Beyond the anger and rage and sadness that has dominated the past year since the Hamas attack on Israel, loneliness has been an all too common companion.
I, of course, have not been alone – there is a world of fellow Jews and Zionists committed, like myself, to defending Israel, decrying Islamic terror, and supporting one another amid the unimaginable tide of antisemitism that has washed over the planet.
But they are few, while the forces against us – the Gaza protesters and atrocity-deniers and queers and feminists and vegans for Palestine – grow in vastness seemingly by the moment. Our enemies are everywhere: Online and in the classroom, assembling anti-Zionist lists and spreadsheets to deny Jews even their most basic rights, such as earning a living and educating their children.
Most lonely of all, however, has been the constant insistence by those committed to our destruction – many, horrifically, fellow Jews – that we have brought all of this upon ourselves. That we must accept the hatred waged against us as some sort of answer – atonement even – for the supposed #wealth and #whiteness and #privilege we have enjoyed as Jews. That whether in Teaneck or Toronto or Tel Aviv, we – as Jews – are no longer safe anywhere. And we, as Jews, have no one to blame but ourselves.
There’s been loneliness in waking up every day to alerts of bomb sirens and terror attacks and official IDF announcements of yet another fallen soldier – first in Gaza and now in Lebanon. For me, at least, mostly in New York, the loneliness has come from knowing that all over Gotham so many have celebrated these Jewish deaths; both on October 7 and still a year on – deaths that feel so anguishingly intimate and personal, knowing that every Jewish child lost could easily have been my own.
There’s the loneliness of knowing that even those who may not openly revel in our demise quietly, instinctively believe that if we Jews were only less vocal, less visible – perhaps no longer saying our Hebrew prayers in Hebrew, as one anti-Zionist social justice group suggested – then our problems would go away.
Alone in a room full of people
And the loneliness of watching Jew after Jew standing silent on the sidelines – saying nothing, posting nothing, doing nothing – as their schools and bookshops and even synagogues are vandalized. As “friend” after “friend” commends me for my own activism and, yes, bravery, all I can think is what will it take for you to finally step up? When will you take a risk and protect your own?
I’m lonely every time I walk into an official Jewish or Zionist event and realize, yet again, that mine is still the only non-white face there – wondering if it will ever change or even at this point if it really matters. Most American Jews are white – I’m Ashkenazi and African-American. I, alone, cannot change demographics, and so this loneliness – always present, often painful – grows even stronger.
And I’m lonely from the friends and family and lovers now distanced from me since last October 7, unwilling to accept that not only is my commitment to Israel resolute and unbending, but their inability to understand this is what keeps it this way.
I’m lonely watching a weak White House and cynical Washington (and Paris and London) establishment politicize Jewish sovereignty and accommodate extremist factions willing to vote against their own best interests to weaken Israel’s resolve. Israel may have been established to protect and defend Jews, but its anti-Iran and Hezbollah ambitions will ultimately leave the entire West – and the world – a freer and safer place. Even if the West and world refuse to acknowledge it.
I’m lonely – and frankly exhausted – from a pliant mainstream media that clamors for moral parity at a moment that demands moral clarity. And worn out by useless global organizations – the UN, the EU, the International Court of Justice, you get the idea – who not only refuse to acknowledge the atrocities of October 7, but literally want to litigate Israel’s response to them in an act of ultimate antisemitic humiliation.
But the loneliest of all is knowing that the problem isn’t us – it’s actually them. The problem isn’t new or even particularly complex – the problem is the hatred of Jews. A hatred no logic or reason is likely to undo – has ever undone – and so we Jews are alone, with only our faith and army and state to protect us.
And so I am lonely – even if I am not alone. Lonely in my fear for Israel’s future – worried about the rising poverty and potential brain drain and increasing global isolation that will penalize Israeli artists and scholars and athletes. I worry about a generation for whom war may soon become normalized – and the threat this poses to foundational Israeli pillars, such as pluralism, progressivism, and democracy.
I am lonely a year after October 7 – even if I am not alone. Lonely for hope, lonely for justice – lonely for an end to the war and bloodshed. But mostly I am lonely for understanding – and for a sign that next October 7 will be far different than today.
The writer is an editor and columnist at the New York Post and an adjunct fellow at The Tel Aviv Institute.