MAY

A Plea from the Heart: Fighting Antisemitism with Education

A Plea from the Heart: Fighting Antisemitism with Education

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about what’s happening around me—around us. The air feels heavier these days, doesn’t it? For me, as someone who carries the weight of Jewish identity, it’s not just a feeling—it’s a reality. Antisemitism has been creeping up for the last 20 years, and I can’t help but wonder how we got here. I look at the world and see fingers pointing everywhere—Donald Trump giving a nod to neo-Nazis and white supremacists, old Protestant and Catholic biases whispering through the cracks, even parts of Black culture where misunderstandings about Judaism fester. It’s not about blame, though—it’s about ignorance. So many people don’t know us. They don’t know what it means to be Jewish, to carry this history in our bones. And that gap? It’s tearing us apart—through stereotypes, microaggressions, and attacks that cut deeper than words.

I’ve seen the numbers: Jews, just 2.4% of this country, bearing 58% of religious hate crimes in 2020. I’ve felt the chill of knowing 88% of American Jews—my family, my friends, me—see this rising tide and wonder what’s next. It’s personal. It’s the fear I feel walking past a swastika scrawled on a wall, the ache of hearing “Jews control everything” tossed around like it’s nothing. And it’s the stories I hear of kids—kids!—who don’t even know what the Holocaust was. Two-thirds of them, blind to the six million lives lost, to the screams that still echo in our collective memory. That’s not just a statistic; it’s a wound. And it’s why I believe, with everything in me, that we need to teach this. Not just in some states, not just when it’s convenient—but everywhere, the same way, mandated by a government that’s supposed to protect us.

Why This Matters to Me

I grew up hearing about the Holocaust from survivors—their voices trembling as they spoke of family they’d never see again. But this isn’t new; antisemitism has shadowed us forever, the “world’s longest hatred,” they call it. It didn’t vanish after the ovens cooled or the camps were liberated. It followed us here, to America, where we’re just 0.2% of the world yet still a target. I think about that every time I hear about another synagogue vandalized, another Jew attacked. In the last decade, more of us have packed up and left for Israel—Aliyah, they call it—not out of joy, but out of fear. Can you imagine that? Leaving your home because you don’t feel safe anymore? I don’t want that for anyone. I want my kids, my neighbors, to live without looking over their shoulders. And I know—I *know*—education can help. It’s not a fix-all, but it’s a start. When we taught kids about slavery, about Native American pain, we saw ignorance shrink, hate soften. Why not us?

My Own Story

It’s not just headlines or history for me—it’s my life. I’ll never forget the day it hit me hardest, back in school. I was just a kid, trying to fit in, when someone—someone I thought was a friend—took a marker and drew a swastika on my neck. I can still feel the cold scratch of it, the way my stomach dropped, the heat rushing to my face. I scrubbed at it until my skin was raw, but the mark lingered in my head long after. Laughter echoed around me, like it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny—it was a knife. I didn’t know how to tell my teacher, my parents, anyone. I just sat there, small and silent, wondering why me, why this. That swastika wasn’t just ink; it was every story my parents told me, every fear I’d tried to push down, staring back at me. And the worst part? No one around me seemed to get it. They didn’t know what it meant—not really. That’s when I realized: they weren’t taught. They didn’t understand the weight of those jagged lines, the millions of lives they erased. If they had, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone. 

The People Who Can Change This

There are people out there fighting for this already. The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) has been a lifeline—tracking hate, pushing for policies that shield us from the venom. They want Holocaust education everywhere, and I’m with them. Then there’s the Department of Education—shouldn’t they be ashamed that so many kids don’t know our story? They’ve got the power to weave this into every classroom, just like 9/11 or the Civil War. And the State Department, promising to keep us safe—they should care, too, because this isn’t just about domestic policy; it’s about who we are as a nation. I dream of a day when every kid in every state learns what happened, feels the weight of it, and maybe—just maybe—thinks twice before letting hate slip out.

What’s Happening Now (And Why It’s Not Enough)

Right now, it’s a patchwork mess. Only 17 states—17 out of 50—require Holocaust education as of a few years ago. Places like Colorado and New Jersey are stepping up, sure, with bills like H.B. 1336 tossing grants to schools that teach it. But it’s not enough. Some states ban it outright, others barely skim the surface. My heart sinks knowing a kid in Texas might learn this while one in Alabama never will. We can’t leave it to chance like this—it’s too important. It’s life or death.

What We Could Do

I’ve been turning this over in my mind, imagining what could work. One idea is a federal mandate, backed by the ADL, forcing every state to teach the Holocaust right—accurate, raw, real. Tie it to funding, like highways or schools, so they can’t wiggle out. Another thought is optional programs—after-school clubs, electives—where kids who want to learn can. But that feels weak; it won’t reach everyone. Then there’s UNESCO, the UN folks, stepping in with a global lens—less hate, more voices in the mix. Or we could do nothing, let states keep fumbling along, and watch the hate grow. That last one? It keeps me up at night.

The Good, The Hard, The Real

The mandate with the ADL feels right to me. It could chip away at the lies—Jews as greedy, as shadowy puppet masters—and replace them with truth. But I know it won’t be easy. Parents might clutch their pearls, say it’s too dark for their kids. Politicians might drag their feet—antisemitism’s tangled up in both parties, and those old conspiracies about us running the show won’t help. The UNESCO route? Same pros, same fights, plus some baggage from their rocky past with Israel. Optional classes sound nice, but they’d miss too many, and the money might dry up. Doing nothing? That’s just surrender—more swastikas, more fear, more of us leaving.

My Hope

None of this is a magic wand. I’m not naive. But I’ve seen what education does—it cracks open hearts, softens edges. I want that for us. I want every kid in every classroom to know what happened, to feel it, to question the hate they hear. A federal mandate—whether it’s the ADL or UNESCO behind it—is my best shot at that. It’s not just policy; it’s personal. It’s about my safety, my kids’ future, my community’s peace. That swastika on my neck? I don’t want another kid to feel that. We’ve waited long enough. Let’s teach this. Let’s fight this. Let’s live.

Eliana Ross 2025