When 'Never Again' Becomes Now: Being Jewish in New York Amid Rising Antisemitism
"We belong here — not because anyone says so, but because we have made this place our own through decades of contribution, culture, and courage."
By Amy Salman
Growing up Jewish in New York City felt like both a birthright and a blessing. This city — rich in Jewish history, culture, humor, and resilience — always felt like a place where being Jewish wasn’t just safe, it was celebrated. From bagel shops on every corner, menorah lightings in public parks, and Yiddish on street signs in Brooklyn, New York felt like our home — not just a place we lived, but a place that embraced us.
That’s why this moment feels so surreal. And so heartbreaking.
The rise of antisemitism in New York — and around the country — is more than troubling. It’s a painful unraveling of what we thought was secure. I believed “Never Again” was a promise the world took seriously. But lately, that promise feels increasingly fragile.
How did we get to a place where Jewish New Yorkers are being attacked on the subway, harassed in schools, and warned not to wear visibly Jewish symbols in public? How did the same streets where Holocaust survivors rebuilt their lives become places where their grandchildren now fear being targeted?
The grief is compounded by the silence. The uncomfortable, deafening silence from people we once believed were allies. Some who stand boldly against hatred in other forms fall noticeably quiet when it comes to Jew-hatred — or worse, attempt to justify it under the guise of political discourse. But hatred doesn’t check your passport. It doesn’t ask about your views. It sees your Star of David and decides you are the enemy.
That truth was made brutally clear again recently, with the shooting of two young Israeli diplomats in Washington — an attack that barely registered on the radar of major media outlets. And then, shortly afterwards, the tragedy in Boulder, Colorado. Peaceful Jewish protesters, gathering for the 58 hostages still being held in Gaza, were set on fire with Molotov cocktails by an illegal Egyptian terrorist.
These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a growing, global pattern — and they are chilling.
It’s easy to feel alone in moments like this. Easy to question whether the world has learned anything from our history. But even in the fear, the grief, and the anger, we know something deeper — something that every generation of Jews has known.
We have always carried both suffering and resilience. We are no strangers to exile, to hate, to being misunderstood. But we are also no strangers to joy, to song, to sacred text, to fierce love and community. That duality is in our DNA.
Being Jewish in New York today means holding that tension every day. It means walking your child to school past protest signs that make your stomach drop. It means lighting candles on Friday night while checking the locks twice. It means wondering if the mezuzah on your door is a symbol of faith — or a target.
But it also means remembering who we are.
We are the descendants of those who crossed deserts, who survived pogroms and ghettos and gas chambers, who rebuilt again and again. We are the ones who turned mourning into mitzvah, despair into dance, destruction into renewal.
And we are still here.
We teach our children Hebrew songs and tell them the stories of our ancestors — not because it’s easy, but because it’s essential. We gather for Shabbat dinners and hold each other close. We show up for each other. We speak truth, even when it’s unpopular. We live out our identity not in hiding, but in defiance — in honor of those who never had the chance.=
New York is still our city. It may not feel safe in the way it once did, but we are not going anywhere. We belong here — not because anyone says so, but because we have made this place our own through decades of contribution, culture, and courage.
So yes, I mourn. I rage. I fear. But I also remember. I resist. I stand tall.
Because to be Jewish is not just to survive. It is to believe — even in the darkness — that light is possible. That it must be protected. That it will rise again.
Especially here.
Especially now.
AMY SALMAN is a Holistic Nutritionist, Wellness & Recovery Coach and Founder of The Wellness Map. She is also a coach and board advisor for the Lean In mentoring program.
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Great essay.
Thank you