Anne Frank’s Light Endures in a Darkening World

My daughter just finished reading The Diary of Anne Frank for the very first time. She’s almost twelve—roughly the same age as Anne when she went into hiding—and like Anne, she is a bright, curious, Jewish girl. She would read it at night, brow furrowed, turning each page intently. Every so often, she’d look up and ask a question that pierced me.

There have been several moments over the past two years when she’s looked at me with the same searching eyes and said things like, “Why does it seem like everyone hates us?”

It is a question no child should ever have to ask. And yet, in today’s America, it’s a sentiment that sadly feels all too appropriate.

For generations, this country has been a place of refuge for Jewish families like our own—a place to start anew, to walk freely, to be safe. But now, that feeling of safety is starting to fray. We scroll past images of mobs tearing down posters of hostages, we hear hateful chants echoing in the streets, and we see the Star of David reinterpreted by some as a “triggering” provocation rather than a symbol of pride or faith.

Since October 7, the shift has been undeniable. The Anti‑Defamation League documented a record 9,354 antisemitic incidents in 2024 in the U.S. and the upsurge has continued in 2025. Swastikas routinely appear on playgrounds, in schools, and on Jewish-owned businesses. Jewish students continue to be under attack on university campuses. From LA to DC to Boulder, Jews have been murdered in cold blood. As a result, synagogues, schools and all forms of Jewish institutions have had to markedly increase security in confronting this new reality.

We’ve seen these signs before—too many times to count. In Berlin, Vienna, and Warsaw they appeared slowly and subtly until it was too late. The graffiti. The boycotts. The rationalizations. The silence.

Yet despite history’s warnings, so many refuse to connect the dots. Some Jews, many of whose own families were decimated by the Holocaust, still fail to see the writing on the wall. They bury their heads in the sand, cling to wishful thinking, or—most troublingly—sometimes even join the chorus

And it’s incredibly challenging when it comes to our children. We must strike a delicate balance: making them aware enough to stay safe, without filling them with fear. To keep their eyes wide open, while reminding them to walk with their heads held high. We want them to understand the world as it is, while not letting go of what they wish it could be. Above all, we need to help them hold onto something absolutely vital: hope. But that hope must be anchored in action.

We must model resilience. We must show what it means to stand with pride in our history and strength in our identity. To speak out, even when our voices tremble. To be visible and vocal when retreating might feel easier. To show them that being Jewish is not something to hide—it is something to carry with dignity.

When my daughter finished reading Anne Frank’s diary, she didn’t look broken. She looked thoughtful and even inspired. “She still believed that people were good,” she said. “In spite of everything.” I nodded, though my heart felt heavy.

That was the choice Anne made. In a time of unimaginable cruelty, she chose love. She chose faith in the fundamental goodness of humanity. That clarity, that strength, that conviction—that’s what must sustain us now. Not delusional optimism, but a fierce resolve that goodness can prevail even amid ignorance and hate.

We cannot ignore what’s happening. But we also cannot let it extinguish the light within us—and most importantly, within our children. Anne didn’t. Neither will we.