I have neglected this column over the past few weeks for two main reasons: exams were all-consuming as we wrapped up the semester at Columbia, and I was lucky enough to be included on an organized trip to Israel as part of a broader initiative to reunify the black and Jewish communities.
While I would love to write about the wonders I experienced on my latest trip to Eretz Yisrael—my first time back since October 7—it is clear that there are more urgent matters to address.
The day I touched down in Israel, Butler Library at Columbia University was overtaken (in the midst of final exams) by pro-Palestine protestors. Their efforts escalated to the point of violence, sending one public safety officer to the hospital on a stretcher and injuring another. Yet as egregious as this was, it is not the most pressing matter as of late:
Last Wednesday night (May 21, 2025), two Israeli embassy staff members—Sarah Milgram and Yaron Lischinsky—were murdered in a terrorist attack in Washington DC. The couple was shot and killed at an American Jewish Committee (AJC) event hosted at the Capital Jewish Museum that sought to promote peace and dialogue (with an emphasis on interfaith work) in a time where both of these components are lacking in much of society. Their attacker shouted, “Free, free Palestine.”
Pulling out a keffiyeh after the fact, he explained that he “did this for Gaza.”
What happens when we do not believe the words of extremists?
It is hard to know what to say when something like this happens—something so tragic and frightening. While Israelis are unfortunately all too familiar with terrorist attacks at home, Jewish Americans are not.
Certainly, we are not accustomed to antisemitic terrorist attacks from far-left extremists. But, shouldn’t we be? Shouldn’t we be familiar with far-left antisemitic extremism given how it has overtaken our universities for the past two academic years?
On April 26, 2024, I spoke alongside my friends Mitch Wolf and Jillian Lederman at a press conference hosted by AJC and Hillel International at Columbia’s center for Jewish life. In my remarks, I recalled Maya Angelou’s counsel: “When someone tells you who they are, believe them the first time,” I reminded those watching.
“The students supporting terrorism—anti-Jewish and anti-American—have done so all year,” I went on. “We did not believe them the first time; I urge the Administration—and everyone for that matter—to believe them now.”
The terrorist attack in Washington is what happens when we do not believe the words of extremists. It is what happens when we do not believe those who say “there is only one solution, Intifada revolution.” It is what happens when we do not believe those who say they want to globalize the Intifada.
Elias Rodriguez, the far-left terrorist who murdered Sarah and Yaron, is part of the very pro-Palestine movement that has consumed American academia and indeed seeks to “flood”—their word, not mine—the nation. The ideology Rodriguez cites as reasoning for this attack is the ideology you will hear at Columbia. Or at Yale. Or at UC-Berkeley. Or at NYU. The list goes on.
So while it may seem hard to know what to say when something like this happens, the reality is that it is not. In fact, it could not be more clear: We need to say something.
Since October 7, my peers and I have stood up to and spoken out against antisemitism proudly and without hesitation. We have been shouting as loudly, as far and wide, as we can—and we have begged others to do the same. But I fear our efforts have proven futile, for they did not save Sarah and Yaron. So please consider the following an official plea to those who still do not speak up—to those who still refuse to condemn fully and unabashedly the pro-Palestine movement:
In the fall of 2023, my school devolved into chaos so drastically that I started speaking to anyone who would listen—even random reporters on the streets of campus. I was so desperate because it became clear soon after October 7 that it would be difficult to get people to listen to us, Jewish students. What I have come to learn more recently, though, is that it is just as difficult—if not more so—to get people to speak.
Last week, I had the honor of addressing a group of philanthropists in Cleveland, Ohio; and, at one point, they asked me to name an actionable step people can take to combat antisemitism today as well as some advice for those who want to speak up but fear backlash. The answers are similar.
The most basic actionable step is speaking. We have to speak out against antisemitism. I used to be gentle with how I urged others—and other Jews in particular—to do so, but last week’s attack confirms that we cannot afford to be gentle with ourselves in this regard anymore.
I explained in Cleveland that although it may not feel like it, this is the easy part. It is as simple as thinking of Nazi Germany: Imagine what would have happened if people, in the early stages, had spoken out against what they were witnessing. The cost of staying silent today is an atrocity tomorrow. Speaking out now—in the early stages—is what it takes to prevent one.
When we understand things in these terms, it suddenly does not feel so costly to speak because we know the cost of silence is far greater. So my advice is to suspend your fear of backlash. It is but a small price to pay now compared to that which we will pay for silence later.
If it is too difficult to suspend this fear, though, consider instead the fear we all have following the murder of this innocent Jewish couple—because it is merely a taste of what is to come if we do not stop this trajectory in its tracks (which I believe we still have the chance to do).
Crucially, this does not mean that everyone has to go on live television or speak at a press conference or deliver a speech to 300,000 people to denounce antisemitism. It means that we confront antisemitism where we see it in our own lives, on the day-to-day. Simply put: When you see something, say something. If my friends and I can do it while we get harassed, ostracized, penalized, and bullied—even as I am now in graduate school—we all can.
So, please, those of you who remain silent—my gentile and Jewish brothers and sisters—we need you.
We need you. I am the granddaughter of a French-Jewish woman who survived the Holocaust, so I know that I will never walk quietly to the gas chambers. But without your help, I may ultimately find myself there anyway.