Written by Susie Hess
Trigger Warning: This post discusses trauma associated with the October 7th massacre. If activated, TILA recommends incorporating healing practices such as moving, walking, running, pushing against a wall, connecting with people who are supportive and empathetic, and taking a break at any time.
I was taught to hide my identity as a second-generation Russian Jew. I was taught not to wear Jewish bling out in public—especially not when traveling. I was raised to assimilate, and so I did. I believed that blending in was the safest way forward, that my Jewishness was something private, something to fear.
My father would talk about antisemitism as if it were still alive and well, as if the world had not moved on. I didn’t believe him. I’d roll my eyes and say things like, “That’s so World War II”. I had convinced myself that the world had changed, that we were safe, that antisemitism was a relic of the past.
I also believed that Jews didn’t count in DEI spaces. Most American Jews are Ashkenazi and white-passing, so we didn’t belong in discussions about diversity, equity, and inclusion. And I accepted that. I accepted that our struggles were not as valid, that our history didn’t warrant a seat at the table. I believed it—until October 8, 2023.
The day after Hamas’s surprise massacre in Israel, everything changed. Friends and colleagues I had trusted casually posted “From the River to the Sea.” A colleague admitted they “didn’t know how to feel” when I affirmed Israel’s right to exist. Another said I was “too strong” in pushing for antisemitism to be included in the curriculum—yet they never said that when I advocated for anti-racism. A DEI colleague shared resources for marginalized groups, but Jews were absent. When I asked why, the response was, “We can’t provide resources for all groups”—despite Jews being the number one victims of hate crimes per capita. I have advocated for and supported many, yet on October 8th, my community and I were met with silence. Where are the feminists when Jewish and Israeli women are being raped? Where are the children’s rights activists when babies are kidnapped, slaughtered and celebrated?
People often conflate Jews with the Israeli government, which is a form of Jew hate—I have no connection to its policies. When my university posted about my trip to Israel five months into the war, where I presented on Trauma-Informed Mindfulness in Times of War, the backlash was immediate. Within an hour, the comments section erupted with hate, threats, and vitriol. Not because of anything I had said. Not because of my work. But simply because I had traveled to a country I do not govern.
I am a Jew. And I will not hide who I am anymore.
Traumatic invalidation, gaslighting, erasive antisemitism—these have all made me a louder and prouder Jew. The days of hiding are over. I will not shrink myself to make others comfortable. I will not dim my Jewishness to fit into a broken DEI framework that refuses to see me. The silence of friends and colleagues is deafening, yet our ancestors’ screams pierce through time. We carry their echoes in our bones, reliving a trauma the world refuses to see.
I was raised to believe that safety lay in silence. But the world’s silence in the face of antisemitism only emboldens those who seek to erase us. I will not be erased.
I am a proud Jew.