From Pride to Panic

How Jewish Youth Went from Marching for Israel to Running in Fear

“Are you Jewish?”

The voice came fast, sharp, cutting through the noise of the street.

She looked up.

A man—big, broad shoulders, thick arms, dark eyes drilling into her. Moving toward her. Keffiyeh draped over his chest, something simmering underneath his skin. It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t casual.

It was a challenge.

She felt her stomach drop.

“Are you Jewish?”

It wasn’t a question. It was something else.

Her heart kicked into overdrive. She wanted to answer. No—she wanted to disappear. The space between them shrank. His voice got sharper. His hands twitched. He stepped forward, and she stepped back, her breath tightening, her body locking up.

Then she turned and walked. Fast. Fast enough that it wasn’t walking anymore.

The streetlights smeared in her vision. Her ears burned. He was behind her—wasn’t he? Was he following?

She didn’t check. She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop.

This is where we are now.

1972: A Generation That Didn’t Run

I wasn’t a Zionist. I was Jewish. And that was enough.

I was president of District 122 of B’nai B’rith Youth Organization—A.Z.A. The largest Jewish youth organization in the world. Our district alone—District 122—had tens of thousands of Jewish teens across the Northeastern US and Canada. And beyond us? There were other districts, everywhere—from Buenos Aires to Brussels, South Africa to Sydney. We numbered in the hundreds of thousands worldwide.

It was a movement, and we moved together.

And back then, it didn’t matter what kind of Jew you were. Reform, Orthodox, secular—it didn’t matter. Everyone was pro-Israel. Not because we were political, not because we were activists, but because Israel was us. We didn’t overthink it. We didn’t tiptoe around it.

We marched. We showed up. We wore white-and-blue windbreakers with Stars of David, handed out buttons that said “Am Yisrael Chai,” and blasted Israeli pop music from boomboxes on city sidewalks.

Every week, we danced on Mont Royal—Israeli folk dance on the mountain, overlooking Montreal. We came in from all over the city. We didn’t need flyers. We didn’t need reminders. We just showed up. Everyone showed up.

We belonged.

And no one questioned it. No one made us afraid to say we were Jewish. No one chased us, or cornered us, or made us feel small for existing.

That’s what’s changed.

The Shift: From Marching to Hiding

Now? Now, Jewish kids don’t march. They keep their heads down. They don’t wave Israeli flags in the streets. They don’t say “I’m Jewish” out loud unless they know it’s safe.

They’re not ashamed.

They’re afraid.

Afraid of being called colonizers, oppressors, apartheid sympathizers. Afraid of being harassed in their dorms, in their workplaces, in their cities. Afraid of being seen as the enemy by the people they live next to, work with—even date.

The world changed.

Back then, we didn’t have Muslim neighbors. Not like today. Not like now, where your Uber driver, your coworker, your dentist might be Muslim—wearing a headscarf, or fully covered except for their eyes. And that should be a beautiful thing. It could be. But today’s global tensions don’t stay overseas. They spill into sidewalks and schools, into coffee shops and campuses.

And when they do, it’s the Jewish kid who’s left wondering:
Am I still safe? Do they see me as human, or as the enemy?

The rules of engagement changed.

And today’s Jewish kids? They don’t fight back. They don’t march. They don’t stand up.

They just run.

Like that girl on the street.

Like too many others.

That’s what’s changed.

Final Thought

While writing this piece, I shared it with one of Montreal’s most respected Jewish voices—a leader whose love and dedication to our community I hold in the highest regard. He reminded me that in these challenging times, we are also witnessing a powerful rise in Jewish pride. Many are standing tall, wearing their Magen David and Kippah with strength and conviction, making their voices heard in ways we haven’t seen in generations. I share this not as a rebuttal, but as an expansion—an honoring of that strength, woven into the fabric of what I’ve written.