Never think you are not enough to make a difference.

He woke me up, his voice tense: "It's bad. Really bad."
Still groggy, I asked, "What are you talking about?"
"Israel has been attacked. Over 200 people are dead, maybe more.” That was October 7th, a year ago.
That number might seem small to some, but for us Jews, it’s enormous. We’re only 16 million in the entire world—a tiny community.
I leapt out of bed and turned on the TV. A wave of sadness, terror, fear, and anger crashed over me all at once. This was the beginning of a nightmare that hasn’t ended, a nightmare that has since morphed into outrage as I watch the world twist the narrative, not just vilifying Israel, but Jews everywhere.
Last December, I had a panic attack so intense, I truly wondered, "Is it time to pack up and leave America?" The thought terrified me, echoing all the books I read about Jews in Europe—how so many stayed, convinced their assimilation would protect them. I told my husband we needed to think about it seriously, to be prepared. He replied, “Where would we go? America is still the safest place.”
I’m not so sure anymore. The hatred I see in the streets, and the indifference from those in power—it’s unnerving. This isn’t about free speech; it’s about hate. Pure, unfiltered hate for Jews.
I often find myself reflecting on my journey from Iran to New York, each move driven by my father’s foresight. As a child in Iran, my father saw the writing on the wall long before the revolution. In 1967, he moved us to France, hoping to give us a better chance. I was six years old, and he gave us French names to help us assimilate—Catherine, Patricia, Francis. But no matter our names, we didn’t blend in. Our skin was too brown, our features too Middle Eastern, and our broken French marked us as outsiders. Fitting in was a daily struggle. But even in the face of those challenges, I found solidarity with fellow immigrants, Jews and Muslims from North Africa, who shared the same experiences.
Years later, my father felt it again—that unsettling shift. He saw the growing unease for Jews in France and decided we needed to start over, this time in America. One by one, we made the move in 1985, and though language and culture were hurdles, it was here, in America, that I finally felt free to embrace my identity. What had once made me an outsider became something celebrated.
For years, I never felt the sting of antisemitism in New York. Americans, in my experience, are the most tolerant, generous people I have ever known. But recently, something has changed. I see it growing here, too. And while I’ve been hesitant to talk about it, avoiding the controversy, it’s hard not to notice how many of my non-Jewish friends remain silent. It’s unsettling.
Recently, my children shared in our group chat that one of their friends reached out to check on them, recognizing the pain we’re feeling. Just one person! While they were grateful for the gesture, it stung. Where is everyone else?
This moment is so profoundly painful. Yes, people are busy, caught up in their own lives, but where is the sense of community? Where are the voices of solidarity? What frightens me most is that many don’t feel connected to this—like it doesn’t affect them. But it should. Antisemitism is the first sign that our society is rotten from within. Evil thrives when we stand by and do nothing. It can only be defeated when we unite against it. Never think you are not enough to make a difference.

With love,

Catherine