Jews Must Not Be Bystanders

There’s a troubling conversation that keeps resurfacing in our community. It sounds something like this: “Should we say something?” or, worse, “Is this really our place to comment?” This question tends to pop up whenever a Jewish organization or individual considers responding to a violent act of antisemitism, whether it’s a shooting, a synagogue vandalized, or, as happened most recently, a terrorist attack on Jews peacefully gathering in Boulder, Colorado. The impulse to pause, to debate, to hesitate before speaking out is often framed as thoughtful, strategic, even wise.

But I’d argue it’s none of those things.

It’s the bystander effect, dressed up in progressive language. And we, as Jews — especially those of us who identify as justice-minded, compassionate, and proudly left-leaning — need to snap out of it. Now.

Let’s get something straight: saying “charity starts at home” isn’t about being selfish. It’s about being honest. And when Jews are targeted, burned, beaten, or murdered simply for being Jewish, that is our home. That’s our family. That’s our people. It is entirely possible — and deeply necessary — to care about the suffering of others while still showing up loudly, publicly, and unapologetically when we are the ones under attack. If we won’t name and condemn antisemitism clearly and consistently, why should we expect anyone else to?

Too often, we hesitate because we’re afraid of being misunderstood. We’re afraid of seeming self-centered. We’re afraid someone will accuse us of making everything about us. But here’s the truth: antisemites already think everything is about us. They already blame us. So we might as well stop trying to be palatable and start being principled.

It used to be we told stories of the bystander effect in the third person. “Can you believe no one stepped in?” “How could people watch and do nothing?” Now it’s hitting closer to home. Too many Jewish organizations, schools, federations, and yes, even synagogues remain silent in the face of rising Jew-hatred, excusing themselves with language like, “We’re not a political organization,” or “This is too complex,” or “We don’t want to offend.” But there is nothing political or complex about condemning the targeted torching of elderly Jews at a public event. There is nothing offensive about expressing grief when Jewish diplomats are shot in cold blood in Washington, D.C. These aren’t hot takes. These are human responses.

And when we outsource our voice to others — waiting for The New York Times, or the White House, or the “right” influencers to say something before we do — we abandon the sacred responsibility to protect our own dignity and humanity.

Moral clarity does not mean pretending the world is simple, it means knowing when something is wrong and having the courage to say so, loudly, without apology, without asterisk. It means resisting the exhausting reflex to say “but.” It means challenging the compulsive need to add disclaimers to every act of Jewish solidarity. “Yes, but what about…” “We condemn this, but we also acknowledge…” Enough.

The value of Jewish moral clarity in a morally confused world cannot be overstated. When we name what is happening, when we call antisemitism what it is, we do more than protect ourselves. We model integrity. We teach others what it looks like to say, “This is not okay,” even when it’s not trending, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Some argue that if a statement won’t reach millions, it’s not worth making. That if your organization isn’t a household name, your silence doesn’t really matter. That’s nonsense. The Jewish world isn’t just made up of AIPAC and the ADL. It’s day schools and synagogues and summer camps and college clubs. It’s youth groups and startups and small-but-mighty nonprofits. Our impact doesn’t only come from how many people hear us, but from how many are emboldened to follow our lead. When one synagogue speaks out, five more might do the same. When a Jewish educator posts a heartfelt message about antisemitism, a student may feel seen for the first time. When a local organization calls an attack terrorism, it helps normalize truth-telling, which is no small feat in this era of distortion and denial.

So don’t underestimate the ripple effect. Your voice matters. Your clarity matters.

We tell ourselves that silence keeps us safe, that not rocking the boat will keep the peace. But history says otherwise. Silence may delay the backlash, but it never prevents it. And worse, it erodes the very values we claim to uphold — dignity, justice, empathy, truth. We’ve all said we’d never let it happen again. We’ve marched. We’ve held vigils. We’ve lit candles and said Kaddish and told stories of “never again.”

Well, “again” is here. And the test is not how beautifully we mourn, but how bravely we speak.

This message is particularly urgent for progressive Jewish communities. Those who pride themselves on caring for the marginalized must learn to include ourselves in that equation. Antisemitism is not less real just because some of us have privilege. Being part of the oppressor-oppressed conversation doesn’t make us immune to being the targets of hate.

Think back to 2020. Many of us marched under the banner of Black Lives Matter — not because other lives didn’t matter, but because Black lives were under threat and needed to be centered. We were rightly outraged when people replied with “All Lives Matter,” a phrase that diluted the specific injustice being protested and redirected the focus away from those in pain. And yet, today, when Jewish lives are under attack, some of those same people — including far too many Jews — are falling into the very trap we once condemned. We hedge. We qualify. We respond to murdered Jews with “Well, all suffering matters.” We respond to antisemitic violence by widening the frame so far it becomes meaningless.

It’s not just ironic. It’s unjust.

We can champion the dignity of others and also name the murder of Israeli Jews. We can advocate for racial justice and still demand that Jewish lives be treated with the same urgency. We don’t have to choose. But we do have to speak. Not just to defend ourselves, but because we believe, deeply and unshakably, that bigotry is wrong. That terrorism is wrong. That setting an elderly Jew on fire for holding a sign is not something to tiptoe around. It’s something to shout about.

There’s an odd belief that speaking out against antisemitism is redundant. That of course we oppose it. Why state the obvious?

Because sometimes, in a world drowning in noise and deflection, stating the obvious is the most radical thing we can do.

Because when you don’t say something, people assume you don’t see it. Or worse, that you don’t care.

And because, frankly, it’s not obvious to everyone. Not anymore.

So say it. Write it. Post it. Email it. Include it in your Shabbat announcements. Name it in your classrooms. Bring it into your boardrooms. Say it, even if it feels uncomfortable. Even if you’re tired. Even if you think someone else already did.

Because if you don’t — who will?