By Jay Cranman, JF&CS CEO

What I remember most about October 7, 2023, isn't the day itself—it’s the silence that followed.

For someone who spent the last decade running a nonprofit in Atlanta, I was stunned at how quiet my own network was in those first days. This time was different from other tragedies, since normally I would be the one doing the outreach. This time I was the one who needed to be seen and checked on by my community but instead, I was met with silence. In the aftermath of the largest assault on Jews since the Holocaust, that silence left me feeling more alone than at any other point in my time as a nonprofit leader.

Since I didn’t know who on my team might also be struggling, I wanted them to know there was support if they needed it. In the days that followed, I posted a short message on our team communication channel, Slack, offering access to resources that JF&CS was providing. I ended with four simple words: “I stand with Israel.” A week later, I learned that someone on staff experienced those words as unsafe, and they wanted to talk.

Normally, I’d jump at the chance to sit with someone who saw things differently. That’s my default—lean into the hard conversations. But this time, I wasn’t ready. I was raw, I was grieving, I was running on fumes, and frankly I didn’t have it in me to defend why those words mattered.

In other moments of tragedy, my words of solidarity were welcomed — even expected. But when I said, “I stand with Israel,” it perceived as threatening. That double standard shook me and forced me to confront a hard truth I hadn’t wanted to name aloud: antisemitism is still too often overlooked or minimized, even in communities that care deeply about condemning other forms of hate. Realizing that this was happening within my own organization and network was deeply painful.

In the weeks that followed, I went searching. I read books like My Promised Land and Jews Don’t Count, trying to process what had happened and what it meant to me as a Jew, as an Atlantan, and as a leader. I wrestled with how my own ideals lined up with the reality I was witnessing. On one hand, I’ve long been part of communities that champion equity and justice; on the other, I was staring at a tragedy that revealed just how blind many in those same spaces are to antisemitism.

In time, I asked the Anti-Defamation League to lead an Antisemitism 101 workshop for my staff and honestly, I was terrified. Being the only Jew on staff made this feel less like a training and more like bring-your-whole-identity-to-work day. I worried about what I’d hear, and maybe more about what I wouldn’t be able to un-hear.

Fortunately, the workshop turned out positive. My staff acknowledged how little they knew about Jewish life in Atlanta, the rise of antisemitism in the U.S., or the facts of Jewish history. By the end, many shared how grateful they were to learn, and how much the session had expanded their understanding. I walked away relieved, and with a reminder: silence isn’t always rooted in malice. Often, it’s rooted in people not knowing what to say, or not knowing enough to say anything at all.

At home, the conversations were even more personal. I’m the father of two teenage boys, and one morning, I overheard them making plans after their b’nai mitzvah program. They wanted to stop at Grindhouse Burgers, and my oldest told my youngest to bring an extra shirt, one without “Jewish” written on it, “just in case.” It was said casually, like a reminder to grab your keys, but it stopped me cold. I know what it feels like to be aware of my Jewishness and to subvert parts of it depending on the room I’m in, but this was different. This was about sending my kids into a world that might not be safe for them, not because of their choices or their character, but because of who they are—and that broke my heart.

Now, two years later, I carry those moments with me. I’ve started a new chapter leading JF&CS, and in my first weeks I’ve been overwhelmed by the warmth of this community. People here know and love this organization deeply, and it’s been a reminder of the resilience and strength of Jewish life in Atlanta. And yet, when I walk past the new fence around our Dunwoody campus, I’m reminded that we can’t take our safety for granted.

So now, on the anniversary of October 7, I pray for peace. I pray for the return of the hostages. But most of all, I pray we learn from the silence. I know it is not always easy to find the right words, but the way forward is not found in quiet, it is in connection. We move forward through showing up, speaking up, and repairing what is broken.

This is how we honor October 7: not with silence, but with action.