On the first day of my internship at the American Jewish Committee two summers ago, I met my boss, discussed what I’d be working on for the summer and received an elaborate security briefing.

I was used to it, and therefore expecting it. Each year on the High Holidays, security personnel rummage through my bag before I can enter my synagogue. I walk through the metal detector each time I use the gym at my Jewish community center. I wait to be buzzed in at Hillel before Shabbat dinner on Friday nights. This is the cost of feeling safe in a Jewish space.

Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim — victims of the tragic antisemitic shooting at the Capital Jewish Museum last week — were likely used to it, too, being staffers at the Israeli Embassy in Washington and active members of the Jewish community. 

I’ve attended several events hosted by the American Jewish Committee in Washington similar to the one they were at last Wednesday night. I know firsthand that there were ample security measures in place.

The security measures couldn’t save them. Neither could the fact that Sarah, an American Jew, actively worked to build bridges between Israelis and Palestinians. It wasn’t even enough that Yaron wasn’t Jewish, but a Christian. 

All that mattered was that they were two people attending a Jewish event at a Jewish museum in a metropolitan area with the third-highest Jewish population in the country. To a deranged gunman, this was their fundamental crime. 

Like so many Jews before her, Sarah Milgrim paid for her religion with her life. 

The tragedy is multifold. The United States is built on the principle that everyone can freely practice their own religion. It should upset all Americans, therefore, that Sarah was murdered for her religion; Yaron, for his assumed one.

But to the Jewish community, it cuts deeply. One of the many things I love about the Jewish American diaspora is our close connections – I’m convinced we’re all a degree of separation away from each other. To illustrate this concept, a friend of mine sang karaoke with Sarah in New York City just last month. My cousin’s roommate is Sarah’s cousin. 

The closeness of the Jewish community around the world makes it feel small, and in this case, terribly small. 

What’s most unsettling to me is, if Sarah was murdered for being Jewish, then couldn’t the rest of us? 

Fear sets in. My mom, usually not the type to be afraid, had no qualms with me going to Europe for four months wearing a Magen David (a Star of David) necklace. But last week, things were different. She asked me if I really wanted to put in writing that I’m a Zionist. I decided that I did. 

In that piece, I wrote that I want the war to end and that condemning atrocities in Gaza isn’t antisemitic. It is also noteworthy that I wrote this piece in May 2025 — a long time after October 2023 — when it has become much clearer that the war will not lead to the defeat of Hamas. I stand by what I wrote.

Yet, the way that I framed my writing — as a criticism of the Israeli government and specific policies, rather than a condemnation of Israelis and Zionists as a whole — is exceedingly rare in discussions about the topic. 

Sarah and Yaron’s murder makes it clearer than ever that the slope between offensive rhetoric and violent rhetoric is dangerously slippery. As Yaron and Sarah’s murderer was dragged out of the Capital Jewish Museum by law enforcement, he yelled, “Free Palestine.”

On its face, “Free Palestine” is an innocuous phrase. Yet, it often isn’t used in isolation, but along with violent terms and ideologies. 

“Free Palestine” was a common chant at the encampment on Deering Meadow last year, along with outright antisemitic attacks, like cries of “Settlers, settlers, go back home.” I say this latter phrase is antisemitic because Jews fled to Israel — whether it be from Poland, Iraq or Egypt — to escape their deaths. To call for Jews to “go back home” is therefore a call for Jews to die. 

“Free Palestine” was also chanted in an October 2023 protest at the Rock, along with “Resistance is justified when people are occupied.” This latter statement rationalized Hamas’ brutal attack on Israel just a few weeks prior, which killed more than 1,200 Israelis and took over 250 civilians hostage. In yet another instance, the phrase was spray-painted onto the Donald P. Jacobs Center last April along with “Death 2 Israel.”

In these specific examples, then, “Free Palestine” is more about Jewish erasure than Gazan liberation, very much like the murders of Sarah and Yaron. 

The gunman’s choice of words illuminates the ties between the protests against the war and violence against Jewish people. While the vast majority of people who use these words don’t have murderous intentions, in the most radical of minds, these chants became a literal call to action, resulting in the assassination of a Jewish person. Words themselves aren’t weapons, but it doesn’t take much sharpening to make them so. 

Perhaps I am shouting into a void, but it’s worth stating for the record: I urge my peers who are protesting against the war, whether it be in physical protests or social media, to demonstrate that their calls to free Palestine are motivated by empathy for Palestinians, and don’t incite violence towards Israelis and American Jews. 

However, as evidenced by the chants at the protests across campuses last year, I’m honestly not sure these feelings can be separated, at least not on a large scale where a crowd is shouting. This makes me worried that more and more Jews in America will be the targets of violent antisemitism. 

Unsurprisingly, I’ve seen people on social media unaffiliated with NU celebrate Sarah and Yaron’s death as an act of resistance. To that I say, war is not a zero-sum game. More death isn’t a sign of victory, but of moral failing. 

As I wrote last week, the death of any innocent person should be upsetting. Last week, I applied that principle to how it should be apolitical to mourn Palestinian children. This week, I’m invoking the same message about an American Jew and a German-born Israeli citizen. 

No one, no matter their background, should have to live in fear because of where they were born or what religion they practice. 

Sarah and Yaron were at an event that night with the aim of “turning pain into purpose.” It was a humanitarian effort that included efforts to aid Gazan civilians. 

Last week was full of pain. Sarah and Yaron were two ambitious young people in love, ripped from this Earth too soon. 

The way that I will turn my pain into purpose is trying to fill Sarah’s vision of making the world a better place. 

While fear threatens to silence us, we must not let it. I will continue to call out antisemitism when I see it, including in my work with the American Jewish Committee. And we must continue to stand for the humanity of all people. It isn’t the easy way forward, but I hope it’s the one we take. 

Talia Winiarsky is a Weinberg junior. She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.