In an America shaken by antisemitism, one traveler discovers unexpected moments of compassion, connection, and awakening in the most unlikely places.
When I boarded a plane from Israel to the United States a few weeks ago, I carried more than luggage—I carried expectation. Not the kind rooted in excitement, but the kind forged from months of trauma, headlines, and fear. Over twenty months have passed since October 7, 2023, and in that time, the global Jewish community has borne witness to a chilling surge in antisemitism.
I braced for glares. For tension. For the kind of quiet hostility that follows someone who wears their Jewishness openly.
But what I found was… more complicated.
At a roadside coffee stop just outside New York, I stood in line scanning the crowd. It’s become second nature now—wondering who might hate me without ever saying a word. And yes, there were a few sideways glances. But there were no insults. No confrontations. Just people waiting for their coffee, just like me.
Then came Mark.
We met at a modest berry farm in Vermont. Mark is the kind of man whose goodness radiates. A farmer by day, police officer by night, and in between, he rescues abused animals. He’s also—unexpectedly—a passionate supporter of Israel.
He told me that before October 7, he hadn’t thought much about Israel. But after watching a documentary on the atrocities of that day, something inside him shifted. He started researching. Reflecting. What he uncovered stunned him: his father’s family had been Jews who fled Nazi Germany and survived in France. That revelation ignited something deeper—a journey of rediscovery. Today, Mark is not just an ally. He’s reclaiming a hidden piece of his own identity.
That conversation, in that quiet field, will stay with me.
But I don’t share it to suggest the world is suddenly safe for Jews. It’s not.
In the last twenty months, we’ve seen synagogues defaced in Montreal and Los Angeles. Jewish students have been trapped inside libraries while mobs howled outside. Israeli artists have been deplatformed. Orthodox Jews assaulted in Brooklyn. Pro-Hamas rallies flooding the lawns of Ivy League universities. Jewish businesses vandalized. A Jewish man in California murdered for holding an Israeli flag. Even professors, at places like Stanford, have singled out Jewish students and accused them of genocide.
The stories are countless—and gut-wrenching.
Even near Mark’s peaceful farm, a large Palestinian flag waved defiantly from a nearby barn. It hung like a reminder: hatred is never far. Even in the quietest corners of this country, ignorance and hostility persist.
So yes, the fear is real. The antisemitism is growing. And to pretend otherwise is dangerous.
But the fear is not the whole story.
Because alongside the hate, there are people like Mark. People who are asking questions. People who are awakening to a history that suddenly feels personal. People realizing that the survival of the Jewish people isn’t a political agenda—it’s a testament to human resilience.
I didn’t expect to find hope here. But I did.
Not everywhere. Not loudly.
But in a field of berries. In a stranger’s story. In the gentle surprise of a conversation that didn’t end in argument but in mutual understanding.
These small moments of light matter. Especially now. They do not erase the darkness—but they do defy it.
We must remain vigilant. We must continue to speak out. But we must also let these glimmers of grace remind us what we’re fighting for—not just survival, but connection, compassion, and truth.
Even now—especially now—light breaks through.
Sometimes in unexpected fields.
Sometimes in quiet conversations.
Sometimes in a stranger’s silence.
But it breaks through.
