Campaign

When Hurricane Sandy hit, I was 19, studying half-day in a local seminary, spending my other half-day in college (I wanted to become a lawyer), and using my “free” time to volunteer as an auxiliary police officer in Brooklyn where I had a lot of frum colleagues.

Right before the hurricane, a few of us teamed up with members of Flatbush Shomrim to go into a waterfront community called Manhattan Beach. The forecast was ominous, and the plan — led mostly by Shomrim — was to go door-to-door and encourage people to evacuate. We also wrote down the names and addresses of anyone who refused to leave, so if something happened, emergency services would know where to return.

In the middle of all the chaos, I briefly met the founder of Flatbush Shomrim, Chaim Deutsch. It was a quick interaction, and I didn’t think much of it.

But a few months later, I received a call.

“I’m launching a campaign for city council, and I need someone to help run the office. Do you know how to use Microsoft Excel?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“You’re hired,” he told me, and just like that, I was suddenly part of a city council campaign.

That was one of the moments I called my father and asked, “What do you think?” It was the beginning of the summer, so I was done with seminary, but a campaign meant I would have to take a semester off from college.

“Yeah, that sounds like it would be worth it,” he said with his trademark enthusiasm, and I was in.

I didn’t know anything about how a political campaign worked. I started with very basic tasks — stuffing envelopes, making spreadsheets — but over time, my responsibilities grew. I began helping write press releases, coordinating volunteers, and generating door-knocking lists for volunteers. After an energetic campaign, we won the primary by a few hundred votes, which was incredible. I was promoted to co-campaign manager when he entered the general election, even though at 19 years old, I was very much a Bais Yaakov girl who didn’t yet feel very confident in this new world.

But I was very good at listening. For the first two months, I barely spoke. I sat in meetings with experienced (expensive) campaign consultants and advisors, and just listened. I was too shy to talk, but I absorbed everything.

After weeks of hard campaigning, it was primary night, with all its attendant nerves, excitement, and nail-biting numbers. We hadn’t really expected a win, but politics is the ultimate game of the unexpected, and that night we won. We were quickly writing up the victory speech while the media waited outside, and everyone was talking about how important it was to emphasize that this win was the result of hard work.

As we went outside to meet the press, I said, “I think you should roll up your sleeves and take off your tie. That will show everyone that you worked for this win.”

One of the fancy Manhattan campaign consultants overheard me and said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

That was when I realized I could do this. Real politics is all about listening to people, understanding them, and making them feel heard. And I knew how to listen — and contribute.

Build

With the election behind him, Mr. Deutsch offered me a job as his scheduler and constituent liaison. In simple terms, I handled his calendar, answered calls from constituents, listened to their problems, and connected them with the right agencies.

What really changed things was Mr. Deutsch’s approach to press releases. Press release writing is very specific: You have to be clear, concise, and compelling all at once. Whenever he wanted one, it turned into an office-wide competition.

“I want a press release about fill-in-the-blank,” he would say. A few of us would draft a version, and he would choose the one he liked best. I kept winning.

Within a few months, I was promoted to chief of staff, and my responsibilities expanded dramatically. I was now working on legislation, communications, and strategy. Mr. Deutsch was an incredible mentor, and the girl who entered his office knowing pretty much nothing, learned everything on the job.

One small but meaningful example of legislation we drafted — that eventually passed — allowed people involved in car accidents to access their accident reports online. Before we pushed for it, people had to keep going back to the precinct office to wait for reports that never seemed to be ready. It was incredibly frustrating, especially when insurance companies needed the documentation (and people needed their cars!). Now, people can access those reports through an online portal thanks to the work we put into that new law.

In those early years, I was completely immersed in my work. Every day was exhilarating. I loved learning the ropes of what goes on behind the scenes in politics, and I enjoyed meeting people I’d only ever read about in the newspaper. After a long day at the office, I attended meetings and events at night. There was barely time for anything else (i.e., dating). I didn’t feel rushed. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

But eventually, I wanted to build my own home. Baruch Hashem, I met my husband when I was 25. On our third date, I asked him to drop me off at a work event, and he bravely exited the car to meet my colleagues. I was impressed.

Politics can be intimidating (and boring for some), so I thought my job might scare him off. It didn’t. My soon-to-be husband didn’t care about politics at all. He didn’t care who I knew, who was calling me, or what event I had to attend. After spending the day breathing politics, I found this attitude refreshing.

My husband got to know me for who I was, not for what I did.

Behind

A lot of people are drawn to politics because of the power: being the decision-maker, or having people listen when you speak. That was never my thing. I loved the behind-the-scenes work of politics, and understanding how the headlines in the news actually happened. I could look at a news item and think, I know every step that led to that announcement.

During my boss’s second term, he became chairman of the Veterans Committee. That winter, for the Veterans Day Parade, President Trump came to New York City (this was in middle of his first term). My boss had a front-row seat at the event, and I managed to come along for the ride — even though I ended up standing off to the side with the Secret Service agents because I didn’t have an official seat.

And at that same event, I also met Buzz Aldrin (the second man on the moon, right after Neil Armstrong). When I told my father and grandfather how I met Donald Trump and Buzz Aldrin, they completely ignored the Trump part and both said, “Buzz Aldrin?! Did you get a picture with him?” I didn’t….

In 2020, my boss was invited to the White House Chanukah Party. He was allowed to bring his wife, who reassured me that, “My husband’s going to get you a ticket. Just come with us to D.C.”

I was skeptical and assumed I’d spend the evening in the parking lot, but at the last minute, I was able to attend.

It was a wonderful experience. The Marine Corps band played Chanukah music, and the food was both kosher and jaw-droppingly elegant. Unfortunately for my ability to partake of all this abundance, I was expecting my first child and still in the grip of an extreme aversion to anything edible. Even so, it was a night I’ll always remember.

Serve

A few years later, a colleague I’d worked with in Mr. Deutsch’s office ran into a man from the Anti-Defamation League, better known as the ADL. The ADL representative mentioned they were looking to hire someone to run a new Brooklyn office.

My former colleague immediately said, “I know someone. Let me give you her number.”

At the time, I was working for an organization, my job was flexible, and I was satisfied. When the man from the ADL called, I told him I wasn’t interested. But he kept calling — every few weeks his number showed up on my caller ID — and then came October 7.

I’d spent nearly ten years in politics, advocating for my district and for the Jewish community, and I suddenly felt a renewed desire to something for the klal. I loved where I was working, but it wasn’t the same level of meaning and purpose.

I still wasn’t sure about working for the ADL, and I always had a ready excuse when he called: “I need to talk to my husband. I need to talk to my father….” But I finally ran out of people I needed to talk to, and I ended up taking an interview call from my car in a Brooklyn parking lot.

I didn’t expect to take the job, but everything changed when I loved the interview.

He asked me questions like, “If you heard about an anti-Semitic incident, what steps would you take?” And immediately, I slipped back into my old political instincts, because I’d been there. If there was an anti-Semitic incident in my boss’s district, I was the one responding: calling the victim, speaking with schools, coordinating agencies. And I left the interview thinking, I can really do this.

Today, I staff the ADL’s Brooklyn office, which is the only ADL satellite office in the country. Every state is covered by regional offices, but New York, with its huge Jewish population, has a stand-alone Brooklyn office, and I run it. It’s a tremendous responsibility, but I look at it as a privilege.

Respond

A big part of my job is responding. When anti-Semitic incidents are reported to us, or when we see them in the news or on social media, I reach out to the people affected. I help guide them through next steps, whether that’s legal support, reporting to law enforcement, or connecting them with the right resources. Sometimes it’s as simple as coordinating with the city to remove graffiti, like a swastika spray-painted on a wall.

We also partner very closely with various branches of Shomrim in Brooklyn. If they hear about an incident, they keep us updated, and if we see something reported, I’ll call Shomrim and ask, “Do you know what happened? Was it intentional? What was the motive?”

Another major part of my role is going to meetings, events, and gatherings to make sure people know the ADL is here to help. In the frum community, I focus on encouraging people to report incidents because there is severe underreporting in the frum community. Jewish organizations and public Jewish figures talk a lot about anti-Semitism, but without data to reflect the reality, it can sound abstract and exaggerated.

As a frum person living in Howell, New Jersey, I see that fact playing out in real time. I joke with my husband that next year’s data is going to show a huge spike in anti-Semitism in Howell because we’re going to report everything. As someone who’s always lived in very frum communities, this is my first experience with overt anti-Semitism.

A couple of months ago, I was walking to the park with my kids when a woman slowed down her car, rolled down her window, yelled something ear-scorchingly nasty about Jews, and sped off. And I’m not the only one on the receiving end of this type of abuse. Lakewood is expanding, and frum families are moving into new neighborhoods. The people who already live there often feel like Jews change the character of the area. Suddenly there’s a shul on the block, lots of kids on scooters, and they don’t like it.

But people in the area are resigned to the facts on the ground.

My husband, for example. If he weren’t married to someone who works at the ADL, he probably wouldn’t report it when someone yells something anti-Semitic at him while he’s walking home from shul. The attitude is largely, “Well, we’re Jews, so we just have to put up with this.”

At the ADL, one of the things my boss and I work on, especially since there are so few frum people in the organization, is cultural competency training. So often, anti-Semitism comes from a basic misunderstanding of who we are as frum Jews. We focus particularly on law enforcement agencies in areas where they don’t have strong relationships with the frum community, and we talk about cultural nuances: Don’t shake a woman’s hand, and don’t be surprised if someone says they need to ask their rabbi before answering a question, among other enlightening tidbits. But more than that, we want law enforcement to see us as a resource. If they’re interacting with a frum person and something feels unfamiliar, we can help bridge that gap.

The frum community is definitely underrepresented in these spaces, but it’s growing. One positive development at the ADL has been the creation of employee resource groups. There are groups for women, for mothers, for young professionals — and we helped create one for observant Jews. At our first meeting, I was honestly surprised by how many people joined. From Modern Orthodox to more traditional, it was comforting to see how many ADL people keep Torah and mitzvos, and we were happy to find one another.

Stand

I speak to people every single day, and some of the hardest situations we come across are the ones that don’t fit neatly into a box. You know where you stand when someone calls you a “dirty Jew” or paints a swastika on your door. But sometimes, the hate is poisonously subtle.

A woman once called from an “inclusive” company that made a point of acknowledging the important days of its multicultural workers. On the anniversary of October 7, she asked her boss whether the company would send out a message, something they regularly do for other major events. They said no. Three weeks later, she was fired. This long-time expert employee can’t prove she was fired because she brought up October 7, but she feels it. And those are the hardest cases, because they’re almost impossible to prove.

But especially since October 7, these incidents are very real. Many Jewish people — even those who don’t appear Jewish — have noticed the change. Colleagues treat them differently once they find out they’re Jewish. There’s a coldness in the behavior of friends and colleagues and bosses that’s unsettling.

One recent incident took place at a public high school in New York. The school was holding a cultural fair where students could present about their backgrounds, and almost 30 cultures went through their presentations without any incident.

Then the Jewish Culture Club took center stage.

Students started oinking. Members of the audience yelled, “It smells like Jews!” and even, “It smells like a gas chamber in here!”

It was horrific, and the teenage students were traumatized.

As soon as I heard about the incident, I went to meet with the parents. Some of the students were at that meeting, too, so we were able to hear directly from them. It quickly became clear that the issue went much deeper than a cultural fair. They told us that every time the Jewish Culture Club met, pro-Palestinian students would walk past the room waving flags, chanting slogans, and yelling threats. These 14- and 15-year-olds told us what they’d endured, and it was heartbreaking to hear.

We partnered with other Jewish organizations, brought the superintendent into the conversation, and eventually spoke to the principal. There were months and months of follow-up, meetings, and hard conversations, but things did change. I spoke to some of the parents and faculty advisors just a few weeks ago, and they told me that while things aren’t perfect, the atmosphere at the school is better. The Jewish club has a private space to meet, and there’s been an increased schoolwide focus on teaching respect for other cultures. Students were taken to the Holocaust Museum, and the administration is making a real effort to create a safer environment for Jewish students.

In my daily work, I don’t expect perfection. But I expect something.

People sometimes say, “This is galus. We have to live with anti-Semitism.” But while I’m not naive enough to think we can eradicate anti-Semitism (yes, we do live in galus), I don’t believe people should be allowed to get away with this behavior.

We live in America. This is a country that says it values equality and freedom, and we can demand that they live up to that. This isn’t czarist Russia, where survival meant bribes to government officials and escaping when the mobs of peasants came too close to home. There is room here to ask for something better.

It’s easy to say, “Ignore the hate” when you’re living in the heart of a frum enclave where non-Jews are in the minority. But when someone is facing harassment every day, especially children, that’s different. Families with weaker Jewish backgrounds don’t need to endure daily abuse and harassment without trying to fix the situation.

There’s this belief among some people — generally those who don’t constantly experience the hatred — that the more we talk about anti-Semitism, the more we create it. But it’s happening whether we talk about it or not, and when we don’t talk about it, anti-Semitism becomes normalized and mainstream. That’s the part I refuse to accept. People will always hate Jews, but it shouldn’t become a mainstream societal value. We don’t have to return to the Germany of the 1930s.

Change

For me, working with the ADL is incredibly meaningful.

Every day I listen to people who’ve experienced something deeply traumatic — sometimes it’s violent anti-Semitism, and sometimes it’s something that shakes their sense of safety, like discovering that someone in their building hates Jews. It changes how they see the world.

Being someone they can talk to is important. Often, I’m able to help guide them toward a real outcome, whether it’s a report to law enforcement, legal support, or advocating for their child in a public-school setting. Sometimes we’re able to step in and help change the culture of a school or workplace to make it safer for our People.

And as a frum Jew working in this field, I’m also advocating for frum people. I go to speaking engagements where I’m often the first religious Jew people have ever met, and I try to make that interaction — and every interaction — positive.

What I do is all about making a kiddush Hashem wherever I find myself. And it’s about changing perceptions and opinions and the reality on the ground for as many people as we can.

I was the valedictorian… in my auxiliary police officer class! This was my first time in that coveted role, since I was never the valedictorian in school….

In the marriage melting pot… I grew up litvish, but my husband is chassidish. Our son goes to a Yiddish-speaking school, so I’m learning Yiddish along with him. He comes home every day and proudly tells me the new words he learned, and we practice together. (I speak Yiddish at about a four-year-old level.)

I’m a creature of habit: I can eat the same thing for dinner every single night, for months at a time, until I suddenly move on to something else. Right now, I’m on a falafel kick. Falafel every night. I know, it’s not exactly the healthiest, but it works.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 976)