After Silence, the Tribe

I lost nearly all of my friends after October 7, 2023. One by one, their ignorance was revealed—blind reposts of AI-generated images served up by foreign actors. Iran and its proxies, fueled by old hatreds, flooded their digital spaces with antisemitic propaganda—and my friends, unknowingly, did their work for them. I watched it happen, share by share, until my familiar social world morphed into a hostile war zone of rhetoric.

My master’s in counterterrorism doesn’t make me an expert in deradicalization, but it trained me to recognize how extremism metastasizes—slowly, strategically—hijacking logic and turning decent people into unwitting agents of hate. Intergenerational trauma is my other great teacher. It taught me not to tiptoe around those carrying your enemies’ poison. That is a virulent, unpredictable dance you must abandon before the first note plays. I didn’t try to educate, argue, or explain.

I drew a hard line. Partly out of a survival instinct I couldn’t control, and partly because, if I’m honest, I was too emotionally shattered by October 7 to engage. The pain of isolation grew just as the number of victims rose, just as the months ticked by with hostages still held in Gaza, just as the names of our fallen soldiers multiplied. I watched those numbers climb—while the ones in my own private life fell. Fewer friends checked on me, stood beside me, or associated with me at all.

I wrote about this—how the aftermath of October 7, and other very real antisemitic attacks in the U.S., stripped me down to my core and left me carrying a legacy but wearing a target. What I didn’t write then was what I found after all that loss: the tribe had been there all along, waiting for me. In that heavy silence, space opened up. A space that would come to hold far more meaning than all the people and pieces I had to let go.

When I finally turned back toward the Jewish community—the tribe—the welcome was warm and natural. I was folded in like family, because I was family. I learned quickly that all I had to do was show up. What I needed was already there.

Every time I said yes—to any gathering at all, even Shabbat dinners where I knew no one and was totally out of my comfort zone—a light sparked that I thought I’d lost. It washed away the darkness and bitter betrayal left by broken friendships. This was the flame that my grandparents guarded through much darker times than mine.

Our tribe is built on ancient, mystical bonds—and is practical, relevant, and urgent. It has withstood centuries of enemies trying to weaken and scatter us. They fail every time. Not because we are perfect, but because this connection isn’t forced—it’s found. It’s not fear that binds us, but something older, stronger, stubbornly alive. Jews, our allies, and all who stand with us share in this strength—and become part of what keeps it unbreakable.

Losing so many friendships taught me a lesson I’m sadly fluent in: life is full of beginnings and endings. As a single person in my thirties, I’ve weathered very personal heartbreaks too. Within Am Yisrael, that kind of grief hits differently. It’s sharper, more sacred, and—at times—devastating. Two members of the tribe might be romantic partners for a while, but we are brothers and sisters by birthright. That covenant does not vanish with a breakup. It’s a holy responsibility. We must care for one another’s hearts, even when we part.

Many endings led me to this beginning—a return to ancient bonds that had been waiting for me all along. I am grateful for what generations before me endured to build and protect—and for leaving it for us to claim. That eternal flame, passed through time and generations, is the quiet bond that weaves our tribe together. Always there. Always waiting.

If you find yourself alone—retreating in the wake of betrayal, unsure of where you belong—know that the grief of those let downs can make space for something sacred.

Endings may come again. But some carry us back to what can’t be broken.