Jewish Mother Activists Fight Antisemitism

I knew motherhood was going to be hard. I’d read all the books, talked to older, wiser friends, and observed toddler meltdowns in diners and supermarkets.

I’ve always known being Jewish can be hard. Jews are born knowing that.

What I hadn’t counted on was how the convergence of these two critical aspects of my identity would intersect in the most gutting yet fundamental way—the safety of my children.

A mother’s most visceral urge is to protect her children. We hold their hands when they cross the street, wipe their little noses when they’re sick, advocate for them when they need a stronger voice. We offer comfort, food, love, wisdom, and when, in the worst of times, have almost nothing to give, we, as did generations of Jewish mothers, offer ourselves.

Early on, however, Jewish motherhood was pretty darn joyful. From the moment I held each of my baby boys—their sweet scent, wisps of hair like duck down, tiny fingers curled around my own—I was forever smitten. I also knew I would fight lions for them. The joy continued as they happily toddled off to Jewish preschool where they crafted colorful alphabet-block menorahs, learned to ask for more “mayim b’vakasha” (water please), and celebrated Shabbat every few weeks in class as the anointed “Shabbat King.”

As they grew, our mostly secular lives were still shaped and framed by the comfort of the Jewish calendar—apples dipped in honey, sequined Purim masks, and enthusiastic renditions of Dayenu and Dreidel, Dreidel. With each bar mitzvah, each Torah portion learned and Jewish adulthood earned, we exuded parental pride. Our children were becoming thoughtful, intelligent, hardworking young people. Menschen.

Sure, there were the fevers, the squabbles with friends, the broken bones and bruised egos. There were difficult days and sleepless nights, but you know, parenthood, right? We expected this.

There is another secret to the miraculous survival of the Jewish people: Jewish mothers.

Living in 21st-century New York, the Jewish part had been fairly easy. Unlike my grandparents, no one told us to go back to where we came from. No one didn’t hire us because we were Jewish. No one said we couldn’t attend university, join a club, or be their friend.

And unlike my grandparents’ families in Europe, no one tried to murder us.

But there are memories—epigenetic, I believe—that simmer just beneath the surface. Jewish people carry the trauma of generations—the Inquisition, the Holocaust, the Farhud—oppression by the Romans, the Egyptians, the Babylonians. It’s always with us.

What happened to the Jewish people during the Shoah was so egregious, so shocking, so utterly unforgivable that the world (mostly) left us alone for three-quarters of a century. This proverbial post-Holocaust bubble of safety has now popped, and the Jewish people are once again in history’s crosshairs, its favorite and perennial scapegoat.

As the war continues in Israel, one finds references on social media to (Jewish mother) Golda Meir’s poignant quote about Israel’s secret weapon—we have nowhere else to go. But there is another secret to the miraculous survival of the Jewish people.

Jewish mothers.

Every Shabbat, Jewish mothers bless our children and pray that they will grow to be strong, to lead, to care, to love. For our daughters, we pray, “May you be like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah,” the matriarchs of our people. As women, then, we are imbued with the strength of our foremothers, who have carried the hope and spirit of the Jewish people through the millennia.

There’s a Yiddish expression that says: “God couldn’t be everywhere, so He created mothers.” As antisemitism explodes unhinged on campuses, city streets, and online, with an intensity and pervasiveness not seen since the 1940s, the truth of this is abundantly clear.

In response to this surging global antisemitism, an expansive network of Jewish mothers has emerged in recent weeks, stretching across the United States and beyond. They are motivated and they are resolute. Above all, they are effective.

I am only one of many, but I’ve been deluged with texts, information, and calls to action. These women petition senators, representatives, and university presidents and boards. They share their voices across social media and on the streets. They’re running fundraisers—sending food and supplies to Israel—and offering safe spaces in their homes and Shabbat meals to local college students. They’re baking challah—a sacred tradition—and saying prayers, often in Psalms Zoom groups. They are rallying around Jewish schools, businesses, and families. And yes—in many cases, supporting Palestinian children and families. Men are welcome to join—and many do— but these initiatives are almost entirely driven and accomplished by women.

I am in awe of these women—their organization, their brilliance, their generosity, their grit. Their ability to mobilize quickly and effect change. Their unwavering commitment to protecting not only their children but everyone’s children. Because they remember. We remember. We’re mothers. It’s what we do.

Fearful Times

For the first time, as a Diaspora Jew, I’m at best uncertain, at worst fearful. I can’t seem to make out the shape of our future. And as much as I worry for my children’s safety as I send them into the world as young adults, Gazan mothers cradle their children in the rubble of their homes and Israeli mothers demand the return of their captured family members while sending their young adults off to the impossible unknown. War.

But the past few weeks have demonstrated that we will take care of one another. We Jewish mothers descend from the women who defied Pharaoh’s order to throw our baby boys into the Nile. From the women who hid our babies from the Nazis. I think most recently of Rachel Edri of Ofakim, who survived the October 7^th pogrom in Southern Israel by essentially mothering the terrorists who held her captive in her home. Plying them with food, she managed to stay alive until her sons could rescue her.

Each Passover, we read how “In every generation, they rise up to destroy us,” but that God “delivers us from their hands.”

Should these dark times persist and the road grow hazy and labyrinthine, rocking our very foundation, Jewish mothers, as they have for thousands of years, will be there with open and outstretched arms to catch us all.