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Dr. Jeremy Schiller’s story

The COVID-19 pandemic was heavy enough.

As a practicing physician and the Chair of the Salem Board of Health, Dr. Jeremy Schiller was doing his utmost to protect community members from a virus scientists were racing to understand and navigate in real time.

“I had a good relationship with [then Mayor of Salem] Kim Driscoll, and we promoted COVID mitigation strategies that were rooted in science and were progressive and dynamic,” Dr. Schiller says. “Despite overwhelming support from the community, we received a lot of the typical negative responses — and I was ok with that. Science is hard and is always evolving and that is not easy for some to digest and understand.”

However, those responses became personal in December 2021. The Omicron variant was sweeping through Massachusetts and hospitals were dangerously nearing full capacity. The Salem Board of Health, at the urgence of local hospital leaders, instituted a vaccine mandate for local restaurants to help keep area hospitals from a possible catastrophic crisis.

“At that point, there was a real increase in number of those comparing what we were doing to the Holocaust,” Dr. Schiller remembers. “Multiple emails on a daily basis from various people in the community.” Dr. Schiller went out of his way to respond thoughtfully to the emails and educate community members on the actions the Board was taking. However, the correspondences were becoming increasingly antisemitic in nature. Salem’s Health Agent, whose surname sounds Jewish, shared that both he and Dr. Schiller had been the subject of voicemails citing them as “Jews controlling public health.” He also forwarded Dr. Schiller postcards the Board of Health had received that were addressed to “Un ‘Doctor’ Schiller” with a Star of David drawn on it and statements like “FREI” (German for “free”), “GENOCIDE,” and “Justice will come for you” scrawled across them. The Health Department even received a yellow Star of David — badges Jews were forced to wear in Nazi-occupied Europe.

Around this time, a rally was held outside Dr. Schiller’s house (he wasn’t there), organized by Diana Ploss, an independent gubernatorial candidate who, later that week, livestreamed a simulcast of the Board of Health meeting, with hateful comments like, “Look at this Jew, always after money” and “Look at the smug Jew talking” posted on her website. Dr. Schiller, who volunteers in his position as Board Chair, was aghast and disgusted that his efforts to help guide the community safely through the pandemic evolved into an opportunity for antisemites to viciously attack him for the simple fact that he is Jewish.

“It was scary,” Dr. Schiller says. “I contacted Mayor Driscoll and there was no political calculus whatsoever on her part. She immediately released a letter along with the ADL condemning what was going on.” Dr. Schiller also applauds the swift response of Chief Lucas Miller of Salem Police Department in coming to his defense, as well as the President and Chief Executive Officer of Beth Israel Lahey Health, Dr. Kevin Tabb, for reaching out and supporting him.

“To me, there’s a role for condemnation and outrage, but it can’t end there. Education and understanding are critical components to combating antisemitism and hate,” Dr. Schiller says. “That’s why the idea of allyship is so important to me. We can only imagine how many other groups of people feel marginalized. I have a very close family and amazing friends. I can’t imagine how deeply undercutting and painful this would be to someone who doesn’t have that kind of support — because even with that support I can still feel the pain of it today.”

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Rabbi Shlomo Noginski’s story

On July 1, 2021, while standing near the entrance to Shaloh House Jewish Day School in Brighton, Rabbi Shlomo Noginski was approached by a man with a gun who demanded that he give him the keys to his vehicle and then instructed him to get inside the car. Rabbi Noginski, fearing for the lives of the school-aged children attending summer camp within the building, ran from the assailant and, in the ensuing struggle that followed on Brighton Commons, was stabbed a total of eight times in broad daylight.

But for every stab wound, for every ache, pain, and hardship that followed in his slow recovery, Rabbi Noginski is only keeping a tally of all the miracles, including — defying comprehension — being in the right place at the right time.

“I have seen G-d’s hand throughout my life,” Rabbi Noginski says.

Growing up in the Soviet Union, Rabbi Noginski’s family was targeted for being Jewish. His mother, a celebrated composer and pianist who had won a national competition and performed in the Kremlin, attracted the attention of antisemites disgusted that a Jew — and a woman — received the award.

The family received multiple death threats and Rabbi Noginski was often physically and verbally attacked. They made aliyah (immigration to Israel) to escape antisemitism in the early 90s and Rabbi Noginski’s mother encouraged him to take up martial arts to defend himself.

Rabbi Noginski believes his black belt in judo played a small role in defending himself from the dozens of relentless stabbing attempts made by his attacker over the course of their struggle that lasted more than 10 minutes. However, he is quick to point to a series of divine interventions for his ability to stave off more serious or even fatal injuries, rather than his “physical prowess.”

“It is G-d’s protection that is the real assistance,” he says. “But the real miracle is that I was outside of the school accidentally. If I came out earlier or later, this young man would have had unhindered access to the school and the camp, and it could’ve been much worse.”

Rabbi Noginski sustained six stab wounds to his left arm and hand and two to his abdomen. The attacker, who was discovered to have a history of using antisemitic slurs, was charged with hate crimes, as well as assault with intent to murder and attempted armed robbery, and the investigation is ongoing.

“In the short term, I simply could not perform any manual physical labor with my left hand or bear any weight, and one of the deeper wounds in my left shoulder affects my ability to do heavy lifting with my left arm,” Rabbi Noginski says. “In terms of emotional rehabilitation, that’s another story.”

Rabbi Noginski sees this attack as “a second birthday,” a blessing, and proof of G-d’s presence in his life. He’s using this incident to infuse the community with “more light and positivity” and has already opened a new Rabbinic Studies program at the school.

“Going forward, I feel I’ve been charged with a mission of doing more than I was before,” he says. “Anything that happens is directed by G-d, and this only strengthens my Jewish pride and identity.”

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Chanie Krinsky’s story

On a May evening four years ago, Chanie Krinsky had just put her three youngest children to bed when she heard rustling outside of her home, the Chabad Jewish Center in Needham.

Thinking it was an expected visitor, she asked her son to greet them at the door, but he reported seeing no one there. Right afterward, her husband, Rabbi Mendy Krinsky, returned home with groceries and Chanie smelled smoke.

“I’m very sensitive to it because I had been in a serious house fire when I was younger,” Chanie explains. Mendy searched inside for the source of the smell and couldn’t find anything when Chanie remembered that the Chabad Center for Jewish Life of Arlington-Belmont, the home of Rabbi Avi Bukiet and his wife, Luna, had been set on fire just days earlier. She urged Mendy to look outside.

When Mendy opened the door, their son peeked his head out and immediately noticed small flames licking at the side of the house, near the entrance to the synagogue. Because of the rain, because of their access to a fire extinguisher, or, as Mendy and Chanie believe, because of divine intervention, they were able to contain the damage to the exterior and put out the fire before the fire department arrived on the scene.

“As soon as I heard that there was a fire, I woke up the kids who were already in bed, carrying them, half-awake, out of the house and into the car,” Chanie says. From there, Chanie sent out a message to other Chabad residents in their network, explaining what had happened. “I said, we’re safe, be careful out there, you know, in case this person was going around doing this to other places,” she recalls.

Through her chat group, she learned that the Bukiets, once again, had their Chabad set on fire that very evening, just 40 minutes earlier.

“It was hard for us to sleep that night, knowing this person was still out there, knowing that someone was trying to burn our house down,” Chanie says.

The next day — Shabbat — brought hope.

“The number of flowers and gifts and messages of support that we received from the community was so touching,” Chanie says. “Two women from the community suggested holding the Havdalah ceremony outside our house after the sabbath ended, and they told the local temples and churches. We came out of the house on Saturday night and there were more than 400 people there — the police blocked the street. We prayed, we sang songs, it was so moving.”

At the time, people were saying, “Maybe take down the menorah in front of your house, maybe you should hide it, or remove your address online,” Chanie says. “We said, ‘Absolutely not. We’re not going to hide.’ On the contrary, we believe this event and similar ones should be an impetus for growth. The best way to combat antisemitism is to be stronger and prouder Jews.”

“Until the indictment, there was no way to know for sure that it was antisemitism, but we knew even then,” Chanie says. “We’ll never know why he chose ours and the Bukiet’s — but they were both the homes of the Chabad rabbis and their families.”

The man accused of the Chabad arson died before justice could be served, but the mark from the fire remains on the house and, since then, one of her sons was targeted for being Jewish and physically assaulted in Manhattan.

“Sometimes the world can feel scary, but you need to move on, you can’t live with that heaviness,” Chanie says. “We have to be aware, but we trust in G-d and move on. We can’t let this stop us.”

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Sam’s* story

Imagine you’re a sophomore in high school, living in a small, picturesque New England town. You come home from school one day before break, ready to relax, and open your Snapchat to see what your friends are up to. And just like that, you’re confronted with a picture of a swastika made of pennies taken in one of the classrooms of your high school. Sam* doesn’t have to imagine. She and her friend lived it.

Back when Sam and her friend experienced this incident in high school, they had already endured years of cutting comments about their Jewish heritage from their classmates and friends, saying things like “Do you live in little Israel?“ or “I didn’t know Jews were allowed to go trick or treating.” And they shrugged them off because they didn’t want to make waves with people who clearly didn’t understand how offensive they were being.

But when that swastika was posted, it was a step too far to ignore anymore. Enough was enough. “This was posted on social media, so a broad amount of people were seeing it compared to when someone just says a comment to you. You don’t have proof per se, but this was posted, and however many friends he had on Snapchat were however many people were seeing the post,” Sam says.

Sam and her friend decided it was time to make a change. At first, they kept it a secret because they didn’t know if people would understand. When their friends approached them, Sam said, “I’m a minority here. None of you are Jewish and I didn’t know how you were going to react because I was doing something against one of our friends.” They needed help. After talking with their parents, they boldly reached out to the Anti-Defamation League (ADL).

The ADL answered the girls’ call and introduced them to a program called A World of Difference Institute that educates and trains faculty and students on how to deal with issues of discrimination of all types. But there was a slight problem. They needed funding to get the program off the ground in their school. To their relief and delight, the community stepped up. Parents, local businesses, and their high school PCO worked together to raise over $7,000 in just a few short weeks.

To this day, Sam and her friend’s courage to ask for help continues to better their hometown. “My youngest brother who’s seven years younger than me is at my high school now, and he’s being taught these things [by A World of Difference Institute] […] It’s really important to me to know that they are still doing it and they are still educating the teachers and the kids.”

Sam knows that the work isn’t done. “It’s so weird to me because I just graduated college and I feel like I’m still actively doing things for this, and I was 16 years old when I first started. I did not think that six or seven years later this would be staying with me.” Even though antisemitic incidents are up all over America and “it’s a really scary time to be a Jewish woman,” Sam keeps moving forward. “I like to help out as much as I can. People still reach out to me asking if I can help and I try and do that in the best way possible.”

By sharing her and her friend’s story again, Sam has given hope to the next generation one more time.

* Name changed upon request due to safety concerns. 

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Andie’s story

It all started with a “harmless” joke.

Andie, just beginning their conversion to Judaism, was simply trying to connect with their family at the movies. On any given day, Andie is generally guarded around their family, and with good cause. “A lot of members of my family of origin are pretty homophobic and say a lot of really insensitive or offensive things — before and after I came out.” Ready to endure and respond to this kind of behavior, they set off to hopefully make the best of an evening together.

But their cousin had other ideas. Andie was extremely close with this cousin and his sister, “they were basically two extra members of my family.” But “as we grew up, he really started saying and doing things that were not ok — being really sexist, being really homophobic.” And Andie tried to avoid him and stay in a space that made them feel safe, but he caught them off guard.

While waiting in line for popcorn, their cousin decided now was his moment. He said, “Why are the rabbis running down the street? They were chasing a penny.” Andie was stunned. They were ready to hear offensive comments, but not about their newly found religion. Andie’s safe space was torn apart.

No one thought there was anything wrong with Andie’s cousin’s casual antisemitism, not even their mother, who as a devout Christian that believes Christians are persecuted in American society, might be the one person to truly get it. But she simply dismissed Andie’s concern with, “Don’t pay attention to it.”

Andie’s family has a history of not understanding where they’re coming from. “I’m neurodivergent, I do and say weird things and I have a very funky sense of humor, and I kind of feel like that puts a target on me a little bit with my family.” And on top of that, they grew up in a far-right-leaning, religious household where they were told their whole lives that being gay was bad — “It’s sinful.”

They were taught that religion was not a welcoming place for all, until they discovered there was more out there than what their family believed. “When I explored more about other religions I was like, ‘Oh, so it’s not all bad, it can even be a really positive thing in somebody’s life.’”

They’ve since become more devoutly Jewish and find it healing, Shabbat in particular. “It’s an anticapitalistic practice that’s very important to me in my life, and also, as somebody with a lot of chronic illnesses, I need time where I am basically just doing nothing to heal my body and rest my neshama (soul) after a long week of working.”

Still, when they go to visit their family, they aren’t being respected or accepted, so they try and find ways to work around their family’s expectations, like dressing in ways that will be approved of — shorts and a t-shirt instead of long sleeves and a long skirt — or trying to keep kosher in their own quiet way even though their grandmother insists on offering them shrimp in a manner that feels to Andie like it’s a “power play.”

Fortunately, Andie has found their chosen family — people who make them feel seen — throughout their conversion to Judaism while at college and beyond into their new life. “I live 3,000 miles away now and I’ve cultivated a really good group of people who understand my quirks, and I feel very loved.”

And so, it didn’t all start with a joke, but maybe that’s where it all ends.

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Addie’s story

“Don’t mind him, he’s just being cheap like a Jew.”

When Addie, working as a cashier in Foxborough in 2021, heard those words from a customer watching her companion fumble through his wallet, she felt an immediate physical reaction.

But this wasn’t Addie’s first time experiencing antisemitism.

Growing up in a small town southwest of Boston, Addie remembers being one of a handful of Jewish kids in her graduating class of 360 students. From the cliques that formed around church groups to being singled out during her history class unit on Judaism, pervasive feelings and messages of otherness were omnipresent throughout her formative years.

During a lecture on dictators in her freshman year, a classmate turned to her and said, “Addie, you need to go hide because the Nazis are going to come for you.”

“I didn’t think too much of it when it happened,” Addie recalls. “I was a shy kid. I went through the day, didn’t say anything to my teachers, didn’t say anything to anyone else, but I came home and was telling my mom about school, and I said, ‘Oh, this kid said this to me,’ and she sort of just stopped in her tracks and was like, ‘What? Can you repeat that?’ She said, ‘You know that’s not ok, right?’ I told her that I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t know what to do.”

Her father called the school, and Addie remembers feeling embarrassed, fearing reprisal and not wanting to draw additional attention to herself. After she met with the principal and told him what happened, the boy was moved across the room away from her, but he never apologized. “I think I kind of knew that nothing was going to be done,” Addie says.

Her mom and dad, however, insisted that calling it out was necessary. “Even if I didn’t realize it at the time, I’m glad they did it, it was a learning and growing moment for me to realize that things like this happen and they happen often.”

During her senior year, a teacher told Addie that her congestion from a cold made her sound like “an old Jewish woman from New York.”

“I had to hold myself back — she was an adult and an authority figure,” Addie says. “Now, looking back, I know I should’ve done or said something. That was another moment.”

Addie believes that these “moments” helped shape her into the person she is today and gave her the courage and confidence to speak up that day in Foxborough.  

Noticing that the man was looking at her and toward Addie with embarrassment, the woman continued, “Oh don’t worry, she’s not Jewish.”

Heart racing, Addie says that she “put the customer service part of [herself] aside” and said, “Actually, yes I am, and you shouldn’t say things like that.” She says that the woman seemed ashamed of what she said but didn’t offer an apology, and Addie’s manager gave her the time to step away and calm down after she explained what occurred.

While she knows antisemitism is never going to completely go away, Addie isn’t hiding, and these experiences have only strengthened her Jewish identity. “I hate that it happened, but I’m proud of myself for getting through it,” Addie says, noting that she shares these incidents as often as she can to encourage others to fight back. “I define it as a source of pride. It’s a badge of honor.”

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Empowered to Act: CJP’s Center for Combating Antisemitism’s Handbook on Effective Community Mobilization for Confronting and Preventing Antisemitism 

One of the key advantages of CJP’s CCA is our ability to leverage national and local best practices and bring them to Greater Boston. We’re seeing it all: Our partnership network is made up of colleagues from every corner of the country and, like us, they are developing immediate interventions and testing strategic plans over time. 

A key driver in our ability to be effective in advancing and scaling CJP’s CCA work and slow the spread of antisemitism is grassroots action, and community members are critical to this movement. Through five recommendations, this handbook provides a set of actions you can take; these recommendations are intended to uplift and amplify the grassroots efforts of our volunteers and wider Jewish community in their day-to-day efforts.   

Some recommendations are focused on short-term, urgent tactics, and others we know will yield powerful long-term results. In all cases, it is critical to highlight that you are the heartbeat of our movement—our children, young adults, and neighbors depend on our cohesive efforts. It is not always easy to build strategic alignment when the subject matter is difficult and rife with our individual experience of pain. But in each difficult time for our people, we survive and flourish when we stand together.   

Continue to read each recommendation, or jump to a specific section using the links below:

Confronting and preventing antisemitism in the workplace

Jewish leaders across various Boston workplaces gathering to learn best practices on Jewish Employee Resource Groups (ERGs) from Oren Jacobson, Executive Director at Project Shema, May 2024
Jewish leaders across various Boston workplaces gathering to learn best practices on Jewish employee resource groups (ERGs) from Oren Jacobson, executive director at Project Shema, in May 2024 (Photo: Molly Kazan)

For most adult Jews in Greater Boston, the largest time spent in social interaction is at work, and therefore CJP’s CCA is aligning with partners to foster safe environments for Jewish employees across Greater Boston’s workplaces. Many local companies and organizations have launched diversity and inclusion programs to support their most vulnerable populations, but these structures have too often left Jewish experiences outside of these conversations and without access to necessary support.  

CJP’s CCA has launched a strategic, coordinated effort to create a support network within Boston-based companies by funding intracompany trainings on the dangers of antisemitism and fostering safe environments for Jewish employees, and by connecting networks of companies dedicated to workplace support of Jews.  

Where your advocacy in the workplace can start

Jewish employee resource groups (ERGs) are an excellent workplace vehicle to begin to create, or grow, your company’s support for Jewish employees. If you are involved in your company’s Jewish ERG or are considering creating one, we can help you implement best-in-class antisemitism workplace trainings and connect you to a growing network (30 companies across Greater Boston thus far!) of groups that are exchanging ideas and interventions to make their workplace experience safer. 

Key action

Bring CJP’s CCA-sponsored trainings and resources to your workplace by filling out this form. Delivered by expert facilitators at Project Shema, the trainings for workplace leaders, DEI professionals, and ERGs at your company can be transformational to Jewish and non-Jewish colleagues and prepare them for solidarity and allyship when it’s needed the most. If you don’t already have a Jewish ERG at your place of work, learn how to advocate for one.  

Confronting and preventing antisemitism through productive engagement with government leaders 

Massachusetts State House in Boston

CJP’s CCA vision of making antisemitism socially and politically unacceptable in Greater Boston will rely on our ability to engage productively with government leaders. Their voices can amplify ours and help prevent future acts and manifestations of antisemitism in our community. Our expectation is that our elected leaders listen to our worries, hear our stories with care, and are motivated to speak loudly in our support—especially in crisis—without being asked.  

This ideal outcome, however, does not happen on its own; it’s the result of individual and collective strategic actions.  

Where your advocacy with government leadership can start

Know who your local, state and federal representatives are; familiarize yourself with your local council structure, local school board, and key stakeholders in the Massachusetts legislature. You’ll find that your representatives are meeting with the public often about communal priorities; by becoming engaged civically, you’ll create opportunities for positive relationship-building with local leadership.   

Key resource

We partner with the excellent leadership of the Jewish Community Relations Council of Greater Boston (JCRC), who are professional advocates in the local, state, and federal government. The JCRC senior staff work daily to keep a drumbeat of important conversations live with our key stakeholders. They keep our volunteers engaged and informed about political and policy priorities. JCRC also connects our community to mobilize in support of our combating and preventing antisemitism priorities. If you and your community have identified a gap of support and believe that your representative needs additional education and training about our priorities, CJP’s CCA and JCRC staff can guide toward the right conversations, and we encourage you to let us know.  

Read more about this leadership model in action

Empowered conversations with K-12 administrators and educators  

(Photo courtesy of Combined Jewish Philanthropies)

Your advocacy on behalf of your children—and all our children in Greater Boston—is crucial. ADL’s 2023 report on antisemitism in Greater Boston documented 600 instances of antisemitism (including a massive surge after Oct. 7), and our school settings are not immune to this trend. We know that anti-Jewish bias exists in educational entities across this community, and we’ve sourced best practices from across the country to help our Jewish parents be well-positioned for successful conversations.  

Where your advocacy can start

CJP’s CCA aims to empower community members with the knowledge, tools, and resources they need to effectively engage with school administrators and educators when antisemitic incidents happen in the classroom. Alongside our strategic partners, we also invest in relationships with key stakeholders in the local education ecosystem to promote safe and inclusive classroom climates where Jewish students are valued and embraced.  

Key resource

We are strong believers in preventing antisemitism through thoughtful engagement with educators and administrators. This primer is essential reading for successful dialogues in school settings, and trainings for parents and for educators and administrators are available through CJP’s CCA

Additional K-12 Resources:
  • K-12 Jewish Parents Resource Guide from Project Shema: A comprehensive guide to support Jewish parents in fostering a safe and inclusive environment for their children.
  • K-12 Admin & Staff Resource Guide from Project Shema: A resource aimed at helping school administrators and staff create a supportive atmosphere for Jewish students.

Confronting and preventing antisemitism on Greater Boston’s college campuses

Julia Freedman, a student at Boston College, speaks at CJP’s Stand up for Jewish Students rally in April 2024 (Photo: Collin Howell)

Since launching this April at the height of campus tensions related to the Hamas attacks and ensuing wars, our Center for Combating Antisemitism has regularly convened a roundtable of Greater Boston Hillel, Chabads, and our key campus organizers, bringing national partners and resources to these local conversations. Through these roundtables, we align on strategy, tactics, and execution of proactive and responsive initiatives to uplift our Jewish students and enable them to engage with their campus community and their studies without fear. We closely and regularly interact with students and Jewish organizations on campus to understand their needs, understand opportunities, and coordinate action.  

In this space, we not only lean into our role of convener, but also that of innovative funder. CJP’s CCA has placed hundreds of thousands of dollars in surge funding of pilot programs on Greater Boston campuses in response to the dangerous rise of antisemitism in our community, alongside funding for long-term partners who are the foundational infrastructure for joyful Jewish student life on campuses. 

Where your advocacy for Jewish students on campus can start

We are committed to uplifting our local Jewish students; sometimes that means showing up in huge swaths of support, like our community rally for students this past April, which drew over 1,500 attendees. Subscribe to CJP’s CCA Newsletter and CJP’s CCA WhatsApp Group to be regularly invited to opportunities like these.  

Key resource

Learn more about what actions we’re asking colleges and universities to take during the coming school year so you can effectively echo these recommendations. Locally, learn about innovative programs that CJP is supporting on several campuses to increase education on antisemitism and allyship with other communities.

Additional Campus Resources

Responding to community-based incidents

(Courtesy photo)

Your family’s safety and well-being are the central priorities for all communal work confronting antisemitism. We encourage every community member to report an incident of antisemitism as soon as it takes place. This allows our local key partners and resources to be coordinated and help you in the immediate aftermath and in recovery.  

Key resource

Know how to report and respond to an antisemitic incident.  

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A Foot in Two Worlds: Celebrating Pride Month After 10/7

By Mimi Lemay

“What can I say?” my mother would shrug, on the occasions that I would let down my guard and empathize with the fact that my life choices had made hers more complicated: “What can I say? I have a foot in two worlds. I love them both.” 

Sometimes these ruminations would conclude with a query to the Almighty: “I don’t know why Hashem (God) has asked this of me, and sometimes I ask Him, ‘Why?’ But, this is my reality. I have a foot in two worlds.” 

The two worlds to which my mother referred were not demarcated by the 3,000 odd miles from the house she shared with my stepfather in Gateshead, England, and my home with her three grandchildren in small-town Massachusetts. The far wider gulf was the one between her world of stringent Torah observance and values, and my world, secular or frei (free) of these rituals and regulations.  

In crossing the chasm for each visit to our home, she emerged from the plane a striking figure in her long, dark skirts, buttoned-up shirts and a wig or kerchief covering her hair, even in the sweltering heat of summer. Her kosher cookware and dishes rose from their boxes in our basement and, for the next few weeks, replaced our “treif” items, her aromatic cooking bringing in the neighbors, who loved her. Her Hebrew and religious texts sat astride our secular volumes. Two worlds, two very different lives and one diminutive woman stepping back and forth, in apparent disregard for the inviolable lines. 

The crossing was far from seamless. At times we tussled, hurling recriminations at each other: I was accused of rejecting her world; she was accused of imposing hers on mine. It is only with age and maturity that I have come to appreciate how rare an act of love it was for her to cross this divide as wholeheartedly as she did, not only making peace with my secular existence, but expressing support for first one, then another of our family who came out as LGBTQ+. 

The world to which she returned at the end of each visit made no bones in its rejection of Jews who dared to love someone of the same sex, or try to live authentically as the gender they knew themselves to be. My mother, however, had managed to boil down the circumstances in which she found herself to these essentials: God gave her these two worlds, and therefore she must find a way to live in both. 

Mimi (far left), her kids and Bubby (center) on Mother’s Day 2024 (Photo courtesy Mimi Lemay)

My own world-straddling endeavors began nearly a decade ago, though at the time, I was unaware of occupying a liminal space. Realizing the lack of secure rights afforded to the LGBTQ+ community and the horrific discrimination to which they were subjected, I began my work as an advocate, writing and speaking in support of important equality legislation, walking the halls of our State House, even appearing occasionally on television. My focus soon widened to the national movement for LGBTQ+ rights, and I began to devote my time and efforts at larger, national civil rights organizations, linking hands with many of this country’s well-known activists.    

In the earliest years of my advocacy, I rarely brought up my Jewish heritage, something that still prompted complicated feelings in me, given the ultra-Orthodox upbringing that I had rejected. Instead, I steered conversations toward universally relatable themes: the desire to have my children grow up in a world where one’s authentic self was accepted, free of harmful and often violent bias. 

As I matured in my advocacy, I learned to be deliberately intersectional in my approach. “Intersectionality” meant accounting for the fact that individuals holding more than one marginalized identity often experienced the compounding effect of multiple discriminations and, therefore, lived in greater vulnerability. Accounting for intersectionality yielded several benefits. Considering factors other than LGBTQ+ status in our work enabled us to hone in on the specific needs of different communities. It also enabled triaging. Those who experienced the greatest multiplicity of vulnerabilities would require the most immediate effort and attention. Finally, it encouraged coalition-building with other social justice movements, expanding our reach and harnessing the power of intercommunal action. We were, inarguably, stronger together

I myself began to “lean in” to my Jewish identity as an advocate, realizing that my own personal journey as a formerly ultra-Orthodox woman, far from being irrelevant to my work, was a helpful tool for modeling how understanding about gender and sexuality can evolve. During my hours speaking and writing about my previous Jewish identity, I found myself, to my surprise, in the process of creating a new one, distinct from the one I had discarded in my early 20s. I discovered that not only did I no longer feel compelled to choose between my Jewishness and my acceptance of my LGBTQ+ children, but punkt fakhert, as the Yiddish saying goes—quite the opposite was true. It was the core Jewish values I had carried over from my youth, and perhaps the collective Jewish consciousness of being a permanent “other” across human history, that informed and fueled my advocacy. 

By the time the pandemic broke in 2020, I was engaging regularly with Jewish audiences from international to local organizations, large institutions like Hadassah and community synagogues and JCCs across the U.S. It was as the “Jewish era” of my advocacy was growing that I began to notice the absence of targeted messaging and support to Jews from what I considered my “home base”—large, national civil rights organizations. I began to suggest ways we could fill in these gaps and build these bridges. The tepid responses I received were disappointing, but I also realized that, in the here and now, American Jews did not experience the acute levels of systemic discrimination that other groups did. I counseled myself to have patience. There were bigger “fires” to put out (the triaging rubric under which we operated was: “Whose house is currently on fire?”). These were the days of the George Floyd murder and protests and the growing national outcry against the systemic inequalities and exponential violence under which people of color labored. Barreling toward us were the disastrous repeal of Roe v. Wade, multiple threats to voting rights, as well as an explosion of attacks on trans youth in Republican-controlled state legislatures. So many fires, so little time. 

It was only in 2022 that my two worlds, that of my Jewishness and my progressive activism, became distinctly uncomfortable to occupy in tandem. One such interaction happened at an annual gathering of fellow advocates: A casual remark was made to the effect that a particular person, being Jewish, could not appreciate the burden of discrimination experienced by the speaker.

I struggled for a moment in the decision of whether to speak up. I intuited that the remark was not malicious in intent; rather, it came from an absence of understanding of the prevalence and extent of antisemitism, past and present. However, the absence of knowledge itself was problematic. I settled on a gentle reminder that Jews, as a people, have long experienced “othering,” and a Jewish person might well be equipped to empathize with another’s experience of discrimination.  

I did not think my remark to be extraordinary or controversial in the least. However, the group moderator swiftly delivered what felt like a rebuke: “It [antisemitism] is not the same!” was said with some force. 

I was surprised and dismayed. The unique lived experiences of different historically marginalized communities were typically a welcome conversation in our group. Furthermore, my comment was not comparative in nature. “Of course it’s not the same,” I retorted, flustered, “but it exists.” I listed a few personal examples, as well as those of the wider Jewish community, uncomfortably aware that the “temperature” in the room had dropped. I wondered how my addition of antisemitism as a catalyst for shared empathy could have been taken, prima facie, as reductive of the harm experienced by others. It felt like I had clumsily stumbled into a conversation already in progress, one that I was not privy to and was therefore ill-prepared for. Something had been decided about the Jewish experience that had excluded this experience from all others in the category. 

After the session, a few of my fellows continued to try to “educate me,” all well-intended, I assumed, on the disparate natures of different oppressions. One advocate alone seemed to understand my statement. She approached me in a quiet moment. “When you first started talking,” she admitted, “I felt myself go,” here she drew back in a gesture of recoil, “…but then, as you went on, I began to understand. You taught me something new. Thank you for sharing your truth. Keep doing that.” Impulsively, I embraced her, grateful for the acknowledgment that what I had brought into the room was not intended to harm or reduce. It took me hours of mulling over the day’s events to discover the inadvertent clue she had provided for me; a reference to the wider conversation that had excluded Jews, evidenced by her initial recoil at my words. 

Since that experience, I have searched for answers across large organizations dedicated to fighting for civil rights, hoping to find evidence that I was mistaken, that antisemitism was included among other forms of hate to be combated. That this subject was not just the purview of the ADL and Jewish organizations. I read books on this subject, from David Nirenberg’s “Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition” to Dara Horn’s “People Love Dead Jews” and comedian David Baddiel’s not-so-funny “Jews Don’t Count.” The shadow conversation I was searching for began to take shape.  

I also found allies within these LGBTQ+ advocacy spaces, Jews and non-Jews, eager to begin the conversation about the world’s longest-standing hatred. Measurable change, however, was slow and halting, with many fires springing up around the country. 

In the meantime, I continued to straddle my two worlds, my Jewishness and my LGBTQ+ advocacy, carving out spaces where I could do one, or be the other. I joined the board at Keshet, a national LGBTQ+ Jewish organization, and found a place where I could be and do both. Often, I was reminded of my mother’s dilemma: “God gave me two worlds, and I love them both.” I had to find a way, with patience, to cross this divide. 

Mimi Lemay, far left, at a Keshet board meeting in May 2024 (Photo courtesy Mimi Lemay)

It was then, on an early Saturday morning in October, that my Jewish world caught fire. 

The first weeks after the horrific Oct. 7 passed in a partial haze. Some things, my everyday schedules and interactions, seemed to happen without much deliberate participation on my part. The kids were fed; they made it to school. I kept most of my meetings. I guess I was there? Other moments remain sharp and indelible: The panicky texts and calls to my siblings in Israel, starting with my brother in Jerusalem, father to a toddler with another baby on the way. The moment my sister, who had been in Sinai on vacation, made first contact. The interminable wait until Motzei Shabbat when my religious sister, living in Beitar with her two children, was heard from. The feelings too are indelible: Confusion about what had happened, and what was still happening. The growing horror as confusion turned into certainty, and the numbers of the dead and captured climbed. 

These feelings will be familiar to many Diaspora Jews, especially Israeli-born Jews like myself, along with other confounding experiences: The indescribable loneliness of intimate tragedy, while the world outside your window dances by as if nothing has happened. The growing calls, before we had finished burying our dead, for Israel to show restraint in its response. The things that were intimated, or spoken out loud: “What did you expect? Oppression breeds violence.” Later, as the half-hearted or ambivalent acknowledgements turned into vociferous accusations, searching acquaintances’ social media posts for incriminating evidence from that black day. Did anyone cheer for the monsters? Fleeting days of newscasters’ empathy—familiar, formerly comforting faces—now cold and condemning. All the while, the profound ache for the innocent: the massacred dead, the terrified hostages, the Gazans being used as pawns and human shields in a game of their leaders’ devising. 

As 2023 came to a close, I could no longer linger in this liminal space. I jumped at the chance to join a Boston Jewish women’s mission to Israel, my feelings for the land and my people no longer complicated by my past. Such is the warped blessing of catastrophe; it brings instant clarification and realignment. In Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Jaffa and Rahat, our little group met with our Israeli counterparts, human rights activists, civil society entrepreneurs and peacemakers; Jewish, Palestinian and Bedouin. These impassioned women clearly knew the stakes. They knew, and had known for a while, that Israel’s survival as a pluralistic, ethnic democracy hinged on the twin prongs of secure borders and secure human rights, an end to occupation and an end to terrorism. I departed Israel carrying with me precious words of hope spoken by Sally Abed, a Palestinian-Israeli peace activist and leader in the organization Standing Together: “It is often in the darkest times that come the clearest visions.” 

On my return to America, I was once again bombarded with voices calling for an expansion of the conflict: “Globalize the intifada!” I realized that, over here, voices of change like that of Sally Abed have been drowned out by the cacophony of crowds. Over here in the Diaspora, some vicious and ancient force was metastasizing. It was my Tel Aviv sister who told me that after Oct. 7, many peacenikim were met with the taunt: “Hitpakachtem?” Have you sobered up? I think about my own recent sobriety on the subject of antisemitism. What were its implications for my advocacy? I have found no satisfying answers yet. 

The two worlds I am straddling continue to sap from my spirit in my attempts to reconcile them. There are few places left where I can fully be both a passionate Zionist Jew and a mother who passionately advocates for LGBTQ+ rights. I am also deeply aware that the rift I experience is nothing compared to that which LGBTQ+ Jews themselves are enduring. It seems that they have been presented with an impossible choice: Be the “right kind of Jew” and reject the “white colonialist Zionist oppressor” or the “wrong kind of Jew” whose heart is bound to the survival of the only Jewish state. Jews are familiar with this Damoclean sword, and there is no path that comes without heavy loss. I think of the words of a friend and fellow Jewish advocate: “For the first time in my life, I feel more Jewish than gay.” I hear words of abandonment all around me. 

Pride Month has found me, this year, heavy in thought and mired in complexity. I am thinking of all the celebrations to which queer Jews cannot give themselves fully, if at all. I am thinking of the spaces that no longer feel welcoming to LGBTQ+ Jews of color, who, it seems, with a swipe of poster board paint, have been blotted from the narrative of Jewish history. If I am drained in the effort, how do these Jews who live at the crossroads of multiple “otherings” experience this moment?  

I still believe deeply in the mission I set out to do nearly a decade ago when I began to advocate for LGBTQ+ equality, and I believe the progressive movement can correct its misconceptions and biases regarding Jews and the Land of Israel. I also believe that the wider Jewish experience is founded on tenets that fully align with LGBTQ+ equality, and that Jews must remain in these and other fights. As a Jewish mother, I cannot abandon either pursuit. I live with a foot in two worlds. And I love them both.

Mimi Lemay is an author and advocate for LGBTQ+ rights. Since 2015, Mimi and her family have fought for passage of equal protections for transgender individuals in Massachusetts and across the U.S., appearing on television and print media with their message of inclusion. In 2017, Mimi joined the Parents for Transgender Equality National Council at Human Rights Campaign, where she remains an alumnus member. In 2019, her critically acclaimed memoir was released: “What We Will Become: A Mother, A Son and A Journey of Transformation,” and was recognized as a 2020 Massachusetts Book Awards finalist. Also in 2020, Mimi was named a Commonwealth Heroine, an award granted by the Massachusetts Commission on the Status of Women. In 2023, after several years of advocating on behalf of LGBTQ+ equality in the Jewish community, Mimi joined the board of Keshet, a national Jewish LGBTQ+ advocacy organization. She also volunteers with the Anti-Defamation League in Massachusetts. Mimi received a master’s in law and diplomacy from the Fletcher School at Tufts University in 2004 and an undergraduate degree in Iran and U.S. foreign policy from Boston University in 2002. She was born in Jerusalem in 1976 and emigrated to the U.S. as a young girl. She now lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts with her three children and a quirky puppy, Penny. Her three siblings all live in the Holy Land with their families.

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Empowering My Teen to Combat Antisemitism

By Sarah Plymate

With the almost 400% rise in antisemitism since 2023 and with three Jewish children of my own, I have been deeply concerned about the rise of antisemitism and bigotry in all forms. That’s why I joined the North Shore Antisemitism Task Force in December 2023. This task force brings together a group of educators, community organizers and parents who aim to empower and educate North Shore teens when faced with antisemitism on their campuses and in social media. Our first event, “Standing Strong: Empowering Teens to Recognize and Respond to Antisemitism,” was hosted by the nationally recognized organization TribeTalk.

Our task force was able to get the support of 16 sponsors, both Jewish and non-Jewish organizations. We wanted our teens to know that the North Shore community is here to support them and won’t stand for antisemitism. The fact that individuals and groups actively came together to tackle antisemitism head-on sends a powerful message of unity and resilience. I loved TribeTalk’s encouragement for students to engage with Jewish life on college campuses, find meaningful ways to connect with their identity and community, and provide a sense of belonging and support during challenging times. Whether through joining Jewish organizations, attending cultural events or participating in religious gatherings, these experiences can enrich students’ college experiences and foster a strong sense of community.

At the dinner table after the event, I spoke with my biggest critic, my teenage daughter. She enjoyed the slide deck and educational overview of the history of antisemitism and how to recognize it. Several of her friends from her public high school were there, as well as students from local parochial schools, so she felt better knowing everyone had the same definition of antisemitism and how to recognize it.

She found it particularly powerful when the teens broke into small groups to read scenarios based on real-life antisemitic events that had happened to others, and then collectively decide how to best address the confrontation. Rather than seeing clips and posts from what’s happening on college campuses through social media, these scenarios had actionable answers—there was follow-up, and it was up to each group to figure out what they would do in the given situations. This hands-on approach not only educates teens, creates dialogue and improves critical thinking, but also empowers them to take action when they encounter bigotry in their own lives.

I appreciated Robin Friedman‘s emphasis on the diversity of experiences with antisemitism on college campuses. While not all students may encounter antisemitism, it’s crucial to provide resources and support for those who do. I want my children to be strong in their own identity. By acknowledging the varied nature of these experiences, we can create a more inclusive and supportive environment for all students.

Now is the time to stand up against antisemitism, bigotry and hate of every kind. When I envisioned my kids heading off to college, my thoughts were filled with curiosity. I wondered how they would engage with campus life—would they join Greek organizations, participate in Hillel or Chabad or explore their identities in other ways? Who would they become through these experiences? But today, my concerns have shifted and their safety weighs heavily on my mind. No one should ever feel the need to hide, feel ashamed or bear the burden of guilt when their character is unfairly attacked. My hope now is that after this engagement with TribeTalk, our teens will be equipped with more in their toolkit to navigate such situations—whether it’s knowing how to respond effectively or walking away, finding themselves in a better place emotionally.

“Standing Strong: Empowering Teens to Recognize and Respond to Antisemitism” was made possible in part by CJP’s Center for Combating Antisemitism (CCA), a growing hub for Boston’s work in responding to antisemitism. The CCA also brings local and national partners’ work together, strategically and in coordination with each other toward a vision where antisemitism becomes socially and politically unacceptable in Greater Boston. 

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Boston teens visited the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism headquarters

By Molly Kazan, Fighting Antisemitism Manager at Combined Jewish Philanthropies

On Sunday, April 7, 18 teen leaders from CJP’s Jewish Teen Initiative (JTI) Peer Leadership Fellowship visited the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism (FCAS) headquartered at Gillette Stadium. Fellows explored how FCAS’ work connects to CJP’s Center for Combating Antisemitism, and how they themselves can become better change agents in local efforts to fight Jewish hate.   

The visit was planned in response to a February 2024 study the Fellows conducted amongst their peers citing growing concerns in antisemitism among Boston-area Jewish teens. The Peer Leadership Fellowship is a signature program of JTI at CJP that trains and empowers teens in grades 10 through 12 to become communal connectors through monthly gatherings.  

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Addressing Antisemitism Head-On

By Melissa Garlick, Senior Director of Combating Antisemitism and Building Civic Engagement at Combined Jewish Philanthropies

Underpinning Dara Horn’s newest piece on antisemitism appearing in The Atlantic, “Why the Most Educated People in America Fall for Anti-Semitic Lies,” is the same premise that grounds CJP’s growing work to combat antisemitism: that “one confounding fact in this onslaught of the world’s oldest hatred is that American society should have been ready to handle it.” Almost six months after the attacks of 10/7, it becomes clearer each day that antisemitism is both pervasive in our society and that American civic society and many of our leaders were not and are still not prepared to handle it.  

It is this exact space that CJP is building out our work to combat antisemitism.  

In this month’s newsletter, we highlight CJP’s increased investments in security for early childhood centers and day schools to ensure that our Jewish communal organizations are prepared on physical security as they are forced to contend with the rise of antisemitism. Our partners at JCRC also wrote this month about growing calls by city councils in Greater Boston to hold public hearings for ceasefire resolutions. While JCRC has worked with council leaders to better prepare them on the complexities of these issues, the public hearings themselves have also brought an onslaught of antisemitic rhetoric and comments. Finally, as CJP builds out and supports work to better train and resource campus administrators with tools on antisemitism, we are highlighting resources for students as anti-Zionism continues on campuses during spring semester.

Through communal security, working with civic leadership, and supporting Jewish students, CJP and its partners are working to address that “confounding fact” Dara Horn so aptly highlighted so that our society once and for all ensures that antisemitism becomes politically and socially unacceptable by addressing it head-on.

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Empowering Teens to Recognize and Respond to Antisemitism

Sunday, April 28, 2024
3:00 p.m. – 5:00 p.m.

Jewish Community Center of the North Shore
4 Community Road
Marblehead, MA 01945

Knowledge is power! Learn to identify and confront antisemitism! Don’t miss this incredible opportunity to hear from TribeTalk, a nationally recognized organization dedicated to helping teens and college students feel confident and competent in recognizing and responding to antisemitism. Through engaging discussions and interactive scenarios, we’ll learn about antisemitism: how to recognize it, how to respond to it, and how to remain strong in our Jewish identity.

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Supporting and Protecting the Next Generation

By Combined Jewish Philanthropies

Nurturing and engaging the next generation in Jewish life has always been an integral component of CJP’s mission and values. However, fears about rising antisemitism and the backlash against Israel following the terror attacks of Oct. 7 have left many parents, teachers, and caregivers concerned for the safety and well-being of students, faculty, and staff at Greater Boston’s 14 Jewish day schools and 40 early childhood centers (ECCs).  

To continue this important work and as part of our ongoing 5-Point Plan to combat Jewish hate, CJP’s Communal Security Initiative (CSI) has allocated new one-time surge grants to these schools and centers totaling $515,000. All funds will be distributed in early February and will go toward supporting each institution’s unique security needs.  

Even before the terror attacks, CJP’s Communal Security Initiative has been working with these schools and centers to ensure that educators, parents, and children feel seen and safe, giving them the right tools to succeed.  

“We’ve been building a foundation of safety and security through first aid, CPR, active threat trainings, and on-site assessments and consultations through our partnership with the CSI team,” says Jodi Jarvis, senior director of family engagement at CJP. But antisemitism is on the rise and anxiety and fear of the families of these children is causing stress for the entire community. Jeremy Yamin, vice president of security and operations at CJP, notes that although they’ve been working with day schools and early childhood centers for years, now was the time to increase focus on safety and security for these important constituencies, especially the ECCs. 

“The CSI program is a long-term investment by CJP in the community. And for everything we work toward at CSI—the goal is to be proactive, holistic, and sustainable. But there are certain moments in time when we’re able to add more to our programs.”  

Thanks to the generosity of our donors, this is the largest investment CSI has been able to offer preschools.  

“We’re excited to offer this type of support to our networks and to continue to build a foundation where families feel safe and secure with where their children are,” says Jarvis.   

The schools and centers that received the grants were also excited. Amy Bolotin of Frances Jacobson Early Childhood Center at Temple Israel of Boston said, “It has been essential that we increase security presence at our school this year. The CJP grant has supported our ability to cover that cost. Our parent and educator communities are deeply grateful for CJP’s support and the peace of mind knowing we are doing our best to keep our children safe.” 

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JCRC K-12 Parent Interest Form

The Jewish Community Relations Council of Greater Boston is expanding its work in the K-12 education space to strengthen partnerships with school districts and engage with parents and guardians. Sign up to receive future emails from the JCRC about programs and resources specifically geared toward families of K-12 students.

Sign Up for JCRC Parent Resources