The statistics are in: Antisemitism is up by 360% since Oct. 7, 2023.

And I don’t care.

What comes to mind is the Fortune 500 CEO who spends his days consumed by his struggle with alcohol. During corporate discussions, time with his kids and quiet moments alone, the bottle is always lurking in his mind. It defines him, coloring his every decision; and until he discovers an identity beyond the struggle, he will continuously define his existence by it.

I’ve thought about this in countless conversations I’ve had with friends and congregants over the past 18 months. 

We have allowed antisemites and antisemitism to become our addiction and our identity. It is the perpetual narrative that defines us.

Strangely, I find, we derive comfort in defining ourselves through our suffering. It’s predictable and we unite around it. We know the script by heart: Jews, the eternal scapegoat — always hunted, always hated, yet still here, still standing. It’s a story of resilience and survival. We point to inquisitions, blood libels, pogroms, expulsions, the Holocaust and now Oct. 7 as proof. We quote statistics, build museums, hold conferences and protests, flood social media and cry out to the world about rising antisemitism. And it is all true. 

But here’s the truer truth: This narrative isn’t ours. It’s a story written for us by others. Clinging to it keeps us in their grip — always reacting, always haunted. When we scream, “Would you have hidden us in your attic?” or “Why is the world silent?” or “Did you see the twisted BBC headline?,” we speak from a place of disempowerment, yearning for validation.

The relentless need for the validation of the world is reflective of our inability to imagine a life without it— unable to break free and become who we are truly meant to be.

We can’t deny the pain. But pain cannot be our purpose. Mourning cannot be our mission. Suffering can not be our drive. 

Imagine a woman who self-harms, using pain to confirm her existence in a chaotic world. Without it, does she even feel alive? Perhaps the reason antisemitism brings out such passion is because it’s our own desperate cry. If the hate disappeared, would our identity fade with it? Maybe, for some, this battle against hate is really a soul’s cry, longing to embrace Jewishness and a relationship with G-d, but without knowing what it looks like. 

The answer isn’t to stop talking about Oct. 7. It’s to start talking about Judaism more. 

Imagine if that CEO stopped defining himself by how far he was from a bottle and instead by all the beautiful things he had to live for. Imagine if that woman felt truly alive — not through pain, but through purpose.

Imagine a world when success isn’t defined by CNN’s approval. Imagine a day when the UN’s opinion about us barely registers on your “Do I care?” radar.

Imagine a Jewish student walking past a campus protest, unafraid of the haters or their manufactured crises, because she’s armed with 3,800 years of confidence, faith and profound identity.

Imagine if the tens of billions of dollars spent on fighting antisemitism over the past 75 years with near zero success would have been spent on building thriving Jewish communities that are raising proud Jewish children. 

Imagine if instead of fighting others about their narrative, we invested in living our own.

What does a confident, positive Jewish experience look like? Why did our ancestors sacrifice everything for Judaism? What are we living for in the 21st century?

It’s the hum of a Shabbat dinner table filled with song and laughter. It’s a child unrolling the Torah scroll for the first time, eyes wide with wonder. It’s a community building a new synagogue not because the old one was burned down, but because there is no more space in the current one.

When Chabad emissaries move to the farthest corners of the world, they don’t go armed with stories of surviving pogroms and persecution. They go with a Torah in one hand and a homemade challah in the other. They go with love of Judaism and their fellow Jew, because that’s what the Rebbe taught them. They invite people to live Judaism, not to survive it. 

This isn’t naivety. It’s not even a business strategy. It is who we have been for almost four millennia.

I had a moment of pride last week while sitting at our Friday night Shabbat dinner when two of my teenage sons casually mentioned that they had experienced antisemitism a few weeks earlier. They didn’t immediately call the antisemitism hotline. They didn’t even tell me about it until weeks later. It didn’t faze them. Because they have a Judaism to live. They were on a mitzvah mission. The barking dogs didn’t distract them from their purpose.

The world will never stop throwing challenges at the Jewish people. Hamas’s atrocities will never be forgotten. But let’s be clear: The Jewish story didn’t begin with Oct. 7, it cannot end there, and it can’t be defined by it. 

Our legacy is not one of survival — it’s one of creation. It’s Abraham smashing idols, Moses leading an exodus, Maimonides penning works of genius and the Baal Shem Tov igniting the fire of Chassidut.

We need to stop circling the drain of antisemitism. The most Jewish response to Oct. 7 isn’t to cry louder. It’s to live prouder. Instead of investing all of our energy or dollars into trying to end Jew hatred, we can just “do Jewish” instead!

Go to Shabbat services. Volunteer at a local nursing home. Invite Jewish friends over for a Shabbat meal. Wear a kippah. Be unabashedly Jewish.

They already know who we are. Maybe it’s time we do, too.

Rabbi Mendel Teldon is the rabbi at Chabad of Mid-Suffolk in Commack, N.Y. He recently gave a briefing in Congress on the topics of lasting peace in Israel and antisemitism.