Antisemitism Took Sarah and Yaron – We Can’t Let it Define Us
It’s been one year since antisemitism stole the lives of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky.
Sarah and Yaron were two bright, passionate young people, who came to Washington to pursue careers in diplomacy and peacebuilding. They fell in love while working together at the Israeli Embassy and were beginning to build a life together. And they were leaving an AJC event promoting collaboration between multi-faith organizations and the delivery of humanitarian aid to Gaza when their lives were taken from them in a horrific, devastating act of antisemitic hate.
Sarah and Yaron were vibrant. They were engaged with the world around them. They believed in the power of bringing people together across differences, across borders, and across identities. Their work at the Embassy of Israel reflected that commitment.
Yaron’s peers described him as “noble”, someone deeply committed to the difficult work of understanding and diplomacy, even at a moment when that work felt increasingly fraught. Sarah was a proud member of her Jewish community in Kansas City, at the University of Kansas, and in Washington. She was thoughtful, curious, compassionate, and above all else–never lost her hope for a more peaceful world. I remember being at Sarah’s funeral and hearing her peers speak about her with such love and pride. The entire Jewish community still carries the weight of their loss.
While we grieve, we also face the reality that violent acts of antisemitism have become all too familiar for the Jewish community. The news is unrelenting. Every week seems to bring another story of harassment, violence, or an attempted attack that could have ended in tragedy: peaceful marchers attacked with molotov cocktails, families murdered while celebrating Hanukkah, a driver attempting to ram a car filled with explosives into a synagogue full of children. All the while, public figures and politicians continue to spread antisemitic rhetoric that only invites more violence. It’s easy to understand why more than half of American Jews changed their daily behavior last year—like choosing not to display a Star of David in public—out of fear that the next horrific headline could be about them.
The attack that took Sarah and Yaron’s lives was meant to intimidate. It was meant to instill fear and send a message that participation in Jewish life comes at a cost. But the greater cost would be hiding our identities and retreating into our homes, instead of living proud, authentic Jewish lives.
We must also remember that antisemitism is not only an attack on individuals. It is an attack on the idea of open, democratic society itself. Hate reaches beyond any one group; a society that allows it to flourish leaves all of its members at risk. If we had forgotten that, we were tragically reminded this week, when two teenagers shot and killed three Muslims at a mosque in San Diego, leaving behind a vile anti-Islamic, antisemitic, racist, sexist manifesto littered with Nazi iconography.
As we mark the painful anniversary of Sarah and Yaron’s deaths, it would be easy to resign ourselves to a normalcy where we can no longer proudly display our Judaism. But Sarah and Yaron dedicated their lives to the work of bringing people together across differences, advocating for diversity and diplomacy, and ensuring all voices are heard. They reached out to those different from them, and they confronted antisemitism not by retreating from their Jewish identity, but by embracing it with pride and unwavering belief in stronger Jewish life.
Abandoning that work now would be a disservice to their memories.
In Jewish tradition, memory carries responsibility. To remember is to speak names, to honor life. So as we reflect on Sarah and Yaron, we hold on to the generosity of spirit they lived with, not the hatred that ended their lives. And we honor their memories by carrying forward what they strived for: the steady pursuit of a secure, thriving Israel, a peaceful Middle East, and a vibrant, enduring Jewish community–even in the face of enormous resistance.
Zichronam livracha. May their memories be a blessing.
