Hanging by a Text Thread
My year of rebirth
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I am little more than a year old—an infant crawling through ravaged land. On October 7, 2023, when news of Hamas’s slaughter lit up my phone, an ancient dread coursed through my veins. I could feel the brutal footage of murdered Israeli bodies in the palm of my shaking hand. And before spilled blood could fade to brown, a firestorm of antisemitism burst forth, shattering my worldview.
I have encountered my share of Jew-hatred—taunted, as a child, as "buzzard beak,” “Jesus killer,” “money grubber." But I dismissed those slights as relics of an unenlightened past, something my own children would never endure. My family raised me on tikkun olam and the moral imperative to stand for others: the LGBTQ+ community, women, people of color, immigrants, the oppressed. Surely, our heartfelt acts of tzedakah mattered. Surely, they were noticed by the broader community.
When George Floyd choked under the boot of racism, the streets flooded with outrage. During the #MeToo movement, the world rallied for survivors. When Putin invaded Ukraine, American hearts and wallets opened wide. At every step, Jews stood shoulder-to-shoulder with those we considered our allies.
But in the immediate aftermath of October 7, public outcry amounted to little more than a whimper. People hesitated, as if this catastrophe came with conditions. Instead of unequivocal support and moral clarity, I heard political posturing and tepid empathy. Apparently, our pain did not deserve their outrage.
Amid hypocritical calls to "globalize the intifada by any means necessary," it’s the crushing quiet that cuts deepest. Just days after the attack, long before Israel retaliated, my sons witnessed vitriolic antisemitism on their prestigious college campus. Swastikas appeared on walls and mezuzahs were torn down. "From the river to the sea" echoed across the quad.
In one class, a lecturer reportedly ordered Jewish students to stand in a corner, calling them complicit and labeling them “colonizers.” My hands shook when I heard this. Yet when my gentile husband shared an article about this episode in his extended-family group chat, no one replied. I received no words of compassion, no offers to check in, no comforting phone calls. Later, I saw their posts about Gaza. (Can one tragedy offset another?)
Their silence settled over me like a heavy fog, forcing me to confront a harsh reality: many of those closest to me, even those I loved, inhabited a vastly different world than I did. This moment marked a turning point. If my own in-laws couldn’t grasp how deeply we worried for our sons’ safety, how could I expect the broader world to understand?
Our intergenerational trauma must have faded from their view, cloaked beneath decades of studious assimilation. We have played our parts so well—contributing to science, technology, justice, the arts—that our pain no longer registers. The bitter irony? We have adapted ourselves into invisibility. Our apparent whiteness and our economic mobility (despite generations of exclusion) have rendered us convenient vessels for the sins of everyone who shares our skin tone.
Being emotionally "left on read" reawakened a question I’ve long wondered about: How have Jews survived when our history reads like an unending litany of existential threats, from 586 BCE on? Babylonian exile, Roman destruction, the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Pogroms. Forced into Venetian ghettos. Gassed at Auschwitz and Treblinka. And yet—despite centuries of persecution—Jewish culture adapts and endures. The answer to this riddle eluded me—until my own October 7 rebirth.
I know now that this endless cycle is part of who we are. Like a forest that burns and then regenerates, our pain inspires strength and our destruction leads to renewal. Every attack, every expulsion, every act of tyranny catalyzes our resilience, deepens our identity, strengthens our bonds.
This has been a year of sadness, anger, and betrayal, but it has also galvanized a new generation and inspired others to return their roots. I, for one, am newly committed to honoring the traditions of those who no longer can.
In the vast sea of humanity, I often feel alone. Yet, despite our tiny population—a mere 0.2% of this world—I have never felt more bound to my people. Scattered across continents, we are sewn together by an invisible thread that transcends distance.
If those who sling antisemitic lies hope to squelch my pride, they have failed. Since October 7, I am more committed than ever to building a world where no one faces the hatred and violence Jews have endured for millennia.
I will crawl, then walk, then run. Happy Birthday to me.
Batya Keren Rut is an award-winning artist, author, playwright, and composer based in Southern California. Her work dives into the messy intersection of identity and community, forever unearthing what happens when public personas clash with private realities. Committed to making the world a little brighter, Batya channels her energy into entrepreneurship, mentorship, and community volunteering, pursuing her own little brand of tikkun olam.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.