Still here

I am struck by how our diversity — as Jews and as Americans — is often framed as a sign of impending doom, rather than a source of resilience.

“They tried to kill us; they failed; let’s eat!” This quote never fails to get a chuckle at Jewish holiday dinner tables. It touches on so many aspects of our story as Jewish people: the endless attempts to convert, expel and exterminate us; our remarkable persistence and remarkable insistence on remaining Jewish in the face of adversity; and of course, our universal love of food. It is now clear to most of us, in 2026, that they are still trying to kill us — both literally and figuratively. So why are we, a tiny people who have never made up more than about 4% of the world’s population, still here? Is it due to some inherent quality of Judaism? Is it a function of G-d’s protection or our status as the chosen people?

I believe one significant factor that has contributed to our survival as Jews is our diversity. In evolutionary biology, there is a foundational concept known as genetic diversity, which describes natural variations in the inherited traits within a given species. Genetic diversity promotes survival by helping the species withstand destructive outside forces, like disease or environmental change. Greater diversity enhances the likelihood that some members of a species will evade these destructive forces, thus enabling them to pass on their traits — including those that helped them survive — to the next generation. In this way, genetic diversity drives adaptation by facilitating the perpetuation of the very traits that enabled survival, thus helping the species develop fortitude in the face of future threats.

The application of this concept to explain the survival of the Jewish people over the millennia is most clearly illustrated in the definition of Jewish identity itself. We are not just a religion — indeed, one need not even believe in G-d to be a practicing Jew. We are not just a culture — alternatively, we inhabit or have inhabited nearly every dominant culture across the globe, and simply attending an Ashkenazi, Sephardic, or Mizrahi seder will clearly highlight the vast cultural differences among Jews. We are not just a nation — more than half the world’s Jews live outside our ancestral homeland, Israel. And we are certainly not just a race or ethnicity — Jews come in every color, shape and size imaginable. Instead, I have heard Jews described as a people, which seems appropriate as it attempts to invoke all four of these features.

Our diversity across religious practice, culture, nationhood and race/ethnicity has surely helped us survive countless attempts at our eradication. Judaism could have collapsed after the destruction of the Second Temple; instead, our ancestors devised brilliant new ways of translating Jewish practice into our homes and local communities. We could have assimilated entirely into the new lands in which we sought safety and opportunity; instead, Jews largely maintained a sense of community and identity even within often-times hostile host countries. And of course, we could have easily been wiped out during centuries of violent pogroms, but our geographic dispersion meant that even the deadliest extermination attempts (two-thirds of European Jews during the Shoah) left many communities intact to pass on traditions, values and practices.

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the founding of our nation, itself a great melting pot, I am struck by how our diversity — as Jews and as Americans — is often framed as a sign of impending doom, rather than a source of resilience. Open any newspaper and you will hear all about how the Jewish community, and the larger country, have never been more divided (although we’ve been warned that Judaism is in decline for at least the 46 years I’ve been alive — here in Squirrel Hill, it feels pretty alive to me!). Everywhere you turn, you will encounter attempts to eliminate our diversity — to make us a more homogenous people, to turn us against one another. I would argue that our diversity is what makes us strong, as both Americans and of course as Jews — that our diversity, as in nature, is what helps us withstand those outside forces that will likely never stop seeking our destruction. Instead of rejecting this diversity — ignoring the opinions of Jews (or Americans) with whom we disagree, dismissing their perspectives as un-Jewish, antagonistic, or simply wrong — now is the time to turn toward one another, to create space in our vast tent for those with whom we, at times, seem more different than alike. At best, this can help us identify areas of connection — even amidst vast and seemingly insurmountable gaps in viewpoint — and at worst, it can help us sharpen our own arguments.

It is up to each and every one of us to figure out why we’re still here. What makes you a Jew? Is it doing your best every day to fulfill the mitzvot? Is it your gallows humor, or your love of matzoh ball soup? What makes the person next to you a Jew? Is it their commitment to tikkun olam? Their love for the Jewish state? While it can be tempting to avoid those whom we deem as “too different” — I’ve been told by many, many Israelis that avoidance of conflict and coded/veiled disagreement (“I appreciate your point, but…”) are very American traits — take a look inside any Jewish text and you will understand that working through arguments is foundational to Judaism and to elevating our understanding of sacred text. Two Jews, three opinions as the saying goes. Our diversity is what makes us beautiful and what makes us a people. In fact, despite what often feels like a hopeless outlook, I would argue that we are stronger now than we have been at many times in our past — with both the ability to live openly as Jews in most American Diaspora communities and the protection of our own state. And without lapsing into tired cliches, destructive outside forces in nature can paradoxically fortify the species by allowing resilience traits to flourish.

So this week, I invite you to take a risk.

Talk to a someone who practices differently than you, or who doesn’t share your politics. Ask them questions, listen to their answers and share yours. Even if you never see them again, I guarantee you will learn something — about them and about yourself. That is a precious gift, and I am certain it is why we’re still here. PJC

Andrea Beth Goldschmidt is an associate professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine.