October 6, 2025

For the last several months, I have written and spoken regularly about the rise of authoritarianism in the United States. This is not something I ever envisioned for myself — and it is certainly not something my ancestors envisioned for their great grandchildren.

My family, like many others, fled to this country to escape oppression. They came to the United States because the Czarist regime had confined Jews to a particular area of their empire — the Pale of Settlement. Consisting of modern-day Belarus and Moldova, and parts of Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia, and Ukraine, it was the only place Jews could legally live under Czarist rule for more than a century.

Life in the Pale was difficult under the best of circumstances. But in the second half of the nineteenth century, violent pogroms made it too dangerous to stay.

Like many who fled the Czars, my family came to the United States and prospered. Those who stayed faced oppression and death — first at the hands of the Russians, then the Nazis. The few who remained after the Holocaust were later persecuted by Stalin and the Soviet Union.

Growing up, like most Jews of my generation, we were exposed to the history and literature of the Holocaust. Never again and never forget were our slogans. Importantly, we were taught that this not only means never again for Jews, but never again for anyone. 

We heard Elie Wiesel’s admonition that “Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere.” We memorized the poem by the former Nazi-supporting Lutheran minister, Martin Niemöller:

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.

Most importantly, we absorbed every single word of The Diary of Anne Frank. In fact, regardless of religion, most Americans’ first exposure to that period comes from the diary of the Dutch teenager who was hiding from the Nazis in a store attic. Young, innocent, and vibrant, her prose reaches across religion, politics, and ideology.

But now, I find myself questioning whether we ever truly learned its central lesson. As I witness the rapid deterioration of basic human rights in the country my ancestors once saw as their salvation, I am saddened by the broken promise of hope and at a loss for where we went so wrong.   

In one of her diary entries from Jan. 13, 1943, the 13-year-old Frank writes:

Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. They’re allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, they’re robbed of these possessions on the way. Families are torn apart; men, women, and children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their parents have disappeared. Women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their families gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared.

We are not living in the 1940s. The U.S. military and federal law enforcement are not Nazis. Donald Trump is not Adolf Hitler. Direct historical comparisons rarely do justice to the dead or the living. But they can tell us something about human nature — about the ordinary citizen living in extraordinary times.

Terrible things are happening today. Poor, helpless people are being dragged out of their homes at night. Children are coming home only to find their parents have disappeared. Women are learning that their families are gone. Most importantly, everyone is scared.

Yet, in this fear, we seem to have learned very little from history. Like Niemöller, we are prepared to ignore the plight of others as long as it does not impact us.

We are not immigrants, so we do not speak out. We were born in this country, so we say nothing. We do not live in Portland or Chicago, so we stay silent.

Wiesel taught us that “We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

Did we not listen? Do we not care? Or, as Anne Frank suggests, is everyone just too scared?

I will be the first to admit: I am scared. I am scared of what Trump is doing to our country, our communities, and our neighbors. I am scared that his weaponized justice system will eventually come for me. I am scared that the rule of law and the Constitution are not strong enough to withstand his malevolence.

But just because I am scared does not mean I am helpless. I will not let that fear drive me to hide or stay silent. I will not allow myself to remain mute until the last line of Niemöller’s poem. Instead, I will stand up and speak out — and, even more importantly, I will encourage others to do the same.

I am not so naïve as to think that my actions alone will change anything. Even collectively, there is only so much we can do to stop a democratically elected president —with the support of a Congress he controls — from destroying our country. But I will try.

In his original 1958 manuscript, Elie Wiesel concluded his book Night with this note of despair:

I am not so naïve as to believe that this slim volume will change the course of history or shake the conscience of the world. Books no longer have the power they once did. Those who kept silent yesterday will remain silent tomorrow.

I refuse to let hopelessness prevail. This may just be one essay, by a lawyer few have heard of, in a newsletter read by a fraction of the public. But I will not stay silent.

Will you?