I Show Up Because I'm a Jew: Juneteenth, BLM, and the Ethics of Solidarity

This week, as we mark Juneteenth—the day in 1865 when Union troops arrived in Galveston, Texas to finally enforce the Emancipation Proclamation—I find myself reflecting on the nature of freedom, memory, and moral responsibility. For African Americans, Juneteenth is both a celebration and an indictment: a celebration of liberation, yes, but also a painful reminder that freedom came not when it was promised, but when someone finally bothered to enforce it. It is a day of joy wrapped in the ache of delay.

As a Jew, this resonates deeply. We are a people whose holidays are often structured around the tension between oppression and redemption. “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat,” goes the refrain. But our sacred stories—from the Exodus to the Holocaust—are not merely personal traumas. They’re meant to shape how we see the world and how we show up in it. “You shall not oppress the stranger,” the Torah insists, “for you know the soul of the stranger.” You know what it is to be invisible, to wait for freedom, to cry out and wonder if anyone is listening.

That’s why many Jews—myself included—marched for civil rights, raised our voices against apartheid, and stood proudly in the early days of the Black Lives Matter movement. Not because we expected something in return, but because that is what Torah demands of us: to stand with the vulnerable, to act justly, to repair what we did not break. And yet, if I’m honest, I have to name the hurt.

In 2020, when the world erupted in protest over the murder of George Floyd, I stood with my Black neighbors, students, and friends. I spoke at vigils. I listened and learned and showed up. But not long after, I saw the official Black Lives Matter organization release a statement accusing Israel of genocide and aligning itself with movements that traffic in antisemitic tropes. It stung—not just the politics, but the silence that followed. The sense that Jews, especially Zionist Jews, had become expendable in some corners of the progressive world we had helped build.

I want to be clear: this is not a rejection of Black lives or Black liberation. I still believe in the fundamental righteousness of the cause. But it was painful to see a movement we supported so deeply walk away from us when it was our turn to feel afraid, targeted, and alone. It hurt to realize that for some, solidarity with Jews was conditional. It hurt to know that our suffering didn’t count as fully, our stories not quite worth believing.

But here’s the deeper truth I’ve come to learn: real moral action cannot be transactional. I do not show up for you because you show up for me. I show up because I am a Jew.

In the ethics of our tradition, there is a radical demand: tzedek tzedek tirdof—“justice, justice shall you pursue.” Not justice if it’s reciprocated. Not justice only when it serves your people. Justice, period. We are commanded to act justly not to gain favor, but because it’s the right thing to do. Because the God of our ancestors is a God who hears the cry of the oppressed, regardless of who they are.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t feel betrayed when alliances fracture. It doesn’t mean we ignore antisemitism when it hides behind the language of social justice. But it does mean we are called to a higher standard. We do not mirror the indifference of others; we challenge it with moral clarity.

I don’t have easy answers about how to rebuild the bridges that have been burned. I don’t know how to restore trust when mutual solidarity has eroded. But I do know this: the Jewish commitment to justice must not be contingent on popularity or political convenience. It must flow from who we are.

On Juneteenth, I want to recommit to that kind of solidarity—not naïve, not blind, but principled. I want to remember that being a Jew means carrying both the wounds of history and the responsibility they place on our shoulders. I want to remember that we know, perhaps better than most, what it feels like to wait for someone to show up.

And I want to say to my Black neighbors: even if we have been hurt, even if we have been let down, I still believe in your liberation. Not because of what you say about us, but because of what I believe about God. Because of what I believe about Torah. Because of what I believe about the world as it could be.

At the same time, I want to speak clearly to my own community: we must learn to grieve and act at the same time. We can name the antisemitism we see—whether in movements or media or universities—and still refuse to become callous or withdrawn. We can stand with others even as we ask, with aching hearts, why they do not always stand with us.

Solidarity is not a social contract. It’s a spiritual practice. It asks us to be more loyal to our values than to our wounds. It asks us to walk into difficult spaces not with pride, but with humility. Not to demand applause, but to do what is right, because it is right.

To live with that kind of integrity is not easy. But then again, nothing worth doing ever is.

Juneteenth reminds us that freedom delayed is freedom denied—but also that delayed justice is not lost justice. The Union army did come, even if late. The message did reach Galveston, even if years behind. Our work is to make sure it doesn’t take so long next time. To bring justice closer—not perfectly, not without complexity, but faithfully.

So I will keep showing up. I will keep marching, mourning, praying, and building. I will keep fighting for the dignity of every human being, even when mine is overlooked. Because I don’t live by the ethics of tit-for-tat. I live by the ethics of Torah.

You don’t have to show up for me.

But I will still show up for you.