colleague describe a customer to me as: “She’s a typical Jew – rich and bossy, like she owns everything.”
So, the antisemitic crime that occurred in a thrift shop in my town this year doesn’t surprise me. I’m scared. And when I wonder what I would do if antisemitism rises again, it’s not an if.
It’s not a when.
It’s now.
On Saturdays at the main intersection in Red Hook, nestled in the Hudson Valley, there are protesters. I used to be all about protesting. Now, my stomach turns and twists, and my heart speeds up at the sight of any group with signs and organized chants. For at least a decade, I’ve rallied against corrupt administrations, institutions, and oppressive systems that work against marginalized communities. I have been loudly progressive for as long as I’ve had a voice to use, and now this group of people with whom I’ve aligned for so long is a source of fear and pain.
Organizations I used to support now tout antisemitism like a new token of leftist resistance against persecution. Friends I used to have now yell at me for my Judaism and my Israeli heritage. Places I used to frequent, spaces that were supposed to be safe – queer events, knitting groups, concerts – have become rife with anti-Jewish rhetoric.
I invited a new friend to my home one Sunday evening a few months back. We ate soup, played Phase 10, and chatted. It wasn’t until the topic of music came up that the conversation became tense. The friend brought up a musician and promptly said that she wasn’t a good person.
“She’s very pro-Israel.” They said this with a sing-songy lilt to their voice as they flipped through their cards before placing one in the discard pile.
“I am Israeli,” I sing-songed right back at them, not knowing what else to do.
“No, no, but she’s really pro-Israel. Like she wants all Palestinians to die.”
I shouldn’t have been shocked. I shouldn’t have frozen as my stomach gurgled and dropped to my toes.
I lost in more ways than one that night, fumbling my turn in a game I never wanted to play, but I wasn’t stupid. Still am not, hopefully. I knew the topic of Israel would come up eventually, and I was pretty sure I knew where this person stood. But I still hoped. Foolishly and whole-heartedly, I hoped.
In trying to foster a connection with a new person, I had hoped they would possess critical thinking skills; I hoped they would understand that supporting Israel is not “wanting all Palestinians to die.”
I had hoped that I wouldn’t live to see Jew-hatred rise again. Soon after the attacks on October 7th, 2023, it became clear to me that this hope was naive. Antisemitism never left. It merely simmered, slow and sinister, under society’s surface and came back to a boil when Hamas’s acts of terrorism put a spotlight on violence against Jews.
I had hoped that people would see it this time; had hoped that we had grown as a community, as a nation, and as a global society to be able to recognize hatred when it shows its face, marred with the wounds of generations of trauma and persecution.
I had hoped that I would find support amongst the socio-political cohort I’d been a part of; I thought, after all, we were meant to stand against hatred. We were supposed to stand for diversity, for equity, and for inclusion. But it seems to me that DEI doesn’t count when it comes to Jews.
In a discussion of societal oppression, my mom raised a point about the rise of antisemitism. Her friend responded, “Yeah, but the Jews will be fine because they can pass as white.” My mom was shocked. When she told me about the conversation I asked if anyone in the group responded in support of the Jewish community. The dismayed shake of her head confirmed my suspicion. Silence and complicity is allowing growing sentiments of Jew-hatred to run rampant even in circles that I’d previously thought were inclusive.
It turned out that the man who had stormed into the thrift shop with a gun was seventy-two years old and “in crisis.” He disguised a pellet gun to look more dangerous than it was. He was apprehended by the local police and given the mental health help he needed. Thankfully, the few people present in the shop at the time were not harmed. Not physically, at least.
I don’t know what I would have done in that situation. Would I have said something to distract the gunman? Would I have hidden? Would I have proclaimed my Judaism, loud and proud? Would it have mattered? Or would I just have been shot at regardless?
I am afraid of the protesters at the town square, afraid to go back to Tivoli, and afraid to be my truest Jewish self. But if I’ve learned anything from Judaism as a culture, religion, and heritage as passed down through my family and community, it is the courage to be Jewish out loud, always.
In the synagogue of my youth, my rabbi encouraged every congregation and community member to be involved with our culture in any way, big or small, to honor their Judaism. Reading works by Elie Wiesel, Primo Levi, and Yehuda Amichai as I’ve grown into adulthood has allowed me to internalize Jewish resistance and resilience. I can feel the gaze of our ancestors proudly looking upon us, the global Jewish community, as we stride through this new wave of hatred with hope and togetherness. I will not let anyone take away my right to exist as a Jewish person. Not now, not ever.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Danielle V. Cohen was born and raised in the suburbs of Long Island, New York and currently resides in the Hudson Valley. She earned her undergraduate degree from Bard College in 2023 with a major in vocal performance. Danielle is currently a student at Johns Hopkins University in the Master of Arts in Writing program. She writes poetry, personal essays, and works of fiction. This is her first published piece and she is beyond grateful to the Jewish Book Council for the opportunity.
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