On October 7th, 2023, the contemporary Jewish world was jolted awake. In the days that followed, support for Hamas and blatant displays of antisemitism surged across the globe, revealing a level of hatred many thought belonged only to history. For my family, it was a slap in the face—a realization that being “the reserved Jew” was no longer an option. In response, my parents made a decision that would change how we saw ourselves: they booked flights, not for a holiday abroad, but for a trek through history. Our history. For the past two years, we have traveled across continents and cultures in pursuit of stories that showcase the persistence and pride of the Jewish people.  After many hours in airports, several questionable tourist-trap restaurants across continents, and oh so many tears, I can finally say one thing: never have I ever been prouder to be a Jew.

The first chapter of our adventure through history begins in Rome, where the splendor of the Great Synagogue stands as both a spiritual binding and a testament to endurance. As we walked through the narrow alleys of the ghetto vecchio, we stood on the same cobblestones where Jews were once confined behind towering tenement buildings and lined up awaiting deportation to externment camps, yet, today, those same streets are filled with laughter, prayer, and life. As we saw Jewish boys next to Muslim boys playing chess, Catholic girls and Jewish girls skipping along cheerily, it was then that I first felt the weight of Jewish continuity: the beauty in how a people so often silenced still found a way to sing. Turned from what was once the least desirable neighborhood in Rome to one of the most expensive, developed blocks in all of Italy, the oldest Jewish ghetto in Europe is a tangible reminder of what is so easy to forget: we aren’t going anywhere.

In Dubrovnik, a small maroon door marked La Communauté Israélite in the old city opened into one of Europe’s oldest Sephardic synagogues. Inside, the air was heavy with centuries of whispered prayers and memories of resilience. As we walked through their museum, filled with salvaged, centuries-old artifacts, learning that their Jewish community has a population of nearly twenty, I came to realize that Jewish identity is not measured by numbers, but by devotion. How could a community destined to die out within the next generation feel so lively? My question was quickly answered through a short walk down the road, where we found a Jewish deli selling New York bagels. Just as the smell of fresh lox hit me, something unexpected came with it: the understanding that the Jewish community of Dubrovnik will never die because their livelihood will live on. Courage, thought to be far past us, was sitting right in front of my face because even in the smallest corners of the world, the Jews have left their footprint.

After countless hours on trains and transatlantic flights, we finally arrived in the “Jerusalem of the North”: Amsterdam. Throughout our many stops along the way, one message remained constant: the Jewish people possess a brilliance and resilience like no other. As we reached our hotel, we were greeted by the doorman, who, to our surprise, was also Jewish. Yet just across the plaza, a rally called for the “liberation of Palestine” through support of Hamas, a terrorist organization. It was an abrupt, jarring reminder of the reality we live in today. That evening, we visited the Anne Frank House. Walking through those narrow rooms and peering into the attic that sheltered a family simply for being Jewish left me overwhelmed by emotions I couldn’t quite name. Was I sad? Of course. Happy? Not exactly. Proud? Absolutely. Proud to belong to a people who endured the unimaginable: who survived history’s darkest moments and still found a way to smile, dance, and sing. Our walk back to the hotel was quiet, each of us lost in reflection. How could it not be, after standing in the very space that once hid people just like us for years? The next morning was one of learning and admiration. The highlight was the Portuguese Synagogue, its light so pure it felt sacred. The Nazis once planned to turn this synagogue into a museum celebrating their “success” in eliminating the Jews, a cruel and haunting irony. Today, it stands as a beacon of Jewish life, home to one of Amsterdam’s most vibrant and thriving communities. Once a refuge for those fleeing the Spanish Inquisition and later a haven for those escaping Nazi terror, it now symbolizes safety, continuity, and faith. Just a few blocks away, the Holocaust Memorial of Names serves as a distinct reminder of how fragile that safety truly is. To me, Amsterdam will forever be ingrained in my mind as a city of stark contrasts—a place of refuge and resilience, yet also of deep pain and haunting memory. It stands as a representation of the Jewish story itself: enduring, defiant, and filled with light even in the face of darkness.

Lastly came Eretz Yisrael, the embodiment of everything we as Jews have ever dreamed of. Here was the modern expression of our ancient hopes: Hebrew on street signs beside Arabic and English, mezuzot on doorposts one after another, Jews of every kind living side by side. It was a place like nowhere else. On our first evening back home, we walked along the Tel Aviv boardwalk, hearing shabbat songs spill from balconies, laughter surrounding us, and life bursting with joyful purpose. As the sun fell and each passerby pegged us for the typical American tourist, I suddenly understood why this dream had endured  through the generations. It was a magical feeling. I had been to Israel before, but never like this. Why it was so different is beyond me. We arrived at our hotel and were greeted with warm smiles and hugs from people I had never even seen before. Soon, the night faded. Jet lag won, and I won’t lie—a bed had never looked so inviting. The next day would be different. Rough, if that word even does it justice. We were mentally, emotionally, and physically preparing to visit the site that had propelled our journey around the world. We were going to the Gaza envelope. The next morning was somber. The sprawling Israeli breakfast no longer looked the same. People didn’t smile. My family looked scared. I was scared. I didn’t know what awaited us. Yet, we got in the car and drove on. After what feels like days on the road, we arrived at K’far Aza, still barren from that tragic day. Our guide met us and led us through what was once a vibrant young-adult village, the first to be attacked. Rows of bungalow-style homes stood silent, lined with posters pleading for the release of captives or the remembrance of souls lost. We cried. We stared. We asked: How could this ever happen?

“We were too comfortable,” they said.

“We should’ve known better,” they said.

“We were deceived,” they said.

Still processing, we continued on to the NOVA Festival site. As we arrived, I swear I could still hear the trance music hanging faintly in the air, echoing between the trees. Stakes upon stakes stood in memory of those who died that day. Stories of heroes who drove back and forth, again and again, to rescue others showed me what I had been learning all along: to be a Jew is to be compassionate, resilient, and everlasting. We stood by the yellow dumpster where people hid under trash to escape Hamas terrorists. Many never made it out alive. We stood where the terrorists once stood, their magazines emptied into the same space. We turned toward the refreshment stand—a Bud Light bottle still rested on the counter. I began this trip learning how strong the Jewish people are, how a silenced people still found a way to sing. But I ended it knowing there was a day not long ago when those songs were replaced by a deafening silence. What was once a celebration of freedom had quickly become a place of mourning. Standing there, I finally understood what it means to carry collective grief—not as individuals, but as one people.

These are just a few of the stops on our tour through the ages, but after October 7th, these elaborate travels took on a different meaning for me. What many of my classmates viewed as an elaborate tour of the world became, to me, more than simple exploration and education: it became the embodiment of the Jewish spirit. I met Jews who spoke different languages, lived on different continents, and practiced Judaism wildly differently than I did. Yet, every encounter felt like family. Each conversation, each shared fact, each prayer, and each “Shabbat Shalom” reminded me that what binds the Jewish people is far deeper than a book or a symbol—it’s a shared soul, a collective memory. In the aftermath of October 7th, this journey became more than remembrance — it became a connection. When we strengthen those connections, we strengthen ourselves. In a world that so often seeks to divide us, unity becomes our greatest defense — and our greatest hope. Hatikvah. The lesson of this journey was clear, although the path was winding: Jewish strength most definitely does not come from numbers or world domination; it comes from connection. It comes from standing together in joy and in grief, across oceans and generations, as one people who refuse to disappear. I began this trip with my family, searching for understanding. I ended it knowing that to be Jewish is to belong — everywhere. To be a member of the most ancient, resilient, and beautifully alive community. And in that belonging, we found not just who we are, but who we must continue to be.

Ultimately, this isn’t the end of my journey through the Jewish story—it’s only the beginning.

עם ישראל חי

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