OPEN SEASON AGAINST JEWS

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The devastating news out of Washington, DC, on Wednesday night was both shocking and heartbreaking. Two young Israeli Embassy staff members – Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim – were gunned down at point-blank range outside the Capital Jewish Museum.

They had just attended a peaceful event celebrating Jewish heritage and identity. As they exited the building, a gunman approached, drew a weapon, and murdered them in cold blood.

Yaron had recently purchased an engagement ring for Sarah. He was planning to propose in Jerusalem next week. But instead of celebrating their wedding, their families are now planning their funerals after they were slain on an American sidewalk—simply for the crime of being Jewish.

The killer, Elias Rodriguez of Chicago, calmly entered the building after the attack and handed himself over to police. As they handcuffed him, he chanted, “Free, Free Palestine,” and, chillingly, “There is only one solution—Intifada revolution.”

Let’s be clear: the first and second intifadas were violent Palestinian uprisings in Israel, marked by the systematic targeting of Jews—who were shot, bombed, stabbed, and rammed to death in cafés, buses, bus stops, markets, and on the street.

This is what Rodriguez was invoking. He wasn’t a lone madman acting on delusion. He is part of a global movement that defines itself through the language of “intifada.” He knew exactly what he was doing—but even more disturbingly, he believed it was just, even noble.

And make no mistake: he wasn’t targeting Israelis. He was targeting Jews.

Pro-Palestinian thought leaders desperately want us to believe there’s a difference. They insist their opposition is to Zionists, not Jews. That when activists chant “From the river to the sea,” it’s about national aspirations—not exterminationist ideology. That the masked agitators swarming campuses and city halls in keffiyehs are just politically engaged students, not thugs brimming with unfiltered hatred for Jews.

But after the murder of Yaron and Sarah in Washington, they’re running out of excuses. Because when people chant that Israel must cease to exist—and that anyone who supports Israel deserves to die—they obviously mean it. And now, clearly, they are willing to act on it.

This week, it was Washington, DC. Next week, it could be Beverly Hills, or Brooklyn, or Miami. Or London. Or Paris. In fact, it already has been all of those. The common thread is blindingly obvious: the targets are always Jewish.

And yet, remarkably, there are still those who defend this madness—academics who parse words, pundits who moralize from behind microphones, self-appointed progressive ethicists who churn out free-speech justifications and convoluted evasions faster than the victims’ bodies can be removed from the crime scene.

“It’s complicated,” they say. “Context matters.” “Don’t conflate criticism of Israel with antisemitism.” But let’s not kid ourselves. Anyone still insisting that antisemitic violence, disguised as anti-Israel activism, is just a misunderstood form of political expression has blood on their hands. It really is that simple.

In this week’s Torah portion, Bechukotai, we read a long and difficult section known as the tochacha—a harrowing list of consequences that will befall the Jewish people if we forsake our covenant with God. The passage is devastating: famine, starvation, defeat, humiliation, exile, fear. It paints a portrait of a world turned upside down—where Jew-hating enemies roam freely, Jewish life is cheap, and our dignity is trampled underfoot.

One line from the passage leaps out with chilling clarity (Lev. 26:17): “Those who hate you will rule over you, and you will flee though no one pursues you.”

Truthfully, it’s starting to feel like that. No Jewish event takes place without security. We live with fear of real threats and anxiety over imagined ones. It’s become a world where those who hate us seem to have gained the upper hand. Mobs chant for our destruction in broad daylight, and public institutions still debate whether these chants even qualify as hate speech. And now, two Jews can be murdered in the heart of America’s capital—and while it’s shocking, it is no longer surprising.

What’s striking, though, is that the parsha doesn’t begin with curses—it starts with promise: אִם בְּחֻקֹּתַי תֵּלֵכוּ (Lev. 26:3). “If you walk in My statutes,” then God’s blessings will surround you from every side. The key word is teileichu—to walk. Not to sit, not to wait, not to retreat.

To walk is to move forward, to stand tall, to keep going. The Torah’s message is clear: if you face the world with your head held high, with clarity, with courage, and with a deep commitment to who you are—then no matter what challenges come your way, you will be blessed. If we remain rooted in our identity, if we refuse to let fear or pressure compromise our values or our mission, then no hurdle will be too high and no distance too far.

It’s only when we compromise—when we stop standing tall, when we dilute the truth, when we choose comfort over conviction and convenience over heritage—that the protection which flows from moral clarity begins to fade. And into that vacuum come the haters, the chaos-makers, and the murderers.

The answer to the current surge in Jew-hatred and Judeophobia is threefold. First: clarity. The man who pulled the trigger wasn’t randomly attacking two innocent people—he was sending a message to every Jew: you are not safe. And to that, we must respond with moral ferocity. Not fear. Not appeasement. Not nuance. Ferocity.

Second: unity. The Jewish people cannot afford the luxury of internal fracture right now. Left, right, secular, religious, Zionist, anti-Zionist—none of that matters when we are all targets. We either stand together, or we collapse and fall.

And finally, faith. Because Bechukotai doesn’t end with the curses. It ends with a promise (Lev. 26:45): “I will remember My covenant with them… to be their God—I am God.” A remarkable statement that is not an empty platitude. On the contrary, it’s a guarantee, reminding us that we’ve been here before. We’ve been hated, we’ve been hunted, and we’ve been massacred. Not once, but many times. And yet the Jewish people always endures. Because that’s God’s promise, and He always keeps His word.

The couple murdered in Washington this week will never get to build a life together. But their memory must build something for us and within us: the courage to stand tall, the strength to speak truth, and the resolve to relentlessly fight back against the evil that masquerades as virtue. That’s the real lesson of Bechukotai: things may seem bleak—they may even be genuinely hard—but we can endure and get through it, because God is with us. Always.