Silence to Strength: Honest Talk on Antisemitism |
In June of 2024, during Pride Month, I was invited to Washington, DC, as a Hadassah representative, to a reception at Adas Israel Congregation that was co-hosted by the Israeli Ambassador, Michael Herzog along with A Wider Bridge, an organization that mobilizes the LGBTQ+ community to fight antisemitism and support Israel. It was a demonstration of unity. I wrote an article about the event, LGBTQ+ Pride – Where Do We Belong? It was published in the TOI blogs on Aug 14, 2024. I had no way of knowing the impact that this article would have on my life.
I am a Licensed Clinical Social Worker by profession and worked as an adjunct professor for 17 years at a large urban state university. Just one week after the article appeared, I started the semester teaching a first-year graduate course, essentially an introduction to clinical social work theories. The class met at 8 AM on Thursday mornings. While I am often more awake than the students, they seemed bright and interested, and we were moving along seamlessly. I am at my best in front of the class. I am funny, excited and passionate. I interact easily, ask and answer questions, give clinical examples and each week involve the students in hands-on material. Midway through the semester, something shifted. The class grew quiet. Participation declined, and at times, students were openly dismissive. Despite my efforts to reconnect, the distance widened. Eventually, I discovered that all but five students had dropped my section for the following term. One previously engaged student later told me that after I spoke openly about my Jewish faith, a classmate searched my name, found my article, and labeled me a “Zionist.” From that point on, the class effectively boycotted me.
I later learned that deeply hurtful comments about me were circulating on a student WhatsApp thread. Not one student approached me directly to discuss their concerns. When I understood what was happening, my family urged me not to confront the class out of concern for my safety. Equally painful was the sense that I had no ally among the faculty with whom I could safely process the experience. By the time I met with the dean, who was kind but limited in what he could offer, the semester had ended.
I honored my contract and returned the following term, but I was not the same. I never wore my Star of David or made the warm gentle jokes I like about being a Jewish grandmother. At the end of the semester, I decided to leave the classroom for good.
It took time, but I began sharing my story when I felt safe and understood. I am deeply grateful to be part of Hadassah’s national advocacy team, where I could begin to process what happened—not as an isolated experience, but as part of a broader reality affecting our entire community. These women needed no explanation. Instead, they helped ask the next question: how do we transform helplessness into action?
The answer is advocacy. Through Hadassah, The Women’s Zionist Organization of America, members across the country engage with lawmakers, send action alerts, participate in Jewish Advocacy Days, meet with elected officials, and collaborate with partners to confront the growing reality of antisemitism.
On March 10, 2026, more than 150 Hadassah members traveled to Washington, DC, meeting with congressional and Senate offices to share our experiences and advocate for change. Each meeting began with education—real stories illustrating the financial, social, and emotional toll of antisemitism. We shared Hadassah’s survey, From Fear to Resilience: Women Facing Antisemitism, and urged support for the Pray Safe Act, which strengthens funding for the Nonprofit Security Grant Program to help protect vulnerable communities as antisemitic threats rise.
Nearly two years later, my heart is not broken, it is rearranged. I have returned to my core belief: the most powerful response to antisemitism is to keep speaking out. One conversation, one article, one interaction at a time. While safety matters, true strength lies in connection and open dialogue. Education, however small, can make a meaningful difference.