Isaac Weiss
When I arrived to the synagogue for Rosh Hashanah this year, I was greeted by three police officers with guns strapped to their waists, dressed in Kevlar. The synagogue had increased armed protection for the mental comfort of the Jewish congregants. We couldn’t enter without first verifying we belonged, had our bags searched and passed by two waves of armed guards. I entered after showing my state ID to a 6’5”, well-built officer; a friend entered a few seconds later, having to have his bag checked.
The friend had a confused look on his face. He told me that the man checking his bag had pointed to the larger officer outside and remarked “know why we keep him out there? He can take more bullets.” Perhaps the man thought he’d bring comfort to the Jews by making light of the increased security. Perhaps it works for older congregants, but it left me feeling quite uneasy; I was unable to focus on prayers and felt myself waiting for the inevitable sound of gunshots.
Even the rabbi couldn’t help but note the increased presence of arms. He asked us to remember if we had cried on Oct. 27, 2018. I know that I didn’t. I didn’t shed a single tear, for I had no tears to shed, no way to be able to understand the quick five-word CNN headline on my phone: “Mass Shooting at Pittsburgh Synagogue.”
I was at work when my phone vibrated with the news. I didn’t even check it until a good Muslim friend of mine asked me if I had seen the headline. I was having lunch with a prospective student, and had to pretend I hadn’t seen anything so disturbing on my phone.
I know that I tried to cry. I called my parents that evening, just to hear their voices again, hoping that their soft voices could lull me into a sense of security. I felt isolated on campus, only able to empathize with the other Jewish students on campus that I knew. I didn’t cry for two days before I saw a good friend of mine; we hugged and, for the first time since reading the stories of those who died, I was able to sob and feel anything other than irrevocable numbness.
I had a few people text me condolences and well wishes. However, one student who served on the Student Government Association texted me to remind me that “you’re a good treasurer,” but you’re not worth much else. This student’s antisemitism wasn’t a surprise to me anymore. It certainly wasn’t their first offense, nor was it their last.
Antisemitism in American culture is so profound and pervasive it’s impossible to miss. We see our politicians, Democrats and Republicans, spew antisemitic hatred and profit off of their rhetoric with electoral victories with few consequences to follow, save for the occasional slap on the wrist.
It’s disheartening to continually see people on this campus maintain an ideological indifference to a prevalent form of hate, while constantly attacking white supremacy. A year ago, I asked you all to remember the Pittsburgh shooting. You all have forgotten us. You have left us all to die and be murdered at the hands of those you wish to stop on all fronts but ours. You make baseless claims that “hate has no home here,” yet you hate to let the Jews exist in our own spaces.
The Tree of Life synagogue has remained shuttered. No one, except for the occasional custodian, has entered the building since last October. The rabbi of the synagogue I attended this year noted how the surrounding community had sent messages of support for the Jewish community. They are empty platitudes. It is easier for you all to justify your indifference to the rise in antisemitism with claims of anti-fascism and anti-white supremacy than it is to face the reality that your favorite politicians, both right-wing and left-wing, have nothing but hatred in their hearts for the Jewish people.
My great-grandparents escaped pogroms in Russia. My grandparents were thrown out of diners and were left littered on the streets of the south. My parents had swastikas defacing their homes. My friends and I are being called kikes in Kauke. But, we are all left murdered on the streets, with no one to claim our bodies from the pews.