I have sat in enough rooms with enough Jews from around the world to know that Israeli Jews and diaspora Jews are not experiencing antisemitism the same way. Rather than confront those differences and grow closer through them, we have decided that the most Jewish thing to do is not talk about any of it.

We are highly skilled at demonstrating solidarity with one another. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for addressing the fractures within our people at the global level. Our avoidance has become a vulnerability we can’t afford to overlook any longer.

For Israelis, collective and personal safety are terms that are loaded with the specific frame of reference of war and terrorism. Living in our Jewish homeland means facing life-or-death scenarios. That reality is the underlying core of the trauma the country has lived with daily since its inception.

Jews in the Diaspora are also experiencing a horrifying phenomenon. In 2025, 20 casualties were killed in four antisemitic attacks in three countries, according to Tel Aviv University’s Antisemitism Worldwide Report. It’s an incredible loss and the highest number of Jewish casualties due to antisemitic actions in one year for over three decades.

What’s clear is that the texture of fear in Israel and the Jewish diaspora is not identical. Pretending otherwise is creating a rift that is only growing wider.

My wife, children, and I were at our home in a small town in the heart of Israel when the war broke out on October 7, 2023. Starting in the early morning, after I was called up for reserve duty, my family spent over 20 terrifying hours in a bomb shelter. While our town is far from the Gaza Envelope, local security instructed residents to shelter in place due to the uncertainty of whether the attacks would spread to our part of the country.

That day, we experienced unprecedented vulnerability. It forever changed the way my family and fellow Israelis today think about safety, Jewish identity, and the fragility of life.

We have since moved to Boston and discovered a different form of antisemitism. Here, Jew-hatred is expressed through protests, prejudice, intimidation, and the normalization of rhetoric that makes our people feel unsafe or unwelcome. It may not include missiles, but it is not to be minimized, either.

Clearly, antisemitism in Israel and antisemitism in the Jewish diaspora are not the same experience. They are two distinct realities, lived at different intensities, and processed through entirely different emotional frameworks. Our attempts to tackle antisemitism as a singular entity are what’s ultimately pushing us into two camps when we need to be one united people.

Conversations to address this between us become even harder when they intersect with political views or personal loss, when the abstract becomes painfully, irreversibly real. I know this firsthand. Yet, difficulty has never been a good enough reason for us to stop doing what we do best: talking to one another.

The rift between us is not inevitable. It is a choice we keep making by default every time we push off the discussion, whether in formal institutions or even between friends.

We need to start having a real dialogue on this issue. It likely won’t be comfortable, and we may not find common ground on the first try. Above all, we, the Jewish people, have to start speaking honestly among ourselves. Antisemitism absolutely does not need us to be unified to target us. But we need to be unified to fight back across all fronts.

Now is the time to lean into one of our most sacred and ancient traditions: “Havruta.” The concept was established to ensure we never stop speaking with each other, and to challenge ourselves to keep dialogue open even when we encounter difficulties.

Silence, in moments like these, is never neutral. The conversation will be hard. Have it anyway.