We’re 3 Jewish Moms in Dallas and We’re Exhausted
We didn’t set out to become activists.
We were just three Jewish mothers in Dallas who met on a Facebook group—strangers connected by a shared unease. Something didn’t feel right. What we were seeing on college campuses wasn’t just “politics” or “heated debate.” It was something deeper, something more dangerous—and it was happening right under our noses at the University of North Texas and UT Dallas.
So we did what mothers do.
We showed up.
We mobilized quickly, forming the DFW chapter of Mothers Against College Antisemitism (MACA). We raised funds. We brought speakers to campus to give students facts and confidence. We offered free self-defense classes so they could protect themselves physically—not just intellectually. We hosted tabling events to create safe spaces for real dialogue. We met with university faculty and administrators. We researched and documented problematic groups and classroom incidents. We sat down with government officials to make sure they understood what was happening behind campus walls.
We didn’t wait for permission. We didn’t wait for perfect conditions.
We just acted.
And since then, we haven’t stopped.
We write. We post. We speak. We organize. We podcast. We publish. We show up—again and again—wherever Jewish students need support. We are there when they feel isolated. We are there when they are afraid. We are there when they are told to stay quiet.
But here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud:
We are exhausted.
Not because the work isn’t worth it—but because we are often doing it alone.
Even more painful is the resistance we’ve faced from within our own community. There are Jewish organizations—on and off campus—whose stated mission is to educate and empower Jewish students, yet they refuse to collaborate with us. Some won’t promote the very events we fund. Others actively discourage students from engaging, urging them instead to keep their heads down and avoid drawing attention.
We’ve even been called “vigilantes.”
If standing up for our children’s safety, identity, and dignity makes us vigilantes, then so be it.
But let’s be honest about what this approach teaches the next generation:
Be quiet. Don’t stand out. Don’t defend yourself too loudly. Don’t challenge what you know is wrong.
That is not empowerment. That is erosion.
And we refuse to raise a generation of Jewish students who feel they must shrink themselves to survive.
We’ve taken a different approach—one rooted in resilience. We often joke that we’ve adopted the mindset of Marines: adapt, improvise, overcome. When doors close, we find another way in. When we are blocked, we move around, over, or through the obstacle. Because we see what’s coming if we don’t.
Apathy is not neutral. It is a slow surrender.
And we know exactly where that leads.
This is not just about three mothers in Dallas. It’s about a growing movement of parents across the country who are stepping in because the systems that should be protecting and empowering Jewish students are falling short.
But we cannot do this alone.
We need partners—not gatekeepers. We need courage—not caution disguised as strategy. We need a community willing to stand visibly, proudly, and unapologetically with our students.
Because the students are watching.
They are learning—not just from what we say, but from what we do.
And right now, they need to see us stand.
