Raised by a Holocaust survivor, I recognize the warning signs of hatred’s return—and the terrifying cost when communities dismiss the patterns history has already revealed.
There are some things nobody can teach you.
Not in a classroom. Not from behind a podium. Not from a bestselling history book sitting neatly on a shelf. Not from a documentary narrated by someone who never lived through the pain they are describing.
Some lessons are different.
Some lessons become part of who you are.
I learned about hatred sitting across the dinner table from my father.
My father survived the Holocaust.
Those words are simple. Almost too simple. Because four words can never fully explain what it means to grow up knowing that someone you love lived through one of the darkest chapters in human history.
The Holocaust was never just history in my family. It wasn’t a chapter in a textbook. It wasn’t something confined to a museum or a classroom discussion.
It lived quietly in the stories my father chose to share.
And it lived even louder in the stories he couldn’t.
It lived in the pauses. The moments of silence. The memories that never fully left him. It lived in the understanding that civilization is not nearly as permanent as people like to believe. That institutions we assume will always protect us can fail. That neighbors can become enemies. That words, when left unchecked, can become weapons.
Growing up, I never looked at my father as a victim.
I looked at him as one of the strongest people I have ever known.
But strength does not erase memory.
And memory has a way of demanding that you understand.
As I got older, I became determined to understand how something like the Holocaust could happen. Not just what happened, but how it happened. How ordinary people could convince themselves that another person’s humanity was somehow negotiable.
I read more than one hundred books on the subject. I spent an entire year in college studying the history, literature, and films of World War II.
I wasn’t studying dates and battles.
I was studying people.
I was studying the anatomy of hatred.
I was studying how societies slowly move from disagreement to division, from division to dehumanization, and from dehumanization to something far darker.
And being part of the very community that is once again experiencing this hatred, I don’t just feel concern.
I feel anger.
Because history has a way of sending warnings long before people are willing to listen.
Look at what is happening on the streets of New York City.
According to official NYPD statistics, hate crimes have increased by 7.7%, with anti-Jewish hate crimes climbing by 2.3%. But the number that should stop every person in their tracks is this: 55.3% of all hate crimes in this city are directed against Jewish people.
More than half.
In a city of millions.
Against a community that represents only a fraction of the population.
Those are not abstract numbers. They represent real people. Real families. Real fear.
And just days ago, another brutal stabbing served as another painful reminder of something history has shown us time and time again:
Hatred does not remain confined to speeches, political rallies, social media posts, or academic debates.
Eventually, it finds a target.
Eventually, it reaches the street.
Eventually, it spills onto the pavement.
Hatred rarely introduces itself honestly.
It never does.
It adapts. It changes its clothing. It learns new language. It presents itself as something noble. Something righteous. Something necessary.
And that is what makes it so dangerous.
Today, as democratic socialism continues to gain influence and more DSA candidates find electoral success, we are witnessing a troubling reality where anti-Semitic rhetoric increasingly appears alongside political movements that claim to represent justice and equality.
It comes wrapped in radical chic. It disguises itself as moral certainty. It presents itself as a fight against oppression while creating a new hierarchy of who deserves empathy and who does not.
At the center of this environment sits Mayor Zohran Mamdani.
Politics has always had performers. People who know how to say the right thing, stand in the right place, and offer the right image when the cameras are rolling.
But leadership is not measured by photo opportunities.
It is measured by consistency.
It is measured by courage.
It is measured by whether you stand with a community when doing so is politically inconvenient.
Mamdani’s words, actions, and political alliances have contributed to an environment where many Jewish New Yorkers feel increasingly isolated and targeted. It is the kind of political double talk that says one thing publicly while empowering a movement that too often relies on demonizing Jewish identity as part of its broader ideology.
And that is where the danger lies.
Because movements built around grievance often require an enemy.
They require someone to blame.
They require someone to carry the burden of society’s frustrations.
And throughout history, Jews have too often been placed in that role.
The DSA and its supporters may claim to fight for tolerance and justice, but the reality many Jewish New Yorkers experience is very different. People are walking through their own neighborhoods wondering whether they are safe. Families are questioning whether visible expressions of their identity make them targets.
That should concern every person who believes in a free and tolerant society.
Because once a movement convinces its followers that their cause is so pure that any consequence can be justified, the danger begins.
That is how people convince themselves that harassment is activism.
That intimidation is justice.
That attacking another human being is somehow a noble act.
It is not.
It is a hollow and dangerous regression.
History does not repeat itself in identical form.
The slogans change.
The personalities change.
The technology changes.
But the patterns remain.
Scapegoating. Dehumanization. The search for an enemy.
Those warning signs have appeared throughout history whenever societies begin losing their moral compass.
My father taught me that history is ultimately about choices.
It is about courage.
It is about whether people are willing to speak when silence feels easier.
It is about refusing to surrender our humanity when others are trying to convince us that some people matter less than others.
I carry those lessons with me every day.
Because I know where hatred leads.
I know what happens when good people convince themselves that someone else’s suffering is not their problem.
And I refuse to look away while this poison spreads.
We have seen where that road leads before.
The question is whether we have the courage to recognize the warning signs before we are forced to learn the lesson all over again.