LONDON — To my dear friends,
What is there to add today? I have been racking my brains all day to think of something worthwhile and original. So, I will try not to repeat what others have said better than I could.
Let me begin by stating my gratitude for the many, many new Jewish friends I have made since that dark day. Thank you for letting me stand with you in the weeks, months, and years since.
Today, I write mainly to the global Jewry that has been under a siege of disinformation, lies, and abuse since that day. It seems to me that 7 October is not confined to 2023: it is still ongoing. The intifada is globalised, the hostages remain taken, and Jews worldwide still face the threat of continuous and repeated violence. As Western societies, we have absolutely failed this test of decency and support for our Jewish citizens.
I write with a heart that is both broken and stubbornly hopeful. Since 7 October, “appalled” is a word far too small for what happened. I have seen more graphic evidence than even most Israelis: images and testimonies that no one should have to carry. I have walked the ground of Be’eri, Nahal Oz, Nir Oz, and other scenes of horror from that dreadful day. To this day, when I am asked about what I have seen in media interviews, I experience a physical reaction, and my voice becomes hoarse. Those scenes have seared into me a promise: to remember every life stolen, and to meet denial with truth, while caring for the living who still carry that day.
In the days immediately after 7 October, I did the only thing that felt sane: I volunteered with a Jewish charity in London. It was small, practical work packing aid boxes for Israel amid something unfathomable, but it mattered to do something. In November, I will be running a small fundraising tour in the UK for Dr. Orli Peter’s Israel Healing Initiative, which will include speaking with her about her work in the Houses of Parliament in London.
Since 7 October, I have visited Israel seven times. I have also entered Gaza three times. I know the IDF soldiers are not monsters; they are decent men and women doing a job they would prefer not to do, but know they must. Theirs is a sacred trust that I wish Israel’s government had treasured and spent more dearly.
Just days before the second anniversary of 7 October came the attack on a synagogue in Manchester. This was a blow so many of us knew would come in the UK after Amsterdam, Paris, Denver, and Washington, DC. For two years, the ground has been salted with antisemitic slogans, bloodless euphemisms, and the reckless way the word “genocide” has been thrown around to dehumanise Jews and invert the Holocaust, humanity’s greatest shame.
I am disgusted by what the last two years in the West have normalised: antisemitic abuse braided into slogans; the pro-Palestinian movement trafficking in sheer, vicious spite wrapped in the cover of self-righteousness, leveraging the appalling nature of war to create a moral inversion against Israel and against Jews. We warned the authorities and the world that when this toxicity spilled weekly onto the streets, it would eventually spill into Jewish sanctuaries.
Nobody wants to listen to our “we told you so”. I don’t either. However, the grief is heavier when the harm was predictable and should have been preventable. Following the Manchester attack last weekend, I set up a fundraiser for the Community Security Trust, because love must also look like protection. It has raised over £17,000 in the days since.
If you are afraid to wear a Magen David in public, or to pick up your children from cheder in a kippah; if you hesitate before posting a simple family photo from Sukkot; if your chest still tightens when your phone rings from Israel, please know: you are not overreacting. Your fear is rational. Your tears are earned. Your dignity needs no one’s permission.
To the elders who have witnessed this horrifying cycle before, who must now feel that “Never Again” is a hollow slogan; to parents steadying small shoulders; to students who suddenly feel conspicuous; to those who are secular and those who are devout; to Mizrahi, Sephardi, Ashkenazi, Ethiopian Jews; to converts and those who are “just Jewish”: I am sorry that the world has become so loud with slogans that your pain must shout to be heard. I understand, and the silent majority stands with you, even if the noisy fringes do not.
As an Israeli or a Jewish person, you should not have to spend your days justifying your humanity. You should not need to explain your grief before it is met with compassion. You deserve to pray safely, to celebrate in daylight, and to raise your children with songs rather than sirens echoing in their memories.
If you are one of the vast global majority who are not Jewish, solidarity with our Jewish brothers and sisters can be more than fundraisers and words. That said, the first step is to let the Jewish world know that you stand with them, both quietly and publicly. Challenge antisemitism, whether it arrives ugly or dressed in a keffiyah and the language of liberation. Support the unglamorous, necessary work of safety and trauma care, including the CST and mental health workers who support the Jewish community in turn. Check on Jewish friends, colleagues, and neighbours not only after headlines, but on ordinary days. Tell the truth about what happened on 7 October and refuse to treat the Jewish right to exist as a debate topic.
May the memories of the murdered be a blessing. May the injured find healing. May those who are afraid feel the circle of care tightening around them, not the walls. May the day come soon when Jewish life in Britain and abroad can be openly, joyfully visible, without security, second-guessing, or fear.
With solidarity,
Andrew