Stop the Division. Start the Redemption

Since October 7, something in me cracked wide open.

It wasn’t just the grief or the rage—it was clarity. A spiritual thunderclap. The kind that strips away distractions and lays bare the truth.

Suddenly, the divisions that once seemed so sharp—black hat or bareheaded, sheitel or scarf, Ashkenazi or Sephardi, observant or secular—began to fade. What came into focus was something stronger: the unshakable truth that every Jew is part of me.

That day, we were hunted. Not for what we believed or how we prayed. Not for our opinions or our minhagim. Just for being Jews.

Hamas didn’t care if you wore tefillin every morning or hadn’t stepped foot in a synagogue in years. They didn’t check your stance on Israel, your denominational affiliation, or your political views. They came to slaughter Jews. All Jews.

And so I made a decision.

I will love every single Jew with everything I have. No conditions. No exceptions. Because family doesn’t ask for credentials. It shows up.

But love isn’t license—and unity doesn’t mean erasing what matters most. If we want to not just survive but rise, we must root ourselves not only in each other, but in Torah and in G-d. That doesn’t mean judging anyone for where they are on their journey. It means remembering where our strength comes from—and why we’ve survived when empires have fallen.

Our power has never come from politics or popularity. It comes from emunah. From being bound to something eternal. From the covenant written not in ink, but in blood, fire, and faith.

We need each other—but we also need the One who never left us. Even in the tunnels. Even in the silence.

And to our allies—the righteous non-Jews who stood with us when it wasn’t easy, who spoke truth when it was dangerous, who walked out of classrooms, called out the mob, and risked careers to stand by the Jewish people—we see you. We thank you. We will never forget you.

This war is not just on the ground. It is a war of identity, memory, and truth. A spiritual war. Between light and darkness. And the way we win is by remembering who we are:

One people. One destiny. One G-d.

This isn’t just a war of rockets—it’s a war for the Jewish soul.

And the only way we win is by locking arms—not just in grief, but in faith. Not just in protests, but in purpose. The world has tried to erase us before. We’re still here. And we’re still rising.

But this time, we rise smarter. Stronger. Rooted in Torah. United in destiny. And unapologetically proud of who we are.

So to every Jew reading this—however you look, however you live—I see you. I love you. And I’m standing with you.

But know this: the only way forward is together—with each other, with our G-d, and with the fire of eternity burning in our veins.

Am Yisrael chai. And we’re just getting started.