The fire after the seder: A story of memory and resolve

I grew up in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania—a place I remember with deep fondness. It was a wonderful town in which to be a child. There was a strong sense of community, a feeling that people looked out for one another. Those early lessons about kindness, responsibility, and shared civic life have stayed with me ever since.

They were also reinforced by a friendship that gave me a front-row seat to public service. One of my good friends growing up was Bill Thornburgh, the son of Governor Richard and Ginny Thornburgh. I spent countless hours at the Governor’s Mansion—playing, laughing, and running through the very halls that were recently damaged in an act of violence.

To most people, he was Governor Thornburgh. To me and my friends, he was also Bill’s dad. He came to our soccer and lacrosse games. We shared meals together. He was curious about our lives. He was dignified, principled, and kind. He didn’t need to talk about leadership—he lived it. Ginny Thornburgh, for her part, embodied warmth, intellect, and grace. Together, they shaped not just the state, but also the hearts of those lucky enough to know them. The Thornburghs taught me that leadership wasn’t about power or popularity—it was about service, humility, and a commitment to something bigger than yourself.

That’s part of why the attack on the Governor’s Mansion felt so personal. I wasn’t just seeing images of a government building—I was seeing a place tied to my childhood, to a time when I first glimpsed what true public service could look like. And the knowledge that this attack was fueled by antisemitic and anti-Israel hate cuts even deeper.

In the hours before this violent act, Governor Josh Shapiro sat at his family’s Passover Seder table and read the ancient words of the Haggadah: “In every generation, there are those who rise up to destroy us.” These words have echoed through Jewish memory—from Pharaohs to pogroms, from the Holocaust to today. And just hours after reading them, the governor’s own home—my childhood friend’s home, my own childhood refuge—was set ablaze in hatred.

But those same words that name the threat also carry the answer: “God delivers us from the hands of our enemies.” In other words, we are still here. We are not scared. And we are not going anywhere.

Governor Shapiro is a proud Jew and an unapologetic supporter of Israel. His response to the attack—clear, forceful, and deeply rooted in his Jewish identity—was more than political; it was profoundly personal. And it reminded me of something I’ve come to believe deeply as a Jew: Antisemitism is not our problem to solve. We did not create this hatred, and it is not our burden to erase it. Our task is something else entirely—to live as proud, visible Jews. The fight against hate is not won by blending in. It is won by standing tall. To walk through the world with integrity, to lead, to build, to contribute. By declaring, without apology, who we are, what we believe, and what we cherish. Let the world see us. Hate may target us—but it will never define us.

This incident resonates far beyond Pennsylvania. It reflects a global conflict in which too many still refuse to accept a basic truth: the Jewish people are not going anywhere. We have been connected to the land of Israel for thousands of years, and the people of Israel are here to stay, in our ancestral homeland. Any vision for peace must begin with that acknowledgment. To those who have marched since October 7—condemning Israel and aligning with Hamas—I would say this: the best way to support the people of Gaza is to help them come to terms with that reality. Peace cannot be built on the denial of your neighbor’s existence, but only through recognizing their permanence and their humanity.

In moments like this, I return to the values I learned in that Mansion—not just as a child, but as a witness to a family whose life revolved around dignity, public service, and inclusion. Governor Richard and Ginny Thornburgh believed in open doors and open hearts. They led by example. And in their own way, they helped prepare me—and countless others—to respond to hatred not with fear, but with strength, and with a renewed commitment to the common good.

Those lessons feel more urgent than ever. And as I look back on the Mansion, now damaged but not diminished, I’m reminded that the best of what it stood for—the best of what Governor Shapiro now represents—can’t be destroyed by fire or hate. It lives on in how we lead, how we love, and how we refuse to be silent.