I am a secular Jew. My paternal grandparents fled the pogroms in what was then called “The Ukraine,” which was part of Russia or, later, the Soviet Union. On my mother’s side, my great-grandparents escaped Eastern Europe a generation earlier.

I was born in Los Angeles, about two years after the end of World War II. While I encountered some antisemitism during my childhood, I grew up primarily in the San Fernando Valley, then a burgeoning bedroom community of L.A. For the most part, my upbringing was almost idyllic—aside from the occasional fight when a classmate called me a “kike” and threatened me. As an Ashkenazi Jew, I was Caucasian and didn’t “look” Jewish by stereotypical standards. My family belonged to a temple—a schul—where I attended Sabbath services and spent four years in Hebrew school, three days a week after public school. In 1960, I became bar mitzvah—a “man of the commandments.”

Many members of our temple had escaped persecution in Eastern Europe, including Holocaust survivors. My father worked at the Grand Central Market in downtown L.A., and I often accompanied my mother there to shop and greet him. At the market, there was a French dip shop owned by two men, Sam and Dave, who bore tattoos on their forearms—haunting reminders of their time in Nazi concentration camps. I can still see those tattoos vividly. At the same time, I can almost taste the incredible lamb sandwiches I enjoyed at their shop—a bittersweet memory, tied to both resilience and survival.

I mention this because, even now, at nearly 78 years old, a part of me is always (metaphorically) looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for antisemitism to once again take center stage and threaten what has, so far, been a fulfilling life. I suspect this unease is part of our collective cultural memory—the nagging sense that our lives could be disrupted at any moment. With the current state of affairs in the U.S., as well as in Eastern Europe and the Middle East, that feeling is far more prevalent than ever before.

It’s already happening to immigrants from Mexico and Central and South America. The twisted logic of those in power—especially at DHS and ICE—suggests they’ll soon extend their oppressive policies to African Americans and others. They’re already questioning the citizenship rights of Indigenous people, who have been here for eons, likely because they don’t want them to vote. I also fear for both of my daughters, who we adopted from the People’s Republic of China. 

We cannot afford to sit idly by as the threads of decency and democracy are unraveled before our eyes. My life, shaped by the resilience of those who came before me and shadowed by the ever-present specter of hatred, is a testament to the fragility of freedom—and to the strength required to protect it. The scars of history are not just reminders; they are warnings. If we fail to act, if we fail to resist, we risk condemning future generations to relive the very horrors we swore never to forget. It is our duty—not just as Jews, immigrants, people of color, or any marginalized group, but as human beings—to stand together and demand a better, more just world. The fight for equity and compassion is not optional; it is essential. And it begins with each of us refusing to let fear or apathy win.