This weekend’s attacks have pushed me past the edges of what words can easily hold. A Hanukkah celebration on the sand in Bondi, Australia, and a university classroom at Brown—two places that should be safe, joyful, ordinary—became scenes of horror, bound together by antisemitism and gunfire. As a school nurse, a public health advocate, a grandparent, and a Jewish woman, my personal and professional worlds are colliding in a way that feels unbearable.
Hate does not stay contained, and violence does not announce itself politely. The massacre at a Jewish holiday gathering in Australia comes amid a documented global surge in antisemitism that has made Jewish communities targets simply for gathering, praying, and celebrating. The shooting at Brown University is not an aberration either, but part of an unending pattern of campus and community gun violence that has turned spaces of learning into places of fear.
All of this is unfolding as we mark another December 14—the anniversary of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, where 20 children and six educators were murdered in their classrooms in 2012. From elementary schools to universities, from American towns to a beach in Sydney, the throughline is devastatingly clear: we continue to fail at the most basic obligation of public health—to keep people safe from preventable, hate-fueled violence.
These are not separate crises. The same forces that drive antisemitism—dehumanization, disinformation, and the normalization of hate—also sustain a culture where firearms are easy to access, and human life is treated as expendable. As a nurse, this pattern is painfully familiar: when systems tolerate harm, the most vulnerable pay first.
There are no tidy words or easy answers. There is grief, anger, and, for many of us, a fierce clarity. I am holding the families in Sydney and Providence, and the Sandy Hook community that is forced to relive its trauma every December. I am holding the students who will never return to those classrooms, and the children who will now associate a holiday meant for light with terror instead of joy. And I am holding fast to this truth: bearing witness is part of the work. Naming antisemitism and gun violence as public health and human rights emergencies is how we refuse to normalize the unacceptable.
Grief calls us to choose—not only what we feel, but what we do next.
What we must do next
Being relentless means refusing to stop at grief.
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Call antisemitism what it is: a growing, deadly threat that demands accountability, not euphemisms.
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Support evidence-based gun violence prevention policies, including secure storage laws, extreme risk protection orders, and limits on access to weapons designed for mass harm.
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Protect schools and campuses as health and learning environments, not battlegrounds—by funding prevention, mental health supports, and public health infrastructure.
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Show up for Jewish communities, for students, and for families impacted by gun violence—not only in moments of tragedy, but in sustained action.
If you are reading this and feeling the same collision of grief and fury, you are not alone. There is room here for mourning and resolve—for lighting candles, standing with our Jewish neighbors and campus communities, honoring Sandy Hook families, and insisting that policymakers choose life over ideology. This hurts. This is wrong. And I will keep doing the work—however small it feels on days like this—because our children and communities deserve to gather, learn, and celebrate without fear. That is not radical. That is the baseline.
