She’s 13. She’s Jewish. And This Is What Found Her

I was very prepared.

Not just professionally—as Executive Director of an organisation dedicated to fighting antisemitism and supporting Israel—but personally. This work is not a job; it’s my story. My family history, my identity, my tradition. It’s why I get up every morning. I’ve lived it. I’ve taught it. And I’ve spent years preparing young people—students, parents, educators—for the reality of antisemitism in our world.

But when my 13-year-old daughter forwarded me a number of posts she’d seen on Instagram—accusing Israel of genocide, twisting history into propaganda, and riddled with the same tired antisemitic tropes—I was shaken.

Not because I didn’t know what I was looking at. I did. I’ve seen worse. I’ve dismantled these lies a thousand times. But this time, it didn’t come from a student in one of our programmes. It wasn’t shared by a parent in the community. It was my daughter.

And while it didn’t change everything—I’ve always known why I do this work—it reminded me, in the strongest and most personal way, just how close this fight truly is.

Hate didn’t arrive with noise or warning. It slipped into her world—quietly, casually—through a post, a share, a few words posing as activism. Not in a dramatic moment, but in the normal rhythm of her day. And there it was: something vile, something heavy, suddenly sitting in front of her.

And it hurt. Because I’ve spent years preparing others for this exact moment. But when it reached someone I love more than anything in the world—my own young daughter—I felt, just for a moment, helpless. Because I had no way of stopping the flow of hate from reaching her

This wasn’t new for me. I grew up with antisemitism. At the same age my daughter is now, I remember being called maudit Juif—“damned Jew”—as a child in Canada. I remember coins thrown at me, muttered slurs in corridors or on the baseball field. It was cruel. But it was visible. You knew where the hate was coming from. You could name it, confront it—you could literally fight it. There was pain, but there was also clarity. You saw the line, and you knew which side you were on.

Today, it’s different. More slippery. More insidious. It comes disguised as virtue. It wraps itself in hashtags and soundbites, then uses them to bludgeon Jewish identity. It spreads not with raised fists, but with reposts and retweets. And our kids—our bright, kind, curious kids—are right in the blast zone.

The shared experience of young Jews today isn’t just being Jewish. It’s being made to justify it. To defend it. To wonder whether showing pride will cost them socially, academically, emotionally. They carry this burden quietly—many too tired, too afraid, or too confused to even talk about it.

And that’s what struck me most. Not just the posts, but how normal she found them. There was no panic in her voice—just calm curiosity, as if this kind of hatred was simply part of the background noise of being a Jewish teenager today. I was shocked because she wasn’t. And in that moment, I realised how far this poison has spread—how routine, how expected, it’s become for our kids to see themselves and their people vilified in their feeds.

So how do we respond, when even preparation doesn’t feel like enough?

First, we don’t retreat. We move through that sense of futility, and we meet our children where they are. Not just with policies or programmes—but with presence. With strength. With truth. With love.

We must teach them not only how to recognise lies—but how to hold their heads high despite them. That their Jewish identity isn’t something to explain away, but something to live with pride.

We need to give them more than facts. We need to give them spiritual resilience—a deep sense of who they are, where they come from, and what they belong to. We need to surround them with stories of strength and survival, not just suffering. We need to light candles with them, sing the songs, say the blessings, share the legacy. That, too, is resistance.

And we need to show them that being part of this people—this ancient, enduring, beautifully stubborn people—is a privilege, not a problem.

That’s where the power is. Not in shouting louder—but in building something unshakable inside them.

My daughter is strong. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. She didn’t turn away. But I carry that moment with me—not as defeat, but as fuel. Because if it reached her, it’s reaching others.

And we have a responsibility—to her and to every Jewish child—not just to protect them, but to empower them.

Hate may travel faster now. But so can we.

And with courage, clarity, and pride—we will.

Michael Gencher is Executive Director, StandWithUs Australia