September 30, 2026

Sometimes heroism announces itself with trumpets. Sometimes it happens at 33,000 feet, in a matter of seconds, when ordinary people realize that unless they act immediately, they and everyone around them may die.

On Wednesday, passengers aboard a flydubai flight from Dubai to Tel Aviv experienced a nightmare almost beyond comprehension. The co-pilot attacked and stabbed the captain, Indian national Smit Machchhar, and the Boeing 737 plunged dramatically before passengers and crew managed to regain control. The aircraft ultimately made an emergency landing in Tabuk, Saudi Arabia. Investigators have not yet publicly established the attacker’s motive.

But whatever investigators ultimately determine about motive, we already know something about courage.

Four men whose names deserve to be known — Yaniv Hayoun, Asaf Rejwan, Dr. Shota Musayev, and Tzvika Manes — were among those who confronted an unfolding catastrophe rather than waiting helplessly for someone else to save them.

There are moments when history gives you no time to deliberate. You either run toward the danger or away from it.

Yaniv Hayoun ran toward it.

According to accounts from the aircraft, after passengers gained access to the cockpit and confronted the attacker, Hayoun found himself facing something no ordinary airline passenger ever imagines: an aircraft descending dangerously and controls that had to be dealt with immediately. He described grabbing the controls and pulling back before trained crew members took over.

Think about that.

No committee. No meeting. No preparation.

A human being sees mortal danger and acts.

Tzvika Manes likewise described a violent struggle to overpower the attacking co-pilot. This was not cinematic heroism. There were no stunt doubles and no guarantee of a happy ending. According to Manes, it took sustained physical force to subdue the man.

Then there was Dr. Shota Musayev, an Israeli dentist who suddenly had to become an emergency battlefield medic thousands of feet above the earth.

Musayev said he heard screaming and ran toward the cockpit almost immediately. He later explained that he initially went forward to help confront the attacker, not because he knew medical assistance would be required.

Once the attacker had been restrained, Musayev encountered the gravely wounded captain, bleeding heavily from his head. Musayev says he managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize the captain’s blood pressure.

One moment he was fighting to save an airplane. The next he was fighting to save a life.

And none of this should overshadow another extraordinary hero: Captain Smit Machchhar himself.

Reports indicate that despite being seriously wounded, Machchhar managed to facilitate access to the cockpit before collapsing, allowing others to intervene. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu publicly praised the Indian captain’s bravery.

He should be celebrated in Israel.

He should be celebrated in India.

He should be celebrated everywhere human courage is honored.

Captain Smit Machchhar was not born in Israel. But in the moment Israelis desperately needed him, he fought for their lives.

And there is something profoundly appropriate about this occurring as Jews prepare to celebrate Sukkot.

Sukkot is Judaism’s great festival of vulnerability.

For seven days we leave the illusion of permanence represented by our houses and enter a fragile hut. Its roof is deliberately porous. We can see the heavens through the schach. The Torah commands us to remember that security does not ultimately come from concrete ceilings, bank accounts or technological sophistication.

Human beings are vulnerable.

An airliner is one of the supreme symbols of modern technological mastery. Hundreds of thousands of components work together. Computers calculate trajectories. Pilots undergo years of training. Air-traffic controllers watch from the ground.

And yet, in seconds, the people aboard this aircraft discovered how fragile life remains.

Then something else happened.

Human courage answered human vulnerability.

That, too, is Sukkot.

The sukkah is fragile, but the people sitting inside it need not be.

Jewish history is filled with people who survived not because they were invulnerable but because, when danger arrived, somebody stood up.

The sukkah teaches that our shelter may be fragile. These men taught us that our courage must never be.

There is another remarkable dimension to this story.

Look at the geography and nationalities involved.

An Emirati airline.

An Indian captain.

Israeli passengers.

An emergency landing in Saudi Arabia.

A wounded Indian pilot receiving treatment after the aircraft landed on Saudi soil.

Whatever investigators ultimately establish about the attack itself, the rescue tells another story about the Middle East — one that deserves attention.

The region has known enough death.

Here was an extraordinary chain of people of different nationalities whose actions resulted in lives being saved.

There will be investigations, and there should be. Aviation authorities must determine exactly how this happened, whether warning signs were missed, what motivated the attacker, and whether security procedures for Israel-bound flights require revision. Those questions are urgent.

But investigation should not obscure gratitude.

We should know the names of people who run toward danger.

Yaniv Hayoun.

Asaf Rejwan.

Shota Musayev.

Tzvika Manes.

And Captain Smit Machchhar.

Their individual roles should continue to be documented carefully as investigators and eyewitnesses reconstruct precisely what occurred. But the larger truth is already unmistakable: when catastrophe threatened an aircraft carrying people toward Israel, human beings refused to remain spectators.

They acted.

And people lived.

As Jews enter our sukkot and look upward through their fragile roofs, perhaps we should think about an airplane high above the Middle East and the people aboard who suddenly discovered just how thin the barrier can be between life and death.

For those passengers, that barrier consisted of a wounded captain who kept fighting, courageous passengers who charged forward, medical assistance administered under terrifying conditions, and crew members who ultimately brought a damaged aircraft safely to earth.

Call it bravery.

Call it providence.

On the eve of Sukkot, I will also call it a miracle.

At 33,000 feet, a handful of human beings became the walls of a sukkah protecting everyone aboard.

And this Sukkot, Israel should say their names — and say thank you.

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Rabbi Shmuley Boteach is the international bestselling author of thirty-eight books, translated into more than twenty languages. He has been hailed as “the most famous rabbi in America” (The Washington Post, Newsweek), “arguably the most famous Orthodox Jew on earth” (The New York Observer), and named one of the fifty most influential Jews in the world (The Jerusalem Post).

There are moments in life when darkness feels overwhelming and threatens to become a new and sickening reality. For the Jewish people, October 7 was one of those horrific moments.

We will never forget where we were when we heard what had happened to Israel and our people. As we absorbed the savagery of the Hamas massacre, watched Jewish families being murdered in Hamas videos, learned of hostages being taken, including the elderly and babies, and witnessed the trauma inflicted on an entire country, another shocking international assault followed. Before Israel had even begun to bury its dead, a severe wave of antisemitism erupted across the globe.

We have seen where incitement and unchecked hatred can lead. In May of 2025, in Washington, D.C., Elias Rodriguez murdered Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim and shouted, “Free Palestine” as he was being arrested. In June of 2025, in Boulder, Colorado, Mohamed Soliman threw Molotov cocktails at a peaceful “Run for Their Lives” gathering while shouting “Free Palestine.” He injured 13 people, including 82-year-old Karen Diamond who later died from her wounds.  At a Chanukah celebration at Bondi Beach in December 2025, Sajid and Naveed Akram massacred 15 people and wounded more than 40 in an attack targeting the Jewish community. They were inspired by the Islamic State (ISIS) terrorist group and shouted “Allahu Akbar” during the massacre.

In Manchester, England in October of 2025, on Yom Kippur, Jihad Al-Shamie drove into people outside the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation synagogue and stabbed victims, killing two Jewish men and seriously wounding others. During the attack, Al-Shamie called emergency services, claimed responsibility, and pledged allegiance to ISIS.

Other mass-casualty attacks have been attempted as well. In Michigan, Ayman Mohamad Ghazali drove a truck through the doors of Temple Israel and nearly 200 feet down a hallway while 140 children were inside its early childhood center. The FBI later determined that he was inspired by Hezbollah, the terrorist group that occupies parts of Lebanon, attacks Israel from the north, and is funded by the Iranian regime. His truck contained commercial-grade fireworks and approximately 35 gallons of gasoline. Miraculously, no children or teachers were physically harmed.

These attacks are extreme manifestations of something Jews everywhere have been feeling: the oldest hatred has returned in a form that feels both familiar and newly emboldened. Our children and grandchildren are feeling it too. Jewish, Israeli and non-Jewish Zionist students have faced harassment and intimidation in schools and on campuses from peers, student groups and educators. Extremists tore down posters of kidnapped Israeli hostages. Demonstrations glorified or excused terrorism. Misinformation spread rapidly across social media, while important context was often missing from mainstream reporting.

That context includes the “ring of fire” surrounding Israel: Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis, Iran’s regime and other forces that have repeatedly attacked it. Too often, this broader threat against Israel is overlooked while disproportionate emphasis is placed on Israel’s military responses. Nor is sufficient concern given to Qatar’s enormous investment in the United States, a country that presents itself as neutral yet housed Hamas leaders, promotes extremism through media such as AJ+, and continues to buy influence in America.

Many Jews have felt abandoned by spaces and people they once trusted. Institutions that spoke constantly about diversity and inclusion too often seemed unable or unwilling to recognize antisemitism when Jews were its targets, while Jews were frequently left out of diversity and inclusion curricula altogether. Friendships have been tested. Jewish history has been distorted. Israel has been demonized.

Anti-Jewish hate crimes have risen dramatically since 2022, confirming what Jewish communities say they are experiencing. In 2022, the FBI recorded 1,122 anti-Jewish hate crimes. According to FBI data, anti-Jewish hate crimes jumped 63% in 2023 and rose again in 2024 to a record 1,938 incidents. Although that number declined to 1,528 in 2025, it was still the third-highest level ever recorded, with anti-Jewish incidents accounting for nearly two-thirds of all religious-based hate crimes in the United States.

Influential inflammatory voices like Hasan Piker have defended Hamas, minimized the sexual violence of October 7, and used rhetoric widely condemned as antisemitic, normalizing hostility toward Jews and Zionists among millions of young followers. The rise  of political figures amplifying similar hatred is reflected in New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani (a member of the Democratic Socialists of America) and the influence of Tucker Carlson on the right.

Jews have found themselves defending not only Israel, but their own Jewish identity and their right to grieve over what happened on and since October 7. Many are asking questions they never imagined they would have to ask: Is it safe to wear a Star of David? Should I tell people I am Jewish or Israeli? Can I openly say that I support Israel? Should I raise my hand when Jewish or Israeli perspectives are missing during lectures on campus? And some are asking an even more painful, yet predictable question: Is it time to leave the country I have loved and called home for generations?

History teaches us that hatred rarely stops with one group. Six million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust, while the Nazis and their collaborators also persecuted and murdered millions of others, including Roma, people with disabilities, Poles and other Slavs, Soviet prisoners of war, political opponents, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and gay men. Antisemitism also contributed to the Nazi decision to launch WWII, causing mass destruction around the world, including in Germany itself. When Jews are targeted and society looks away, everyone should begin to worry. As Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks said, “The hate that begins with Jews never ends with Jews.” Yet far too many are looking away.

That is the darkness we are confronting in our generation: antisemitism coming from multiple directions, including far-left, far-right, and Islamist extremism, conspiracy theories, the demonization of Israel, and institutions and individuals willing to excuse or normalize hatred against Jews and Zionists.

But darkness is not the entire story. Across Israel and in Jewish communities worldwide, people of all ages are meeting this moment with courage and leadership. I know this because I see it every day through our international work at StandWithUs. Students and community members who never imagined themselves as activists have become speakers and leaders. Teenagers and college students are learning history, correcting misinformation, organizing programs, meeting with administrators, speaking to journalists, representing Israel and the Jewish people at city council meetings, and standing proudly in the face of hatred.

In August 2026, I spoke to 500 very talented high school and college student leaders from across the United States and Canada—our incoming North American StandWithUs Emerson Campus Fellows and Kenneth Leventhal High School Interns. After five days of intensive training by experts in law, strategy, marketing, Israeli history, Middle East current events, and so much more, I told them that if they remembered only one lesson that came from me personally, it should be this: Build your base.

Find your community. Find the people who share your commitment to truth, fairness, Israel and the Jewish people. Build relationships before you need them. There is strength and safety in numbers. None of us can do this alone, and the good news is that we do not have to.

That lesson extends far beyond students. Jewish physicians, faculty, psychologists, parents, attorneys, educators, and community leaders are finding one another, sharing resources, and building networks capable of responding when institutions fail. There is tremendous power in refusing to be bullied and in deliberately strengthening community.

Another important source of hope is the law. Hundreds of attorneys and major law firms have heard the stories of Jewish students facing discrimination, employees being marginalized, and families struggling to get institutions to enforce their own rules, and they are stepping forward. Through the StandWithUs Saidoff Legal Department and other civil-rights organizations, people facing antisemitic discrimination can access attorneys willing to fight for them at no cost. Our legal experts are challenging institutions, changing policies, securing settlements, and establishing important precedents.

Antisemitism is intended to make Jews afraid. To make us quieter, less visible, and less connected to who we are. Yet for many, the opposite has happened. We have found our communities and are working together against hate, discrimination, and intimidation. Jewish identity is growing stronger.

And we are not alone. Courageous allies, including Christians, Hindus, Iranians, Muslim Zionists, educators, attorneys, civic leaders, students, and people from many other backgrounds, are standing beside the Jewish community because they understand that antisemitism will not remain only a Jewish problem.

October 7 changed the way Jews see the world. It confronted us with a darkness we never expected to see. But instead of retreating, so many of us have found our communities, discovered our voices, and stepped forward proudly to bring hope and light into that darkness.

I am proud and grateful to say this: While we cannot choose when darkness comes, each one of us can choose how we respond to it. While there is no shortage of bad actors and anti-Israel campaigns challenging us relentlessly, so many of us have chosen to stand tall. That is the light. And even a small light can shatter darkness, let alone the light we create when Jews and non-Jews speak and act with courage and resolve. Never forget that hope and resilience have always been at the core of our story, and now all of us now have an opportunity to write the next chapter together. Am Yisrael Chai.

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Roz Rothstein is the CEO and co-founder of StandWithUs.

The clip of Brad Lander went viral. The Democratic nominee for Congress in New York’s 10th District was shouted down and told to leave a protest on the sidewalk outside Madison Square Garden. As reported by the Jerusalem Post, protesters called him a paid Zionist and told him they didn’t need his help. The irony was hard to miss: Lander is Jewish, but has been a vocal critic of Israel. He had come to denounce the rally inside the Garden as “fascist and hateful” and compared it to the pro-Nazi rally held there in 1939. 

Then the label landed on him. The man who had come to condemn an ideology was reduced, by some of the protesters, to one of their own: “Zionist.” For some in the crowd, that single word was enough to make him, in their eyes, the wrong kind of person to be standing there. Whatever else he believed or had come to say no longer mattered. That is how labels work: they turn people into categories, and categories into targets.

Inside the Garden, the scene was a good deal less menacing than the one outside. About 5,000 people, many of them Hindu Americans, watched a cappella singers, dancers, and speakers from multiple faiths. I was among them, with a friend who is Hindu. I am Jewish. 

The keynote speaker was Mohan Bhagwat, head of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, or R.S.S. Reasonable people can disagree sharply about the R.S.S.’s record in India, and those arguments are worth having. But there is a difference between debating an organization’s conduct or history abroad and passing judgment on the people who gather to hear its leader.

The event was hosted by the American Hindus for Engagement and Dialogue, or AHEAD Forum, in partnership with more than 250 Hindu American organizations from across the United States. This is also the community whose temples keep getting vandalized. The F.B.I.’s most recent hate crime report recorded 28 anti-Hindu incidents in 2025, a 12% increase over the prior year. In September 2024, the BAPS Swaminarayan Mandir in Melville, New York, was spray-painted with threatening messages overnight; Suffolk County police opened a hate crime investigation. In March 2025, the BAPS temple in Chino Hills, California, was vandalized, causing more than $15,000 in damage. Hindu Americans are asking whether it is safe to go to a temple. The response from some running for office has been to associate them with Nazis.

Since the August event, more than 90 politicians have signed a pledge to refuse donations from anyone “affiliated” with the R.S.S. The fact that this pledge is framed around association rather than a showing of unlawful conduct by the donor matters. In NAACP v. Alabama, 357 U.S. 449 (1958), the Supreme Court recognized that compelled disclosure of organizational membership can burden freedom of association when disclosure exposes members to reprisals. Whatever one thinks of the RSS, a policy that turns an undefined association into a basis for excluding a citizen’s political contribution deserves careful scrutiny. When 90 U.S. politicians declare a citizen’s donation tainted, potentially by his weekend yoga class, that is not accountability. It is the machinery of exclusion, aimed at a religious and ethnic minority.

As a Jew, I know how this works because I have watched it happen to my own community. For most American Jews, “Zionist” means only that Israel should exist; nevertheless, it has become a slur that licenses almost anything. I am automatically associated with, and blamed for, the death and suffering of Palestinians — suffering that is real, and that I do not dismiss. But “genocide” is also a legal term with a specific meaning, and its use in describing Israel’s conduct remains the subject of intense legal and political dispute. A coalition of more than 70 organizations has documented how the accusation was generated and amplified beginning the day after October 7, before Israel’s ground operation had even started. The word has nonetheless been repeated so confidently, and so often, that many Americans now treat it as settled truth.

The consequences are not abstract. The Anti-Defamation League counted 6,274 antisemitic incidents in the United States in 2025, five times the number a decade earlier. In May 2025, Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim were shot dead outside the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington as they left an event — they were about to be engaged. A month later, Karen Diamond, 82, died of burns after a man threw Molotov cocktails into a Boulder, Colorado rally for Israeli hostages. In both cases, the perpetrators appear to have acted on ideological hostility rather than random violence. That is where the politics of collective blame can lead: when a label becomes a license to see an entire community as guilty, violence can begin to look like justice.

The pattern does not care whether the target wears a kippah or a bindi. Find the most extreme association you can attach to a community. Repeat it until it hardens into fact. Then treat every member as that fact. If anyone objects, treat the objection as proof of complicity. At no point in this process does anyone ask the grandmother in Row 200 at MSG, watching the dancers, what she thinks. She is no longer a grandmother. She is a label.

In an instant, Mr. Lander went from being a fellow protester to being treated by some in the crowd as morally disqualified because of one word attached to him: “Zionist.” He did not seem to notice. Hindu Americans and Jews are living in an America where neither is offered nuance, and neither is offered the dignity of being one person rather than a category.

The politicians who signed those pledges should remember that the people they are judging are not abstractions in a debate about India. They are Hindu Americans. They live here, vote here, work here, raise their children here, and build their communities here. Before deciding what they represent, politicians should go to an HSS meeting, join a seva project, visit a Hindu temple, sit with a family over dinner, and listen to what Hindu Americans actually believe and care about. They may still conclude that the R.S.S. deserves condemnation. They may still oppose its politics, its leaders, or its influence. But they should know whom they are condemning. The people inside Madison Square Garden are not an ideology. They are Americans.

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Karen Gal-Or is a former federal prosecutor and co-founder of Om and Shalom, a Pittsburgh-based Hindu-Jewish initiative that brings the two communities together to combat hate, strengthen civic ties, and advocate around shared values.