I was born in New York City. Over the years, I may have changed zip codes, my name, and even my religious identity; I have always identified as a bagel-and-lox New York Jew, a mix of sarcasm, idealism, and chutzpah wrapped around a huge heart.
This last mayoral election didn’t feel like a slap in the face. It felt like a punch; another layer of betrayal on top of the grief, exhaustion, and disillusionment of the past two years. I don’t have to tell you about the Jewish influence on this city. Our art, values, humor, philanthropy, and activism helped shape New York itself. To me, the city has always represented diversity and resilience, much like being Jewish does.
I’ve lived through New York’s hardest days, seen it broken and come back stronger. I remember the unity of the day after the attack on September 11, 2001, when strangers looked out for one another. Which is why watching the city lose its moral footing is so painful.
Mamdani's insults to New Yorkers
New York is home to the second-largest Jewish population in the world, outside of Israel. What happens here matters far beyond its borders. When the city that has always symbolized coexistence elects a young, charismatic leader who refuses to condemn slogans like “Globalize the Intifada,” it isn’t just politics: It’s emotional. It is an insult to those who lost their lives and to those who barely survived 9/11. And it should have sounded to every Jewish New Yorker as sharp and urgent as the blast of a shofar, a wake-up call that we are not immune to what generations before us faced.
Then came his claim that the New York Police Department’s behavior was “laced by the IDF.” That is not social commentary; it is indoctrination, repetition, turning accusation into conviction. My work on propaganda and identity shows how the brain learns to accept distortion. When ideas are repeated inside echo chambers, they activate reward pathways that make certainty feel safer than truth, so that people stop questioning.
It’s also impossible to ignore that some of those cheering him on are Jews themselves. That, too, is part of the story. Indoctrination doesn’t only come from outside; it seeps in quietly, shaping how we see ourselves. When Jewish voters start to believe that standing with their own people is something to apologize for, that is not progress: That is a form of trauma. It’s what happens when centuries of conditional belonging teach us that the safest way to survive is to shrink.
Yet fear disguised as virtue will never protect us. The work ahead isn’t about shame or blame. It’s about waking up and reclaiming the courage to see clearly, to name what’s happening, and to stand without apology for who we are.
The anti-Zionist cult
Anti-Zionism has taken on cult-like characteristics. It offers a sense of moral belonging through shared outrage, feeding on emotion rather than evidence. It divides Jews into the “good ones” and the “bad ones,” rewarding those who distance themselves from their people while punishing anyone who refuses to disavow.
Anti-Zionism is not a political position. It is a hate movement that has learned to cloak itself in the language of justice. The longer we treat it as a difference of perspective, the more we enable its spread.
Hearing these ideas echoed from public platforms reopens generations of inherited fear. It is not only anger or sadness: It is the tightening in the chest, the instinct to measure our words and shrink our visibility. It is the realization that no matter how integrated we are, safety can still turn conditional overnight. We no longer have the privilege of staying silent.
Courage is not the absence of fear: It’s the choice to act with integrity despite it. Psychologically, it is the ability to hold discomfort without losing direction; spiritually, it is faith in motion. As our sages taught: “A little light pushes away a lot of darkness.” Courage is that first small light, the one we kindle before the oil is proven to last.
Building courage
We build courage through education, conversation, and moral clarity. We teach our children how to think, not what to think. We remind our colleagues and students that empathy without boundaries becomes manipulation. We strengthen one another by replacing silence with curiosity and confusion with critical thought, learning to disagree without dehumanizing and to debate without dividing.
We are living in a time of moral disorientation, but the answer is not despair: It is discernment. Our survival has always depended on our ability to unite intellect, spirit, and courage.
So yes, this moment hurts. It hurts to watch indoctrination masquerade as virtue. It hurts to see the city I love lose its moral compass. The Jewish story has never ended with pain – it always turns toward rebuilding.
Because even in confusion, even in betrayal, the world is still in God’s hands. That means there is always reason to hope, more work to do, and always another light to kindle.
The writer is a licensed clinical social worker and a psychotherapist in private practice in New Jersey and New York, specializing in trauma, relationships, and Jewish cultural competence. For more information: www.malkashaw.com.