Between Fear and Faith, a Worn Path

In the aftermath of the shooting, many Jews understandably connected the act of violence to the increasingly antisemitic and incendiary rhetoric seen at some pro-Palestinian protests, especially given that the gunman, in his manifesto, explicitly cited Gaza as his motivation and shouted “free, free Palestine” as he was apprehended by law enforcement.

While many Palestinians and their allies expressed horror at the shooting, the reactions were sometimes driven not only by grief over the violence, but concern for the implications this act might have on their cause.

It is essential that the immediate human cost of such an event not be eclipsed by political fallout, even as fears persist that it could be used to justify restrictions on free speech, academic freedom, and the legitimate expression of Palestinian identity and solidarity.

Others took a more extreme position, attempting to justify the killings by tying the professions of Lischinsky and Milgrim to the violence, arguing that their work at the Israeli embassy made them complicit in Gaza’s suffering. It is not clear whether the shooter even knew who they were, but even if he had, no professional affiliation justifies their murder.

Equally concerning were those on the other extreme of the spectrum, eager to score political points by blaming the attack on any politician, activist, or public figure who expressed views in support of Gaza or the Palestinian cause. These voices seized the moment to paint the entire pro-Palestinian movement as inherently violent and antisemitic, calling for sweeping crackdowns that risk eroding our democratic rights and freedoms.

The Tree of Life massacre, the atrocities of October 7, and now this shooting - three tragedies with vastly different perpetrators and contexts, together form a chilling picture for diaspora Jews: violence fueled by far-right white nationalism, Islamist extremism, and now far-left radicalism. It is a trifecta of abandonment and fear.

It is understandable, even justifiable, for any Jew, particularly after Wednesday’s attack, to feel a new discomfort when hearing the chant “free, free Palestine,” or to take extra caution when leaving a synagogue, or to view strangers on the street with more suspicion. Fear is powerful. We cannot always control it.

But in acknowledging that, we must also have empathy for the fear and suspicion that Palestinians feel. The litmus tests often placed upon them - requiring them to accept Zionism, or to avoid using terms like “genocide” or “apartheid” - demand they abandon the very emotional truths that make many Jews feel justified in raising our own guard.

There are two paths forward. We can accept that both communities will say, feel, or act in ways that are difficult, perhaps even intolerable, and avoid dialogue and connection. Or we can strive to rise above fear and work toward a deeper resilience, one not built in the absence of fear, but in spite of it.

There is no single right answer here, and this is not a binary choice. There will be times when retreating into fear feels like the only option, and others when we will feel called to reach across the divide. Sometimes we lean into universalism; other times, we draw strength from particularism.

Since October 7, many of us, Jews and Palestinians alike, have withdrawn into silos, into echo chambers that sometimes echo hate. This may be disheartening, but we must also understand it. Resilience is not innate; it must be cultivated, and doing so is especially difficult when every small step forward is met with fresh horror that yanks us back.

And while it may sound idealistic, or even naïve, it is for precisely this reason that we must call for an end to the war, for the return of the hostages, and for the pursuit of peace. Not because Israel causes antisemitism - antisemitism is always and solely the fault of antisemites - but because we cannot build resilience, overcome fear, or embrace our shared humanity in a state of endless violence, in a world where pain is constant and fresh blood never has time to dry.

It is also necessary because violence on either side does not justify the other; it invalidates it. One cannot fight for peace with acts of terror, nor can the war in Gaza be justified as a defense of Jewish safety. These actions are not in relationship; they are in contradiction. It is only through the pursuit of peace, the defense of democracy, the upholding of international law, and the affirmation of all human life that we can break this cycle. That is what ends political violence, war, and zero-sum conflict.

To those still committed to building resilience, to forging a path of courage, we invite you to join the call for compassion from our friends at the New Israel Fund of Canada, who are currently collecting donations for food aid in Gaza.

Finding our compassion in the darkest moments, holding fast to our shared humanity in times of inhumanity, and resisting the forces that seek to divide us - this is the most powerful response we can offer in the face of hatred and destruction.

And to those feeling afraid, alone, uncertain: that is natural, too. To acknowledge your need to heal and take time to build resilience is itself a brave act. And committing to that path means you have already begun to reclaim power from the darkness, no matter how overwhelming it feels.

In a world that seeks to fracture us, let us strive to make ourselves whole.
In a world that tells us to fear one another, let us confront those fears.
In a world that condones violence, so long as it is against the "right" people, let us be like the disciples of Aaron: let us love peace and pursue it.