Yesterday, May 21, the Boston community gathered on City Hall Plaza for the first-ever citywide celebration of Jewish American Heritage Month—a beautiful moment to honor and uplift the many Jewish contributions woven into the strong and vibrant tapestry that is Boston. I stood there with colleagues from across the Jewish Boston community, city officials, and local residents, celebrating our communal strength despite ongoing challenges.
Just 12 hours later, as I began to wind down from the joy of the day, my phone lit up with texts. Colleagues were sharing early reports of a shooting at the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C. A place where, just two years ago, I had stood on their stage, in partnership with the White House, to speak about the important role museums and the arts play in upholding democracy.
Almost instantly, colleagues from across the Council of American Jewish Museums (CAJM) network sprang into action, grappling with how to respond to such a horrifying event and how to support our colleagues as we all feel the deep pain of the moment.
As my partner and colleague Christine Beresniova, executive director of CAJM, astutely said, “This is what antisemitism looks like in action.” These acts may not always resemble the stereotypical image of hate against Jews. They may come cloaked in political violence. But when you look at the end result, and the fear and terror it spreads across the Jewish community—it is unmistakably antisemitism. For it to happen in a museum, a space meant to be a safe, inclusive, third space for all, adds a deep layer of pain. That fear has no rightful place there.
I often speak about Jewish life as a balance between celebration and survival, the age-long Jewish story. But when moments like this occur, they still feel surreal. That in this time, in this place, in my field, among my colleagues, a horrible act like this could happen—sheerly out of hate.
The tradition of shiva reminds us that through our mourning, we must also find hope, joy, and resilience. These past few months have shown me that the strength and resilience of the Jewish people is in this ability to mourn, to care for all in our midst, and to continue to rise up and speak out. We mourn and we rise—together, in the same breath.
Today, my thoughts are with the families of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim, who lost their lives simply because they wanted to be part of the Jewish community that was so important to them. My thoughts are with my colleagues at the Capital Jewish Museum, and with colleagues across the country who sit in fear. And my thoughts are with all of us to find the strength and resilience we need to find a path forward.
Through it all, I hope this moment serves as a reminder of what antisemitism actually looks like—not as a distant or abstract concept, but as a present danger affecting real people: my friends, my colleagues, my community. May we remember that this fear cannot diminish our community, and must only further push us to persist.
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