In the aftermath of October 7, language itself began to falter. At first, many of us lacked adequate words to describe the horror of the events or the intensity of our responses to them. Terms that once offered comfort or cohesion suddenly felt fragile, divisive, or even dangerous. Words like “hostage,” “genocide” and “betrayal” began to fracture under the pressure of new pairings and contested meanings, while familiar phrases such as “solidarity,” “safety” or “never again” no longer carried shared resonance. Instead, they became contested terrain, provoking confusion, trauma or defensiveness depending on who invoked them and in what context.
This rupture in language is not confined to the realm of political debate; it reverberates across classrooms, congregations, camps and family tables. For Jewish educators, clergy and communal leaders—those tasked with fostering meaning, coherence and resilience in the midst of collective trauma and global polarization—the breakdown of shared vocabulary poses a profound challenge. Conversations that once might have served as sources of connection or moral clarity now risk deepening fractures. Yet silence, while often perceived as the safer choice, carries its own cost: It can erode trust, perpetuate isolation, and leave communities without the frameworks they very much need to navigate this moment.
In the face of this unraveling, many educators began to ask: When our common vocabulary no longer holds, what possibilities—and responsibilities—emerge for those tasked with teaching, guiding and shaping meaning?
In response, over the past year, our organization convened hundreds of educators and community professionals across the United States and Israel, inviting them to identify the words that no longer served them—terms that had become charged, emptied, painful or unsafe—and to articulate the new shared language they were reaching for. One of the early inspirations for this work was Rabbi Angela Buchdahl’s Oct. 13 sermon at Central Synagogue in Manhattan, delivered just days after the attack. “There are no words,” she said—naming both the collapse of language in the face of horror and the danger of silence. Her framing helped crystallize a core question that would guide our inquiry: When language breaks, what might help rebuild it?
The responses were both sobering and illuminating. Again and again, participants testified to a profound instability: Language itself no longer felt like a trustworthy vessel. Yet, embedded in their reflections was also a measure of hope: that with care, honesty and sustained reflection, words might once again become capacious enough to bear meaning, connection and even renewal.
From this expanding body of responses, five core insights have emerged—offering educators, leaders, and all who engage in Jewish life new ways to consider how we might speak, and how we might listen with greater clarity, nuance and compassion.
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Fractured Semantics: When Words Stop Holding Shared Meaning
Language is inherently social, but in polarized times, meanings fracture. A single word can now mean radically different things to different people. For example, in our survey, the word “Zionism” often appeared simultaneously as a source of pride and as a trigger for division. “Peace” and “justice” were also cited repeatedly as words that once felt aspirational and grounding, but now felt politicized or co-opted.
Educators reported feeling hesitant to use terms they had relied on for years. Even foundational concepts like “Jewish values” were called into question—not because the values changed, but because the words used to describe them no longer felt shared.
The takeaway: We can no longer assume common definitions. As educators and leaders, we must cultivate the discipline of semantic humility—slowing down to ask not only “What does this word mean to me?” but also “What does it mean to the person before me, and what histories and experiences shape their hearing of it?”
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Linguistic Rupture: When Trauma Overwhelms Language
Words can serve as tools for healing, but under the weight of trauma they often collapse. In the aftermath of Oct. 7, familiar terms such as “safe,” “home,” and “normal” surfaced not as sources of comfort but as painful reminders of what had been lost. In our Israeli sessions, the phrase “Simchat Torah” appeared again and again—not as the name of a Jewish holiday, but as a symbol of devastation, permanently reframed by the events that happened on that day in 2023.
Jewish tradition both illuminates and complicates this reality. We are a people who name our collective ruptures by date—Tisha B’Av, 17 Tammuz, and now, inevitably, October 7. Yet unlike those historical tragedies, this one is still unfolding. Educators are being asked to respond in real time, to give words to grief even as its contours remain unfinished.
The takeaway: Trauma demands linguistic patience. In moments when words collapse, our task is not to supply ready-made scripts but to hold space for silence, presence, and the slow work of meaning-making. Words will return, but only if we honor the time it takes for language to become trustworthy again.
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Polarized Language: When Words Turn Into Fault Lines
The most emotionally charged words in our data—”genocide,” “colonizer,” “resistance”—came up frequently in North American settings, especially on college campuses. For some participants, these words were invoked to name Jewish suffering; for others, they appeared primarily in accusations against Israel. In both cases, the terms functioned less as descriptors and more as weapons, sparking confrontation and defensiveness.
Yet, the fracture extends beyond overtly political vocabulary. Words like “ally,” “activist” and “dialogue”—once embraced as markers of inclusion and shared purpose —now trigger suspicion, mistrust or even hostility. The same word that signals solidarity to one audience can now feel like betrayal to another. This collapse of shared language reflects a deeper fragmentation: the erosion of shared moral and ethical frameworks. These fractures are not limited to public discourse—they’re playing out around family tables, too. Across North America, we heard stories where conversations about Israel and Gaza led to pain, silence and estrangement within families.
Words are never neutral; they arrive carrying histories, affiliations, and wounds.
The takeaway: Polarization demands stewardship of language. Words are never neutral; they arrive carrying histories, affiliations, and wounds. Educators and leaders must take responsibility for how language is used—acknowledging its multiple meanings, surfacing its risks, and creating conditions where even contested terms can be engaged without collapsing the conversation itself. The same practices that can sustain classrooms and communities—slowing down, asking with curiosity, listening for nuance—can also help families begin to reopen channels of empathy and rebuild trust across divides.
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The Weight of Silence: When Not Speaking Becomes Its Own Message
Faced with these complexities, many educators described retreating into silence. When the risk of being misunderstood feels high, when every word can be scrutinized or weaponized, staying quiet often feels like the safest refuge.
Yet silence is never neutral. It can signal distance, abandonment or fear. One educator in our survey shared the difficulty of not knowing how to talk about the hostages taken to Gaza on Oct. 7 in an interfaith setting, worried any comment would be judged as political. Another avoided discussing Israel at all in her classroom, despite students’ clear need to process. In both cases, the absence of words created a vacuum where trust, connection and meaning could have been built.
The takeaway: Silence may feel like protection, but in reality it holds us back. It can fracture relationships, erode trust and leave meaning unspoken. What this moment demands is communicative courage: the willingness to risk imperfect words, spoken with honesty and humility, so that connection and trust can grow where silence would otherwise prevail.
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Responsibility: We All Have a Role in Naming This Moment
In times of rupture, the words we choose (or avoid) shape not only what gets said, but also who feels seen, heard and held. When educators, rabbis and communal professionals name the words that feel broken and reach for language that better reflects this moment, they’re not merely facilitating dialogue—they’re helping rebuild the moral fabric of our communities.
This responsibility isn’t about finding the “right” words. It’s about showing up with humility, curiosity and care— recognizing that a single word can carry different meanings for different people, shaped by history, identity and lived experience. Notably, the terms that surfaced most powerfully in our sessions—“grief,” “holding,” “presence”—didn’t resolve tension or offer certainty. Instead, they emphasized depth over performance, meaning over messaging.
The takeaway: Rebuilding a lexicon requires communal responsibility. Language is not only descriptive; it actively shapes our relationships. The task before us is to choose words that open rather than close, that invite rather than exclude, and that help reweave trust across fractured communities. This is not work for educators alone, but a shared obligation we must carry together as a people.
What Comes Next Is Ours to Name
A new lexicon doesn’t mean abandoning the old one. It means acknowledging the rupture—and still choosing to speak. It means holding the tension between the language we inherited and the language we now need. Some words will remain. Others must be reimagined. Still others have yet to be found.
In See Under: Love, Israeli novelist David Grossman writes of a child who creates an imaginary encyclopedia to make sense of the Holocaust—because no one around him could speak the words. We are in a similar moment. And like that child, we are not starting from scratch. We are starting from silence, from rupture, and from the fragments of meaning we still carry.
This emerging lexicon is not just a tool for educators. It’s a collective act of responsibility—an expression of Jewish peoplehood, resilience, and care. It’s an invitation to each of us, wherever we sit in the community, to name what feels broken, to notice what still holds, and to begin reaching for words that can carry us forward.
We know this is not simple work. Language lives in the hearts, histories and identities of those who use it, and the same word can hold entirely different meanings for different people. Building a shared lexicon will take time, patience, and humility. But even beginning the work, together, is a step toward rebuilding trust and deepening connection.
If you’re wondering where to begin, maybe start here: What words feel broken for you? Which ones are you clinging to? And what new words might help you teach, lead, or love in this moment?
Shuki Taylor is Founder & CEO of M²: The Institute for Experiential Jewish Education (M²), and Shlomit Naim Naor is Program Director at M².
