Resilience in the Face of Hate – Words of a Friend

Some time ago, I published in the Times of Israel blogs to share news from my friend in Seattle, who is deeply involved in Jewish and pro-Israel advocacy in the Pacific Northwest of the United States. He often reminds me that, while his part of the world may seem like an exception, it is instead an early indicator for the state of the Diaspora. When Jews in Seattle are thriving, things are good elsewhere. When antisemitism rears its ugly head in his town, it often does so in new, innovative forms. Leave it unattended, and that Jew hatred metastasizes and spreads – to San Diego, Melbourne, Montreal, Boston, and Brooklyn.

He delivered the remarks below at the annual AJC Seattle dinner. His words were powerful and resonated deeply with me. I thought I would share them here:

There’s an old Yiddish expression. Schluf gikher, men darf di kishn:

“Sleep faster, we need the pillows.”

In classically Jewish fashion, the source of the humor is the source of pain.

I don’t get much sleep anymore. I haven’t slept well since 10/7.

Friends, I am so, so tired.

I am tired of driving my kids home from Hebrew school and passing by the flags of terrorist groups Every. Single. Week.

I am tired of inspecting school flyers, not for news about curriculum nights, but for “Friends of Lebanon” fundraisers that never ask where the money actually goes.

I’m tired of sitting in shul and wondering where the hostage posters are.

I’m tired of not knowing the Mariners score because I’m listening to another podcast on antisemitism in academia, in medicine, in Europe.

I’m tired of asking politicians to care – to care about the graffiti that calls me a colonizer, to care about the smashed synagogues and the spraypainted schools.

I’m tired of protestors that block freeways and I’m sick and tired of those who cheer them on.

I am tired of the social media platforms that allow Jewish women to be called Zionist whores.

I’m tired of the schools that teach hate and the teachers who teach it.

I’m tired of the Jews who tokenize themselves and make headlines condemning their own, simply because their last name ends with Berg or Stein.

I’m tired of reporters who ignore broken windows and red triangles.

I’m tired of the media telling me that other minorities matter, and that Jews never really did.

I am tired of tucking in my dogtag at work, wondering if my Judaism cost me a promotion or if my Zionism will cost me my job.

I’m tired of celebrities who write songs that spread blood libel against Jews. I’m sick that they do it in my town.

I’m tired of the Jewish Studies professors who tell lies about other Jews, and the museums who make Zionists confront hate alone.

I am so, so tired of everyone who seems content to let it happen. I ask: “Why don’t you care more? Why don’t you care at all? What is the point of being in power if you remain silent?”

How dare you lecture Jews, Jews! About genocide?

Above all, though, I am tired of my kids asking, “why does everyone blame their problems on us?” and never having an answer for them.

But then I am reminded that Ariel sat with me, seven months pregnant, demanding that the city of Seattle do more to make this town a safe place for Jews.

I am reminded that Alexa flew to Israel to feed hungry Jews, then flew back to sit in political meeting number one thousand and one.

I am reminded of Murray, who speaks Mandarin to the Chinese and Korean to the Koreans and Bahasa to the Indonesians and does it all for us. And that Murray always saves a Yiddishism for me.

I am reminded of Regina, who will go on TV at any hour with no notice, to be the conscience of this community.

I am reminded of Eileen, who never lets me forget the joy that can be found in Jewish advocacy.

I am reminded of Nina, who personally reports every single incident of antisemitic graffiti, and Bellevue Deputy Mayor Jared Niewenhuis who makes sure it’s removed immediately.

I am reminded of Councilman Bob Kettle, who put an Orthodox rabbi on the Civilian Police Commission.

Of Lorri, who brings Music of Remembrance and of Lori, who fights for every inch, in every meeting in the 46th LD.

I am reminded of Ari, who refuses to give up on the schools, and of Benj, who still cares so much about what is taught in them.

I am reminded of Paul, who always signs his name to what he writes, and of Judy and Ruth, who never, ever accept the status quo.

I am reminded of our beautiful Michael and Wendy, who give endlessly in every way possible, with vigor and moral clarity and enduring memory.

And I am reminded of Dave and Lauren, who proudly wear the uniform of the Seattle Police Department, as Jews and as Zionists, every day.

I think back often to the words of Rachel Goldberg-Polin, the courageous mother of Hersh, who in her quest to bring her son home alive, became a global icon.

She traveled the world, speaking to anyone who would listen about the hostages, forcing others to look when they wanted to look away.

Hersh was murdered in August last year. Rachel said this in her eulogy:

Ok, sweet boy, go now on your journey, I hope it’s as good as the trips you dreamed about, because finally, my sweet, sweet boy, finally, finally, finally, finally you are FREE!

I will love you and I will miss you every single day for the rest of my life. But you are right here. I know you are right here, I just have to teach myself to feel you in a new way.

And Hersh, I need you to do one last thing for us. Now I need YOU to help us to stay strong. And I need YOU to help us to survive.

I believe that Rachel spoke for all of us then. She was the lioness we needed, the voice of the fortitude we ourselves may have lacked.

We didn’t ask – we couldn’t, not after what she had been through – but she gave any way.

And she continued to show us the very best of ourselves in the very darkest of moments.

We have our own lionesses here in Seattle. Jewish women who speak and act with strength, guts, and courage.

Women who have, at the University of Washington, carved a path so that others may follow.

Who insist on holding the administration accountable to its own promises, who risk their reputations and their careers and even their physical safety to identify themselves not just as Jews, but as ferocious champions of rich Jewish community for students, faculty, and staff on campus.

UW is more than just the local college – it’s the premier university across our weird little corner of the country.

It sets the tone for much of our success – including the ability of Jews to live, work, study, and thrive in our state.

These women have refused to give up on it – and we cannot give up on them.

To those women, I will continue to say we are with you, every step of the way.

You are not alone. Thank you.

I’ll leave you with this – some of you remember that when Emily Damari, whose fingers were shot off by Hamas, was freed after 471 days in captivity, she flashed her broken hand in defiance.

In Israel, they called it a sign of “a great small victory.” I wish that for us – for our own great small victory.

And I wish for us the chutzpah to reach out with whatever is left of your own hands…and take it.