Jewish Americans and supporters of Israel gather at the National Mall in Washington, DC on Nov. 14, 2023 for the “March for Israel” rally. Photo: Dion J. Pierre/The Algemeiner

Every generation asks itself the same question: What would I have done? Would I have spoken up? Would I have challenged the lie before it became accepted as truth? Would I have defended my neighbor, even if it came at a personal cost?

We usually ask those questions about the past, safely removed from history’s defining moments. The uncomfortable reality is that history is not simply something we inherit. It is something we create. And every generation is tested not only by the hatred it encounters, but by the courage — or lack thereof — with which ordinary people choose to confront it.

The alarming rise in antisemitism across the United States and much of the world has prompted countless discussions about where this hatred comes from. We point to extremist ideologies, political polarization, social media algorithms, foreign influence campaigns, and terrorist propaganda. All of those factors matter. But I have become convinced that we are overlooking something even more consequential.

The greatest threat is not that hatred exists. Hatred has always existed.

The greater danger is that too many decent people have become uncomfortable confronting it.

As a journalist, filmmaker, and advocate, my work has taken me into television studios, government offices, universities, houses of worship, and communities wrestling with some of the most difficult questions of our time.

Between broadcast news commentary, weekly published writing, and years spent in political advocacy meetings, policy discussions, and governmental affairs and strategic communications work, I’ve had a front-row seat to how both leaders and ordinary citizens actually respond when hatred tests them.

I’ve interviewed survivors of terrorism and Holocaust survivors. I’ve stood at sites of unimaginable tragedy. I’ve also had the privilege of working alongside Christian pastors, rabbis, Muslim reformers, Hindu leaders, diplomats, educators, and civic organizations that refuse to let extremism define either faith or public life.

One observation continues to surface, regardless of geography or politics. Most people are not motivated by hate. They are motivated by fear.

They fear saying the wrong thing. They fear social isolation. They fear criticism from their own political tribe. They fear becoming the target of online outrage or professional retaliation. They convince themselves that someone else — someone with more influence, more expertise, or a larger platform — will say what needs to be said.

Extremists understand this dynamic remarkably well. They do not need to persuade a majority of society. They only need to create enough intimidation that everyone else begins speaking in whispers. Hatred rarely becomes dominant because it wins every argument. It becomes influential when principled people gradually stop making theirs.

Some will object that this puts the emphasis in the wrong place — that hatred, not hesitation, is the thing we should be fighting. I don’t disagree that hatred is the fuel. But silence is the oxygen. You cannot extinguish a fire by arguing with the fuel alone. Every act of mass violence in modern history was preceded not by universal agreement with the hatred behind it, but by a critical mass of people who knew better and said nothing. That is the mechanism worth naming, because it is the one we can actually do something about. We cannot legislate away hatred in someone else’s heart. We can absolutely decide, each of us, not to be silent.

Growing up as the grandson of Holocaust survivors and heroes, history was never an abstract subject discussed only in classrooms. It was personal. It was carried in family stories, in memories of loss and resilience, and in the understanding that civilization rarely collapses overnight. Democracies do not suddenly abandon their principles in a single dramatic moment. They erode gradually, through small compromises that seem insignificant when viewed in isolation but become devastating when accumulated over time.

Having survived acts of violence and terrorism myself, I have learned that violence rarely begins with violence. By the time blood is shed, something quieter has already taken place. Reality has been distorted. Lies have been repeated often enough to sound familiar. Double standards have become acceptable. Human beings have been reduced to symbols rather than recognized as individuals deserving of dignity. Violence begins with permission. Permission begins with silence.

This is why antisemitism has never been solely a Jewish issue. It is one of society’s earliest warning signs that something far larger is unraveling. History repeatedly demonstrates that when a culture grows comfortable blaming Jews for its frustrations, it is also becoming more comfortable with conspiracy over evidence, tribalism over citizenship, and ideology over truth. Jews are often the first target, but they are almost never the final one.

This responsibility does not rest solely with elected officials or law enforcement. It belongs equally to religious leaders, journalists, educators, artists, parents, business leaders, and every citizen who influences the moral culture around them. Whether we realize it or not, each of us teaches others what we are willing to tolerate. Every time we excuse hatred because it comes from someone on “our side,” remain silent because speaking feels inconvenient, or rationalize extremism because confronting it may carry social consequences, we quietly lower the standards that hold democratic societies together.

Too often we imagine courage as something extraordinary—a speech that changes history or a dramatic act of sacrifice. My experience has taught me that courage is usually much less theatrical. It is correcting misinformation when remaining silent would be easier. It is defending someone who is not in the room. It is refusing to apply different moral standards depending on who committed the offense. It is telling uncomfortable truths before they become popular. Genuine courage is rarely loud, but it is always contagious.

In years of interfaith and interethnic work — building relationships between Jewish and Christian communities, sitting with Muslim reformers, and standing alongside Hindu, Sikh, and secular civic leaders in rooms where policy and faith intersect — I have watched this kind of courage show up again and again, often quietly, from people with far less to gain from speaking than the moment demanded.

We often hear that the opposite of hate is love. Love certainly matters. But in moments like these, I believe the more urgent opposite of hate is courage. Love is a sentiment. Courage is a decision.

One day, future generations will study this period just as we study those that came before us. They will ask how hatred became so normalized in societies that considered themselves educated, tolerant, and democratic. They will wonder why institutions hesitated to confront obvious falsehoods, why so many leaders chose ambiguity over moral clarity, and why so many ordinary people waited for someone else to speak first.

I hope our answer will not be that we recognized what was happening but lacked the courage to confront it. Because history is not written only by those who spread hatred. It is also written by those who saw it coming and decided someone else would.

Yuval David is an Emmy Award–winning journalist, filmmaker, and actor. An internationally recognized advocate for Jewish and LGBT rights, he is a strategic advisor to diplomatic missions and NGOs, and a contributor to global news outlets in broadcast and print news. He focuses on combating antisemitism, extremism, and promoting democratic values and human dignity. Learn more at YuvalDavid.com, instagram.com/Yuval_David_, x.com/yuvaldavid, youtube.com/yuvaldavid, and across social media.