As we move into the Jewish New Year, my thoughts turn to Kol Israel and to the frightening times in which we are living. Across many democracies, Jews are experiencing a resurgence of violent and virulent antisemitism. The hatred of Jews has not disappeared from the world; it has once again found new political forms, new languages, and new permission. I cannot enter this New Year without acknowledging that fear and without mourning the lives of Jews who have been killed simply because they were Jews.
My heart also remains filled with anguish over October 7, 2023—the horrific Hamas attack on communities in southern Israel that murdered approximately 1,200 people and took hundreds hostage. The deliberate murder, rape and kidnapping of civilians was an atrocity, and nothing can justify it. The grief of Israeli families, the trauma of survivors, and the suffering of the hostages and their families must not be diminished or forgotten.
And yet, Jewish mourning cannot require me to close my eyes to the suffering of Palestinians.
I am profoundly disappointed and heartsick over the Israeli government’s conduct of the war in Gaza and the continuation of the occupation. In the name of security and revenge, tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed, the overwhelming majority of them civilians. Families have been shattered, children have been killed, homes and communities destroyed, and an entire population has endured displacement, hunger, fear, and profound humiliation. By 2026, the reported Palestinian death toll had risen well beyond the 60,000 deaths that once seemed almost unimaginable.
I cannot accept the proposition that Jewish safety can be secured through the destruction or dehumanization of another people. Nor can I accept the idea that criticism of the Israeli government’s policies is antisemitic. To oppose antisemitism and to oppose cruelty toward Palestinians are not contradictory commitments. For me, they arise from the same moral imperatives: the refusal to treat any human being as disposable and to love our neighbors as ourselves.
What troubles me most is the growing power of religious fundamentalism and authoritarian nationalism. Too many political leaders continue to perpetuate cycles of war and violence, appealing to fear, tribalism, religious absolutism, and patriarchal authority to build powerful constituencies. They promise security while directing enormous public resources toward militarization and war. They encourage us to see our neighbors as enemies and our differences as threats.
This is not the future I want.
The lessons of Jewish history should make us profoundly suspicious of absolute power, authoritarianism, and the dehumanization of the Other. Judaism contains within it a powerful tradition of argument, questioning, ethical responsibility, and resistance to idolatry—including the idolatry of political power. The shofar calls us not simply to remember, but to awaken.
Rosh Hashanah asks us to look inward: What have we done? What have we failed to do? Where have we become hardened? Where have we allowed fear to replace compassion?
As we enter another year, I pray for a Judaism—and a world—that can hold grief without turning grief into vengeance; that can defend Jews and Israel without denying Palestinians their humanity and a homeland; that can resist antisemitism without becoming blind to injustice; and that can seek security without sacrificing compassion.
May this New Year bring us the courage to reject the politics of hatred, violence, domination, and perpetual war. May we refuse the seduction of authoritarian power, wherever it appears. And may we remember that the preservation of one people’s humanity can never require the destruction of another’s.
L’shanah tovah.
May the coming year be a year of awakening, justice, compassion, and peace.
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