I’m Jewish and the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. I’m also the mother of a Jewish teen who’s growing up in a world where antisemitism is suddenly on the rise again. How can I protect and prepare him for what might be our new normal? Our grandparents’ generation survived so much. There’s a lot we can learn from them, and remembering their stories and struggles can offer keys to fighting antisemitism today.

Growing up, I always knew I was Jewish—but what we knew about our Judaism primarily came from my mother’s side of the family. My grandfather, whose Hebrew name my son bears, was the glue that held our family together and the one who instilled tradition, the roots of our heritage, and our Judaism. I knew that his family were Russian Jews and that my grandmother’s parents had come from Europe, escaping the Holocaust before they could become its next victims.

My grandparents met in high school and remained in their small Brooklyn community of Jewish family and friends—until their family started to grow. Wanting a better life for their children, they left their tight-knit community in Brooklyn and crossed the border to New Jersey. The small town they liked best had signs throughout, “No Jews Allowed.” But they eventually made their way there, and they weren’t alone—the town now has four synagogues.

So, they were able to raise their five children in the local synagogue. They instilled an ethic of tolerance, love for people, and the importance of Jewish identity in their grandchildren. In short, they were amazing. I can still hear my grandmother’s consuming laughter ringing in my ears and picture my grandfather’s face as he looked around the table during our family Seders. Passover was so special to him. After all, our people were slaves and now we’re free!

My grandfather didn’t just emigrate to Holland during WWII—he fled there.

My father’s side of the family was more of a mystery. They loved to tell us that they were Dutch and proud of it, and I didn’t often think about their lineage while I was elbow deep in Grandma’s Dutch chocolate…. They emigrated to America from the Netherlands when my father was four, loved everything about Holland—and they weren’t the most fun (a stark contrast to my mother’s parents). They raised my father and his siblings in a Dutch Reformed church and taught him about God and faith, and they celebrated Christmas and Easter like every other Christian family.

What I learned later in life was that my grandfather wasn’t just a Dutchman who moved to New Jersey. He was, in fact, German—and a German Jew. He had hidden that from his children and grandchildren, assimilating into Dutch culture and Christian faith—but his own father and grandfather had been Orthodox rabbis in Germany.

My grandfather didn’t just emigrate to Holland during WWII—he fled there. He watched as his parents were carted away by the Nazis, and later his brother, who was literally ripped out of his arms, forcing him to choose between life or the death camps—a decision that I’m sure haunted him forever.

My grandfather was always sad, and now I can see maybe why.

I found out later that he had met my grandmother because she was hiding him; her family was part of the Dutch underground/resistance that had hid Jews during the war and had saved countless lives. Later our family received medals for their service from the Shoah Foundation, but it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized the true significance of this—really, until I had my own children.

Frankly, it wasn’t even until the massacre on October 7 that I realized the true meaning of what it meant to be Jewish—what it meant to me, what it meant to my family, what it meant to the world. It wasn’t until October 7 when photos emerged of what was done to Jewish babies and children, that I thought about what that meant for my own Jewish baby.

If Jewish students can be harassed on a prestigious college campus what will that mean for my Jewish child?

It wasn’t until October 7 that I had the tiniest taste of what my grandfather may have felt as he watched the Nazis rise to power—the anger he must have felt as he watched books being burned throughout Germany, and as he fled during Kristallnacht. It wasn’t until we saw the evil of antisemitism on full display in the 21st century that I stopped to ask myself on a deeper level—what does it really mean to be Jewish? If Jewish students can be harassed on a prestigious college campus, in one of the most progressive cities in the world, what will that mean for my Jewish child on his college campus someday?

I’ve realized that antisemitism is far more than swastikas, chants of genocide, stereotypes, and snide jokes. It’s a social cancer—a monster that grows and feeds off fear and misinformation. You see symptoms of it in a coworker’s derogatory joke that gets passed around the office, a stereotype that’s never corrected, or a social media website where rules don’t seem to exist. It’s fed on college campuses where we teach our students to be “free thinkers,” and where protests can include what sounds a lot like calls to annihilate an entire religion and ethnicity.

How do I teach my Jewish child to wear his Star of David proudly, while also warning him that many in the world hate his people?

Being a mother of a Jewish teenager today, in a world with rising antisemitism, presents a unique and deeply challenging set of circumstances. It’s a role that often involves balancing the need to protect and validate my child’s feelings with the crucial task of fostering his Jewish identity and resilience.

I know I’m not alone in this—many Jewish mothers feel a constant sense of worry for their children’s safety. This isn’t just about physical security, but also emotional and psychological well-being. Whether it’s a public or private school, Jewish parents share the same worries in our present-day society. Our fears and concerns are shared across border lines, social and economic backgrounds, synagogues or Jewish community centers.

This isn’t just about physical security, but also emotional and psychological well‑being.

So how do we combat antisemitism in a day and age where misinformation is rampant? How do we teach our Jewish children to not be afraid and to be proud of their Jewish identity? In doing so, as my preteen is inches from being a teenager, I’ve realized three important things.

1. Education is vital. Confucius once said, “Education breeds confidence. Confidence breeds hope. Hope breeds peace.” Educating our children about the Holocaust—not ignoring headlines and facing them head on—breeds confidence.It means inviting our Gentile friends into our sukkahs on Sukkot or to our Seder tables. It means educating our children about how Israel was formed and, therefore, why we must protect it.Bringing correct content and teaching to churches on the Jewish roots of their faith and on antisemitism is also vital to confronting this issue firsthand within faith-based communities.Education is a powerful tool and, in the right hands, can change the narrative on antisemitism creating a more tolerant world for our Jewish children.
2. Relationships help us survive. There are numerous stories of Gentiles who saved Jewish people during the Holocaust—smuggled families out of Europe at the risk of their own lives—Schindler and Sir Nicolas Winton being two notable ones.When October 7 happened, Jewish people felt largely forgotten––forgotten by friends, forgotten by Gentile family members, forgotten by the world. But relationships with our Gentile friends and communities are vital to changing the narrative and, in some ways, to the survival of our people.Take Rahab, for example, in the book of Joshua: Jericho would have never crumbled without the help of one Gentile woman who risked her life for the sake of the Jewish people. Relationships are a key to combating misinformation in our communities and families.
3. The importance of Torah and Jewish identity. It’s vital to me as a Jewish mother to instill a strong Jewish identity in my son, and a deeply rooted passion for his people, our homeland, and our faith in Messiah as Jewish believers.For us, that means doing things like keeping Shabbat regardless of how crazy our week seems; every Friday we come together as a family, say the Shabbat prayers, and bask in the goodness of what Shabbat is meant to be. It’s become a sacred time in our home, and one we all look forward to every week.It means celebrating the feasts in Torah and the Tanach, even the lesser-known ones.

It means keeping traditions, teaching my son how to make challah, passing down family recipes, and training him to become a bar mitzvah and disciple of Yeshua (Jesus).

The story of our people is a story of strength, survival, and& perseverance.

Regardless of what our people have endured, what they are enduring, or what’s happening on college campuses or city streets, combating antisemitism is possible if we stand together. Jew and Gentile must stand side by side, helping to spread correct information and combating propaganda. Spending time with Holocaust survivors, passing down their stories to our children, and keeping our family stories and traditions alive are all ways we fight back.

The story of our people is a story of strength, survival, and perseverance; the Eichenwald Menorah is one small example of this. May our children burn as brightly for their land and their people as the Eichenwald Menorah did during the Holocaust. Making sure that “never forget” becomes a must, not just a saying, but ingrained in the hearts of this generation forever.