The attack at the Capital Jewish Museum is devastating - but heartbreakingly unsurprising

When I checked my phone, my heart sank. News had broken of the attack at the in Washington and the tragic murders of Sarah Milgram and Yaron Lischinsky - two members of staff at the Sarah and Yaron were a young couple, attending the annual young diplomats' reception organised by an American Jewish charity. This year's theme was "Turning pain into purpose", focusing on humanitarian aid for Gaza and other crises in the Middle East.

For Jews around the world, an attack like this is devastating - but, heartbreakingly, not surprising. Our communities have long lived with heightened vigilance, a that has only intensified since the terrorist assault by Hamas on Israel on 7th October when nearly 1,200 people were murdered and over 200 taken hostage.

Of the 56 who remain in captivity, just 24 are believed to still be alive. Our synagogues strive to be open and welcoming, yet are ringed with layers of security. Non-Jewish visitors often express shock at the level of security required.

Our schools are designed not just for learning, but for protection: high walls, CCTV, and visible security are now standard. Toddlers taught to hide in silence. No other schools need the same levels of security.

Shocking for outsiders, yet all-too-familiar daily life for Jewish children. This isn't precautionary. It's the result of a sobering reality - attacks on Jewish people aren't just possible. They are expected.

For me, antisemitism is constant. It's in my inbox, on my social media timeline, in the replies beneath even the most innocuous posts. Wish a Holocaust survivor a happy birthday, and face abuse - comparisons to Nazis, conspiracies, threats. Sadly, this to me, is a background hum.

But mornings like this cut deeper. They bring back a familiar dread. I remember January 2015, when four Jews were murdered in a kosher supermarket in Paris. I immediately phoned my parents to tell them not to go and buy their challah loaves for the Jewish sabbath that evening.

In October 2018, after the Tree of Life synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh that killed eleven Jews, I called friends volunteering for security duty at our own shul, urging caution. After the 2012 shooting at a Jewish school in Toulouse, I checked in on my young niece and nephews who attended a Jewish primary school and asked if they knew what to do if the intruder alarm goes off - they told me they hide under their desks or lock themselves in the toilets.

They were 6 and 7 years old at the time. This is the reality of being a Jew in 2025. The attack in Washington does not happen in a vacuum. It is part of a pattern, in a febrile atmosphere where antisemitism is spreading rapidly and being met with silence.

Over the past 18 months, we've seen conspiracy theories and inflammatory rhetoric explode online and in mainstream discourse. Disinformation spreads like wildfire, attempting to villainise and delegitimise the world's only Jewish state.

It doesn't end there. Language once considered fringe now echoes in our politics. Elected officials make reckless accusations - shouting "genocide" without legal basis, forgetting that this is a term intended to be used with care, not as a slogan.

A young Jewish woman - a survivor of the Nova music festival massacre - faced harassment and death threats simply for representing Israel at the Eurovision Song Contest. Yuval Raphael stood on stage as a singer, not a politician, yet she was met with boos, protests, and even an attempt to storm the stage.

That even a young woman, traumatised by terrorism - she lay amongst dead bodies to survive - became a target tells us just how widespread and deep-rooted this hatred has become. We see this troubling trend, where celebrities and influencers with huge platforms weigh in on an incredibly complex conflict with little understanding and even less regard for nuance.

Their words feeding the frenzy. Of course, the conflict cannot and must not be ignored. Humanitarian aid must reach civilians in Gaza. Hostages must be freed. A path to peace must be found.

But we must not ignore the rising tide of dangerous rhetoric - chants of "globalise the intifada", calls for "global jihad" - and pretend they won't have real-world consequences. They already have. Two people were just murdered on the streets of Washington DC at a Jewish event.

I've come to accept that antisemitism will likely never disappear. I'm thick-skinned - I've had to be. I've learned to brush off the snide remarks, the conspiracies, the torrents of abuse. But there is a line. When rhetoric turns to violence, when slogans and slurs lead to people being murdered, the fear creeps in.

When I visit schools with Holocaust survivors, I often ask what keeps them going - sharing their traumatic stories, again and again. Their answer is always the same: people must know where antisemitism leads if left unchecked. Their greatest fear is that within their lifetime, those lessons are already being forgotten.