I recall reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" in junior high and feeling overwhelming sadness and confusion at what she and her family endured. Watching "Schindler's List" in the 90s broke my heart, as it surely did millions. A decade or so ago, I toured the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., and was profoundly moved by it — even knowing the horrors visited on the Jewish people during World War II, nothing brought it home more than seeing those exhibits and, in particular, the shoes. 

The identifying quality of the American tourist — irritating enthusiasm — is absent inside the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, the Washington museum that memorializes both victims and artifacts.

The idle chatter of the National Gallery or the National Museum of Natural History is rarely heard in these haunting halls. Choked emotion is mostly invisible until the tourists confront the museum’s final crescendo.

The shoes.

Still intact, perfectly formed, the remnants of lives piled one on top of the other.

I've never understood antisemitism, even while I've long been aware of the pervasiveness of its evil tentacles. I've attended bar and bat mitzvahs, Jewish weddings and funerals, the Passover Seder, Hannukah celebrations. I don't say this to congratulate myself but to illustrate that throughout my life, the concept of Jews and Judaism has been an ever-present and haunting mix of joy and beauty and family and tradition with heartache and history and sorrow and suffering. 

Somewhere along the way, I, of course, encountered the famous Martin Niemöller quote: 

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

And, of course, I understood its message — it's inescapable. Yet, on some level, I felt exempt from it. Certainly, I would never be the person who didn't speak out. (It's funny — the little lies we tell ourselves, isn't it?) The sad truth is that there have indeed been times in my life when I've held my tongue and remained silent when I shouldn't have — most often simply to avoid conflict rather than in the dire context contemplated by Niemöller, but deserving of frank appraisal, nonetheless. 

Particularly in recent years, I've learned that because my views differ from many of my friends and family members, it's best not to voice them in certain settings. Such efforts are too fraught with peril. I don't want to lose or even inadvertently alienate people I care about. I know many don't subscribe to that approach, but for me, preserving relationship is paramount to opining — in most instances. In fairness, I also have the luxury of having a platform and outlet for my politically-tinged views — on X/Twitter and here at RedState, of course. And those who know me well are undoubtedly aware that they can seek out my views in those mediums should they be interested in them — or invite a discussion with me in person. I will absolutely engage — just not in settings I reserve for friendship and more lighthearted fare, like Facebook, for instance. 

So it was that I found myself last Saturday evening wrestling with whether to say something about the horror I'd been watching unfold all day. I felt compelled to do so, but I hesitated for a couple of reasons. Would it be misinterpreted? Would it be seen as an invitation to start a heated debate on Arab-Israeli geopolitics on a page normally reserved for cute dogs, delicious meals, and beloved family members and friends? Would it ring hollow, a feeble attempt to signal my virtue? All of which is utterly ridiculous self-absorption in the context of the evil brutality visited upon Israel October 7.  

People can — and will — argue to their heart's content about the geopolitics of the conflict, and I don't know that it's one that will be resolved this side of Eternity. What I do know is that there is no in-between or both sides to what happened last Saturday. There is no justification for it. It was simply: evil. 

I'm certain I wasn't alone in my hesitation. One of the things that stood out to me about Facebook last Saturday was how quiet it was. Some of that undoubtedly was just a function of it being the weekend and people taking the opportunity to not spend the day online. But there was something almost preternatural about the quiet, particularly given that X/Twitter and cable news were non-stop about the carnage. I searched the feeds of Jewish friends, recognizing that those who are Orthodox were still observing Shabbat (and, I later realized, the end of Sukkot/Simchat Torah). I began to wonder if others were just unaware of what was going on or, like me, hesitant, not knowing what to say. 

What do you say in the face of such horror? What do you say to someone whose people were hunted down and brutalized because of who they are? Who bear the collective psychological scars of repeated instances of such horror throughout history? 

Here's the answer: There is no one right thing to say — there's certainly nothing that can adequately express the sorrow and ease the heartache over what's happened or the fear of what may come. But the wrong thing to do is not to say anything, not to acknowledge the pain and the awfulness of it all. 

Without betraying any confidences, I can say that a recurring sentiment I've seen expressed by Jewish friends and family over the past week is disheartened disappointment in the silence from some quarters — people they consider friends and allies, people who belong to groups or espouse beliefs that they've stood with and defended in the past. In many cases, it's left them feeling abandoned; in some, it's left them wondering if it's a silent expression of ambivalence or — though it's hard to fathom — tacit approval. 

I'm not of the "Silence is violence" camp. But I do agree that silence can speak volumes. Indeed, when I encountered this article on Tuesday, it struck a jarring chord: Why Are All of You Silent? The entire piece is a worthwhile read, but I'll share a brief excerpt:

Some of these people have something to say about every political cause. They insist that “silence is violence” and that, in the oft-quoted words of Desmond Tutu, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” But apparently those maxims don’t apply when Jews are being murdered.

If anything, it speaks to the sheer inhumanity of Hamas’ attack that there are so many people staying quiet—normally when Israel appears in the headlines, every woman who took “Intro to Human Rights” in sophomore year posts at least three infographics about Palestinian borders on her story. It’s a shame it only took babies being beheaded and women being violently assaulted for people to stop treating a tragic conflict in a deeply complicated place they’ve never visited as a convenient opportunity to broadcast their political virtues.

...

War crimes and murdered toddlers are not a “complex political situation” with “arguments on both sides.” You can support Palestinian statehood—in fact, you can have any opinion you want about the regional politics of the Middle East—and still believe that jihadist terrorists abducting 85-year-old Holocaust survivors should be condemned. Conflating those two things only gives credence to the idea that violence against Jews is political; violence against anyone else is unquestionably evil. Insisting on that distinction, in the public arena where narratives are created, is the only way to break the cycle of demonization and intimidation-into-silence.

So, it was that this haunting classic came to mind...