Stop Letting the Haters Write the Jewish Story. We Have a Better One

Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I reached for my phone (yes, I know — quite literally the worst thing you can do when you’re trying to fall asleep) and found myself scrolling through Jewish account after Jewish account. Creators, writers, organisations, people I admire, and almost every single post was about antisemitism. Videos of crowds booing the Israeli Eurovision entry. Defiant responses to the latest incident. Screenshots of things said, things done, things that should never have happened.

And I understood it. I really did. Because it’s real, and it matters ,and we cannot pretend otherwise.

But here’s what I kept thinking: if an alien landed on earth and tried to understand what it means to be Jewish from Jewish social media alone, they would think we are defined entirely by the people who hate us. They would know nothing of who we actually are.

My focus has always been elsewhere. On the joy, the kindness, the values, the traditions, and everything that makes being Jewish the most special thing in my life. That is what Luxe Jewish Life was built on. And that is what this piece is about.

This is who we actually are

In the wake of October 7, the Jewish community moved as one, organising events, campaigns, vigils, fundraisers, you name it. In every city, across every time zone, Jewish people showed up for one another with a speed, solidarity, and sense of shared responsibility that took the world’s breath away.

We did not wait to be asked. We did not wait to see if it was convenient. We showed up because that is what we do. That is who we are.

Last month, Immanuel College, a beloved Jewish secondary school in London that has been part of the fabric of British Jewish life for 35 years, announced it was closing. Funding had run out, financial pressures had become unsustainable, hundreds of families were scrambling for school places, and children were facing GCSE exams with no school to attend . It was devastating.

A small group of parents refused to accept it. They picked up the phone and reached out to donors, foundations, and eventually rabbinical leaders who flew in from the United States to help. They fielded an overwhelming wave of calls and donations for nine days straight.

In ten days, the school was saved.

One of the parents said afterwards: “What the community has achieved in ten days and the support from around the world is testament to the strength of the Jewish people. From all walks of life, from tiny amounts to large amounts, the school has not only been saved but will now flourish for generations.”

That is not a community defined by its enemies. That is a community defined by its love for itself.

Then there is the story of Hatzola.

In April this year, four ambulances belonging to the Jewish volunteer emergency service were deliberately set on fire in Golders Green, north London, in what police investigated as an antisemitic hate crime. Vehicles used by Jewish volunteers to save lives ( regardless of faith) were burned to the ground.

Within 24 hours, the Jewish community had raised £1 million in donations.

That is not a community broken by hatred. That is a community that meets hatred with love, with action, with an absolute refusal to be diminished. We don’t wait to be saved. We save each other.

This is also who we are

Landing in Israel does something to you that is almost impossible to describe. The ground feels different. The air feels different. A connection to something ancient and alive rises up to meet you… to every generation that prayed to return to this land, every person who built something on it, every family that calls it home.

And the resilience of Israelis is unlike anything I have witnessed anywhere else on earth — a mental toughness forged by history, by faith, by an unshakeable determination to keep living fully even when the world makes that extraordinarily hard.

That is the Jewish story.

When I meet another Jewish person for the first time — anywhere in the world — something happens before a single word is spoken. A recognition. A connection. A sense of belonging. We share something that transcends geography, language, even level of observance. We are one people, and we feel it in our bones.

That is the Jewish story.

When my daughter’s bat mitzvah class gathered, and the mothers and daughters danced together to Israeli music — laughing, completely unselfconscious — I felt something ancient and joyful unfolding in real time. L’dor v’dor. Generation to generation. The same dances. The same songs. The same glorious feeling of letting go of everything the outside world asks of you and simply being — freely, fully, joyfully — Jewish.

That is the Jewish story.

When we sit down together at Rosh Hashanah, on Seder night, or around the Friday night table — with old family and new friends, and somehow always room for one more — the evening stretches long, the food keeps coming, the conversation flows, and there is that unmistakable feeling: unbridled Jewish joy.

That is the Jewish story too.

And we get to decide what that story looks like.

We do not have to hand them the pen

There will always be people who want to define us by our suffering. And there will always be moments where we cannot look away from the darkness that still follows us.

But we do not have to hand them the pen.

The Jewish story is not a story of victimhood. It is a story of survival so extraordinary it borders on the miraculous. Of a people who have outlasted every empire that tried to erase them. Of a culture so rich, so warm, so full of wisdom and laughter and food and argument and love that it has been changing the world for three millennia.

So the next time you find yourself scrolling through a feed full of darkness, remember the school saved in ten days. Remember the ambulances replaced in a day. Remember the mothers and daughters dancing. Remember the stranger who wasn’t a stranger. Remember the feeling of Israeli soil under your feet. Remember the Rosh Hashanah table that always has room for one more.

That is our story.

And we are the ones who get to tell it.