It was a Thursday in late October, a rather chilly day in New York City. It was a regular day, hearing the conversations of tourists, noticing the hurry that business people were in, and hearing the sound of trucks. However, on this specific day, I felt there was something more in the air, something heavier than usual. I was walking past Weinstein Hall near Washington Square Park when I first saw a multitude of people, which greatly caught my attention. I noticed many people holding posters, all with the same message of “Free Palestine.” These signs were held with pride, people’s faces were painted the Palestinian flag colors, and the energy felt very intense and even scary.

These individuals I saw were not just protesting. They were yelling, calling for justice—justice for Palestinian people. Their voices reverberated off the buildings. Some were holding flags, and many young people had their phones out to record everything to try to catch the moment. As I walked closer, it became evident to me that these people were pro-Palestinian activists protesting against the violence happening in Gaza. There were many vivid images of explosions, injured people, and many deaths that I had seen all over the news. This mob, however, was not just fighting for the people in Gaza, rather, they were rallying against Israel, a state they believe is not for the Jewish people and a state they believe is currently terrorizing the Palestinian people.

I’m Jewish and proud. I was raised in Teaneck, New Jersey, raised on challah bread and kugel, and went to Hebrew school five days a week for 14 years. My family wears our Judaism with pride despite the massive tension of being Jewish in the United States right now. Every day, I wear a star of David to let everyone know I am a proud Jew. However, this isn’t the case for everyone. A lot of people, especially nowadays, are terrified to show their Judaism because of the ongoing war. Although promoting my Judaism could feel very dangerous, I believe that more now than ever, it is my responsibility to stand up for my people and our rights.

That’s when I saw the two women standing off to the side, also watching the protest. They also were not participating in the protest, but they were watching intently. They were older than I, probably in their late 20s. I could see their eyes scanning through the crowd, and their faces creased with a high level of concern. Then I overheard one woman say to another, “They don’t understand. They never understand.” The other woman nodded in agreement, responding, “These people are livid, but they don’t know what it’s like to be hunted like animals.”

I stopped. Were they hunted like animals? That’s when I understood. These women were like me. They were Jewish. I took a breath, walking closer to them. “Excuse me,” I said, “you’re… you’re Jewish too, right?” The first woman stared me up and down, wondering if I, too, was a part of the protest or not. Then she saw my necklace, smiled, and replied, “Yes, we’re Jewish. These people will never understand what we went through as a Jewish nation.”

This made me feel sick to my stomach. “What we went through”—this phrase terrified me because I knew exactly what this woman meant. My great-grandfather was lucky enough to survive the Holocaust, unlike the rest of his family. He came to America having nothing, having to rebuild his entire life without all of his loved ones. I looked around again, watching the protesters shout and wave their flags.

I continued talking to these girls, trying to process what I saw. I said, “I understand their feelings and anger. But it’s like…” struggling to find the right words. The second woman spoke up, her voice firm. “It’s the way they’re doing it. The shouting, the anger, the hate. You can see the rage in their eyes. It’s like they want to burn the whole world down just to prove a point. This—” she pointed toward the rally, “—this is not the way to create peace.”

I nodded in agreement. I had been thinking the same thing. Something was unsettling about the aggression of their protest. The shouting was intense, but it wasn’t just a call for justice; it felt like a demand for blood. It wasn’t about sparking conversation for understanding—it was about taking sides in a battle that felt too far removed from any real conversation.

In contrast, I thought back to the times I’d attended rallies or events within the Jewish community. There was an inherent difference in tone. When Jews gathered to show support for Israel, for peace, for solidarity. We weren’t chanting slogans with venom. We weren’t confronting or demonizing others. We sang together. We held hands and sang our hearts out, whether it was a song of remembrance or hope for a future where peace wasn’t just a word. The music we shared, the unity—it was about fostering connection, not division. We weren’t about to scream at anyone; we were about creating a space where healing could begin.

I remembered an important rally that I attended with my family. It was a large gathering in Washington, D.C., right after October 7, 2023. There was a mix of different Jewish groups and families holding candles and singing “Hatikvah,” our national anthem. The scene was peaceful. It was emotional, but it wasn’t hostile. There was a sense of unity that was hard to describe. No one was yelling at anyone. We weren’t pointing fingers or blaming others. We were standing in solidarity with our people, hoping for a world where we could all live without fear.

I continued, my voice softer now, “When we gather—when we rally—it’s like we come together to sing and to pray for peace. There’s something about it. We don’t attack others; we invite them to understand us. We may disagree, but we stand firm in our commitment to peace. No matter what’s going on around us.” The first woman turned to me and responded, “Yes, I agree. We don’t need to shout to make our voices heard. We’ve sung our way through the hardest times, even when our lives were torn apart. They don’t get it. They don’t understand what it’s like to be hunted, to be oppressed, and still come together with love instead of hate.”

I swallowed hard, trying to push back the lump in my throat. As I stood there, I realized that while anger may fuel the moment, it rarely leads to resolution. I could feel the tension in the air—the division. But then I thought of the way our Jewish community had always rallied. Even in our darkest moments, even when we were beaten down, we never turned our pain into violence. We channeled it into prayer, into song, into unity. “You’re right,” I said quietly, watching the protesters chant in the distance.

Another few moments of silence passed as we all just stood there, watching the rally unfold. I felt conflicted, torn between the pain of my heritage and the anger of the crowd before me. It wasn’t just about Israel or Palestine anymore. It was about how we all choose to carry our struggles. How we choose to express our pain. And how we choose to look at the other side. The silence between us lingered as we turned to leave. I could hear the protesters’ chants grow louder as we walked away, but I knew, deep down, that our way—the Jewish way—was different. Even in the hardest of times, we carried our history with grace. We sang, not in rage, but with a hope for something better.

Paige Ratner lives in New Milford, New Jersey. She attended Yavneh Academy Lower School, Yeshivat Frisch High School, Midreshet Torah V’Avodah for seminary, and is currently a freshman at New York University.