Today is Day 2 of the week of A Million Acts of Hope. It’s timed to say in the face of the rhetoric of hatred and frustration around us, that there is another way: the path of togetherness and kindness, the path of being there for one another. It’s timed to show at a critical hour that hope, kindness and togetherness are the true heart and soul of Britain,

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Acts of hope are simple; acts of hope can be tough.

Acts of hope are simple as saying ‘Can I help you?’ as making a cup of tea, as bringing the shopping to a friend who’s not well, giving a lift to the man whose wife is in hospital, as picking up litter, as helping in a foodbank. These are examples which stick with me. There’s a coffee stall by a tube station I pass every week, with a box and a small sign: please help pay ahead for people who can’t afford a hot drink.

At the other end of Britain, there’s a row of birdfeeders up a mountain. I met the woman who looks after them and learnt that she travels two hours each way to keep them full and pays for it all herself. Sir David Attenborough, – congratulations, mazal tov, on his hundredth birthday, – would be proud of her.

Acts of hope are as simple as the dinner we shared as Jews, Christians and Muslims together on the eve when the week began. They are as simple as ensuring that those who need it get a seat on a busy tube.

All this is no more than what the Mishnah states: ‘Gemilut Hasadim, acts of kindness, are of immeasurable value.’ We say those words every morning, because we need to live them every day.

Acts of hope can be hard. It’s takes courage to be out there for each other when fears isolate us and angers pull us apart. I respect those across our Jewish communities who stand up and protect us, who support our most vulnerable. I just heard from the The Association of Jewish Refugees how traumatised some of those they care for are by the resurgent antisemitism around us. I’ve listened to what Jewish, and some non-Jewish, students face for so much as mentioning Israel, or just for being Jewish. I respect and appreciate the Christian and Muslim leaders who’ve spoken out publicly against Jew hatred, standing with us at rallies, praying with us in our synagogues.

Acts of hope can be tough. I admire my fellow Jews, young leaders among them, who show clearly that standing against hatred directed at us means standing against hatred targeted at others, Muslims, minorities, everyone made vulnerable by hate speech around us. Hate travels. Hate for one group leads to hate for others. That is why we must stand up for each other. We cannot condone by our silence the rhetoric of contempt against refugees. We must not spread over it the mantle of acceptability. That’s not only because we were refugees once. It’s because of what Hillel said two thousand years ago: ‘If I am not for myself, who am I? But if I am only for myself, what am I?’ We’ve cited often enough Pastor Niemoller’s famous words: ‘When they came for the communists, I did nothing, because I wasn’t a communist… When they came for me… We know the conclusion.

There’s something harder still about true acts of hope. This is summed up by the epigram in the Dhammapada: ‘Hate is not conquered by hate. Hate is conquered by love. This is a law eternal.’ (1:5) In Jewish terms, it’s the truth that sinat hinam, pointless hate, must ultimately be overcome by ahavat chinam, loving kindness that seeks no reward.

The challenge this takes us to is how can we avoid hating the haters and, in so doing, allowing hate to become part of ourselves. It’s hard to find a good answer. But perhaps what this means is that we have to try to understand where the anger and frustration come from that lead to hatred and contempt. This may prove futile; it may help with nothing. But it asks us at least to try to cross divisions, to hear stories we find it hard to hear. If we ask ourselves: ‘Where is the hope in that?’ the answer might be that, maybe, just maybe, just sometimes, in listening we will learn of the fears and hurts in others and uncover a commonality deeper than everything that divides us. This is exemplified by the Families Forum, the community of Israeli and Palestinian parents who’ve lost children and relatives in the violence, yet who have found each other despite everything, and in so doing have also discovered comradeship, solace and even brotherly and sisterly love.

In these troubled times, I imagine God asking me a question. Perhaps it’s not imagination but the truth. It’s the oldest of God’s questions, the one God asked Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden: ‘Where are you? Where’ve you been?’ I hear that question like this: Why aren’t you there when people are struggling? Why aren’t you standing alongside people who’re afraid? Why aren’t you listening? Why don’t you care more deeply for nature, for all the community of the more-than-only-human world? From what are you hiding, when there is so much to strive for in this wounded world?

The answer does not lie in trying to do a million acts of hope. It rests in doing just one, or five, or ten, of those acts of kindness, solidarity, care and commitment that bind us to our family, community, neighbours, and, beyond them to everyone who truly cares, of all faiths and none, across the great community of life. It means committing ourselves to such acts not as a once-off in a special week but regularly, because they form the core of who we are. In so doing, we become part of a society committed not just to one single million acts of hope, but to millions and millions of acts of hope, so much so that such acts define who we are as human beings, as a country, as people of faith before the God of all life.

Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg

*A Million Acts of Hope https://millionactsofhope.org/

is supported by Hope not Hate, https://hopenothate.org.uk

who create ‘a platform for ordinary people to do the extraordinary,’ and by The Good Faith Partnership

https://goodfaith.org.uk

who ‘connect businesses, governments, charities, philanthropists, foundations and communities… around a common vision: the power of people working together to bring about lasting change.’

You can go to

https://millionactsofhope.org

to thank the helpers and doers and be inspired by what they’re achieving.

And you can sign the card which reads:

‘You are the beating hearts of our villages, towns and cities. And because hate can seem louder than hope these days, we have never needed you more.’

Signed, The hopefuls

I had so wanted to write something different!

‘Not on the outside door; on the inside entrance,’ pleads a friend who lives far from other Jewish people. We’re discussing where to place the mezuzah, the small parchment scroll with the instruction ‘You shall Love your God’ which marks the doorposts of Jewish homes.

Many Jews feel acutely vulnerable and unsafe. The stabbings of two Jewish men in Golders Green follows the fire-bombing of three ambulances just down the road, and the attempted arson against two London synagogues and a Jewish charity. It’s only months since the murders in the Heaton Park Synagogue in Manchester during prayers on the holiest day of the Jewish year. It’s not surprising that the community feels anxious about attending communal events. Parents hold their children’s hands more tightly when taking them to synagogues and Jewish schools. Some are afraid of sending them.

‘We’re terrified,’ a student tells me: ‘One in five other students refuse to share a house with us because we’re Jewish.’ Students are attacked verbally and sometimes threatened physically. Virulent anti-Jewish hate speech has become commonplace not just on social media, but in many workplaces, and on the street. Antisemitism has become normalised, a colleague says. If the issue is, ‘Is it out of control in the UK?’ the answer is ‘Yes.’

The question: ‘Will there be further attacks?’ seems not about ‘if’ but ‘when’. The phrase ‘Shocked but not surprised’ has become standard when we’re asked how we feel after yet another outrage. As one colleague put it, if you call during marches for the globalisation of the Intifada, you can’t be surprised when it comes to London. Aspects of those marches have rightly led to them being under review. Hate speech leads to hate acts, creating the climate in which they become not just inevitable, but to some even acceptable, perhaps desirable.

The discourse about Israel has sharpened everything. Clear criticisms of specific policies of its government are legitimate and shared by many Jews, including myself. But the persistent demonisation of the country is not. Such constant and vehement attacks have not been directed at any other country. Nor is it in any way right to use Israel as a pretext to go after the Jewish community of the UK, or anywhere else. Such behaviour is simply antisemitism under another guise.

The attacks over the last weeks have justly been described by the government as acts of terror which threaten the national security of Britain. Jewish leaders have long called on the government to ban the IRGC. Evidence may point to other cells of hostile states. The threat level against this country has been raised to ‘severe.’

But the perils for the UK are broader. The main targets now are Jews, but hatred is also impacting Muslim communities, refuges and more. As British Jews, we feel for all victims of hate. Hate travels through society, a moral infection, undermining the classic qualities which we like to think of as characterising Britain: mutual respect, tolerance, inclusion and liberty.

That is why the solution to antisemitism does not lie only in better policing, necessary as this sadly currently is. The extra funding announced today for the protection of Jewish communities is welcome.

It’s an urgent issue for all levels of government. Clear guidelines are required on what constitutes hate speech and incitement, and they must be enforced. Intentions without follow-up cause only frustration. Words are inadequate; the community needs to see action from the top and down.

But antisemitism and all forms of hatred are also an essential concern for the whole of society. We must strengthen interfaith and communal relationships. We need to reconsider how we talk to each other when we’re together and, even more importantly, how we talk about each other when we’re not together. Those responsible for community and workspaces, in the fields of education, health, the media, the arts and all civic institutions, need to manage those spaces in ways that allow discourse to be open, yet respectful. None of this can be achieved quickly.

Yet there are immediate signs of a deeper appreciation of the need for togetherness. The women’s walk in Golders Green for those of all faiths and none, held just a day after the stabbings, was a touching indication. It will be important to see the presence of all the organisations who oppose every form of racism standing in solidarity with the Jewish community at the rally planned for May 10.

Meanwhile, though deeply anxious, the Jewish community remains vigilant and strong.

Judaism is a history of resilience and faithfulness. Two thousand years ago, Rabbi Akiva was asked if he would abandon teaching Torah in public because the Romans had made it too dangerous. He answered with a parable. A fox was watching fishes trying to evade the fishermen’s nets. ‘Come out and play with me on dry land,’ he invited them; ‘you’ll be safer up here.’ ‘No,’ said the fishes. ‘Water is our environment. It may be risky in our rivers, but it’ll only be worse if we leave them.’

Torah is the life-sustaining environment for Jews. Far from abandoning it, we remain committed and resilient and hold its teachings even closer in our communities and hearts.

This piece was originally published in The Independent.