On February 6, 2024, I stood between “the river and the sea,” where it all unfolded. Just steps from Gaza, the earth trembled beneath me as bombs fell nearby.
I needed to see it for myself, so I had journeyed to the Supernova music festival site in Re’im and to the kibbutzim of Kfar Aza and Nir Oz near the Gaza border, to make sense of the war brewing at home in the United States.
What I learned while hearing survivors retell what their eyes had seen would reshape my understanding of humanity and change my life forever. They had witnessed death in unimaginable ways; heard the screams of raped before women they were burned alive; and bore witness to the courage of those who shielded others from bullets, surviving against all odds, and those who saved lives only to lose their own.
Three weeks earlier, I had been back at home in Nashville, Tennessee, about to order an Uber, realizing that I had forgotten to change my last name to Smith on the app. I had begun changing my name since hearing of two separate disturbing incidents involving mutual friends.Weeks ago, my friend Tara shared two chilling stories, one involving her daughter’s boyfriend and the other, a friend. One had been kidnapped by his cab driver and taken to a mosque in New York instead of to his destination. The other had faced violent threats from her driver in Vegas. Those moments of terror are a glimpse into a growing reality for us Jews in America, in 2024, where dangers feel closer by the hour.
I know I’m not the only Jew who’s had to hide their identity.
Half of American Jews are changing their behavior
According to the American Jewish Committee (AJC) State of Antisemitism in America 2023 report, nearly half of American Jews are changing their behavior by hiding their Stars of David and removing kippahs and mezuzot to avoid antisemitism.
One in four Jewish college students don’t feel safe and are advised to study online as Israeli and American flags burn on campus. One in five Jewish business owners faces antisemitic vandalism and boycotts, and one in four hiring managers are not advancing Jewish applicants.
The disdain for the Jewish community and Israel has moved beyond its roots in white supremacy: infiltrating liberalism, education, and social media. What was once fringe now has a foothold in the progressive Left. These groups use hostility, gaslighting, and historical revisionism, echoing tactics from Soviet, PLO [Palestinian Liberation Organization], and Nazi propagandists. Israel and America are now targets of old ideologies and conspiracy theories that are gaining mainstream acceptance with renewed intensity.
Never did I imagine a day when both Israel and Jews in the US would be under simultaneous attack: a seven-front proxy war waged by the Islamic Republic of Iran relentlessly bombarding Israel’s borders while an eighth front unfolds within our own lines of demarcation – a propaganda war fueled by disinformation and antisemitism.
Before October 7, I was a purpose-driven visual storyteller – an interiors and architectural photographer and a writer. My first book, The New Southern Style (2020), uses creativity to humanize our differences illustrating how truth-telling can bridge divides, even when inhumanity is on full display.
After October 7, I lost a significant book deal because I had spoken up, shifting my social media focus from homes to Hamas, highlighting the prejudice Jewish people face globally. My editorial relationships with People and People Home also ended abruptly with the editor unfollowing me.
The brutality at the Gazan border left me furious, and on October 8, a transformation occurred within me. I booked a flight to Israel.
I traveled to a warzone for answers. I needed to witness ground zero and document the truth.
Stepping off the plane four months into the conflict my own feelings and emotions became a distant concern. This wasn’t about me or personal feelings of home. It was about the war, the families held hostage that I was preparing to interview, the urgency of not delaying the film crew for a documentary with Eden Yerushalmi’s sisters, the necessity of hearing and amplifying the stories of survivors and, ultimately, the fight for peace through truth.
I heard the phone recording of a consistent hum of gunshots and Eden’s frantic gasps as she hid beneath a eucalyptus bush, her lungs fighting for air, fueled by sheer adrenaline. Then came the calm, measured voice in Arabic: “Come over.” They found her, and 11 months later, they executed her in an underground narrow tunnel, suffocating in darkness, stripped of hope and humanity – together with five other hostages, including an American citizen.
Shani clutched the phone that day in February, holding onto the last fragments of her sister, captured in those heart-breaking moments. The grief in my heart ignited rage as I embraced May and Shani, thanking them – and the film crew – for allowing me to bear witness to a story the world must never forget.
I continued to listen to and document Re’im survivors sharing their harrowing experiences. They spent hours hiding in a bunker – a symbol of safety in Israel.
Rafa Treistman was trapped beneath layers of bodies that provided a desperate shield against bullets and hand grenades. Outside, terrorists waited quietly, deceiving those inside into believing it was safe to leave – it was not.
A bonfire awaited those who exited the bunker. Women were raped and burned alive. As I stood at the site, my sneakers pressed into the ash still scattered across the ground, the sound of bombs in Gaza echoed in the distance. At that moment, I understood that as humans, it is necessary to bear witness – to allow the survivors’ pain and strength to break us open so that we may carry their stories forward and ensure that their suffering is fought for and never forgotten.
Home in Israeli society
After four days and over 20 meetings, I began to see how the concept of “home” is deeply interwoven into Israeli society. Israelis embrace responsibility through mandatory service, fostering solidarity, and a clear sense of identity, especially in the face of existential threats. From that moment, the concept of home took on a profound new meaning for me – there is no home without a renewed sense of responsibility.
One might expect a place facing thousands of rockets, ballistic missiles, terrorist attacks, evasive drones, wars, and intifadas to ultimately crumble. In reality, the opposite is true. The strength of a land comes from its people, those who are willing to fight for its foundation. And let me tell you, this land is here to stay for future generations.
The irony is that a conflict 8,000 miles away is exposing our own vulnerabilities and bringing Americans to their knees. Our lack of unity and the decay within our societal fabric make us susceptible to collapse from within, highlighting how critical it is to address the divisions that weaken us as a nation.
Flying back to the US, I felt the weight of two homes: America and my ancestral Israel. Together, we share an urgent responsibility to care for one another, yet we are failing – each of us.
Jews serve as the yellow light in history before it turns red; what starts with Jews as a barometer will inevitably escalate and affect everyone – which is why we need to wake up.
Psychologist Pamela B. Paresky explains that when “whiteness” within mainstream conversations is seen as morally good, as during World War II, Jews are cast as [non-white and] an inferior subhuman race. But when “whiteness” is deemed evil, as in today’s culture, Jews [are considered white and] become symbols of oppressive colonizing forces blamed for the world’s problems. This mindset enables the scapegoating of Jews, deflecting responsibility for broader societal issues.
I started to recognize this reality when I initially spoke out online in 2021, where the eighth front of this war is being fought through our phones: “Whiteness” in the US was being conflated with geopolitical issues unrelated to race as Israel endured 3,000 rockets targeting densely populated civilian areas – perpetrated from Gaza.
Three years and countless algorithms later, we see hate directed at Jewish staff at publications such as Condé Nast, and Jewish authors are still being silenced while the latest work of African-American author Ta-Nehisi Coates [who writes about white supremacy] is greenlit despite it being a literary liability, riddled with historical distortions and moral confusion.
And in Nashville, nearly all of my metro city councilors have failed to honor the lives lost on the anniversary of October 7.
These are a few examples of how the following are sacrificed on the altar of the oppressor vs oppressed narrative: Jews, merit, journalistic objectivity, integrity, and collective responsibility.
When dehumanization and demonization merge with America’s contemporary culture of victimhood, ignorance flourishes under the guise of altruism and acronyms like CRT (Critical Race Theory], DEI [diversity, equity, and inclusion], and BDS [Boycott, Divest and Sanctions]: ideological weapons wielded by anti-American adversaries to sow division, perpetuate anti-Jewish and anti-Israel rhetoric, and deepen the fractures of American society.
As someone who has styled and photographed thousands of homes across America, I know when a foundation is starting to crack. This year, as we sit in our delicate sukkot, we’re reminded that strengthening the foundation of our collective home is essential. Sukkot calls us to leave behind comfort, draw strength from the land of our ancestors, and adopt a mindset of resilience – doing more with less, finding joy in the process, and committing to purposeful action that builds something lasting. Jewish or not – we are all builders.
We can carry this mindset forward by stepping out of our comfort zones locally and embracing a bottom-up approach to civic advocacy. This means championing anti-BDS legislation at the state level; lobbying for the codification of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism as a standard; withdrawing ceasefire resolutions in local municipalities; and rejecting dangerous ideologies taking root in our schools. It calls us to recommit to collective responsibility, pushing for sanctions against common enemies and drawing strength from the legacy we aim to build on our shared land.
As I return home, stepping into another rideshare, my Jewish surname, Rosenheck, and my Star of David resting over my heart remind me of this understanding: The survival and healing of our collective home require more than hope – they demand action and truth to fortify our values.
The writer, a photographer and bestselling author, uses her lens to champion a greater mission – advocating for our collective home. Through her forthcoming book, White. Blonde. Jew., and insights from delegations to Israel, she confronts modern antisemitism while inspiring truth-tellers and driving change.