I grew up in Wellington, Florida, a quiet suburb on the western edge of Palm Beach County. Back then, it felt like the middle of nowhere, the last stop before the hinterlands. To the north was rural Loxahatchee, with its giant trucks and Confederate flags. To the west and further inland, you had Belle Glade, then one of the most impoverished towns in America. And then there was Wellington itself: a brand-new middle-class community with a growing Jewish population. That was my bubble.

I came from a secular but unmistakably Jewish family. My parents were hippies. We didn’t keep kosher, but we didn’t eat pork or red meat either. I like to joke that we kept “Florida kosher” — lots of shellfish. I had my bar mitzvah at Temple Beth Torah, the only synagogue in town at the time, and celebrated Passover at my grandparents’ house in North Palm Beach.

My dad’s parents — Bubbe and Zadie — were pillars of the local Jewish community. They were amongst the first lay leaders of the Jewish Federation of Palm Beach County and helped lead its first mission to Israel in the 1970s. Their mahogany-paneled study was filled with plaques and certificates from Federation and the Jewish National Fund, and shelves lined with books on Israel and Jewish history. In their heyday, they traveled to Israel every year.

Jewish education mattered deeply to my grandparents. But like many secular Jewish kids, I didn’t love Hebrew school. My dad, a season ticket holder for the Miami Dolphins, would often pull me out early on Sundays when there was a home game. Those were the best days, when we left early and headed to the stadium.

Then, one Sunday when I was 11, my dad dropped me off at Hebrew school and we saw something spray-painted on the wall in huge red letters: “Hiter Was Here,” with a swastika. H-I-T-E-R. The misspelling didn’t make it any less frightening. It was one of those images you never forget. I remember the shock of it, the local news crew filming, and our synagogue members whitewashing the wall. I asked my dad if I was safe. He told me not to worry, that it was probably just a stupid kid. Turns out, it was a middle school classmate, a kid from Loxahatchee.

That day, our cantor, whose parents were Holocaust survivors from Ukraine, addressed us directly. He told us that the Ku Klux Klan had a presence in Loxahatchee, just ten minutes away. Then he asked us, “What would you do if they came marching down our street tomorrow?” We were just kids. But we understood: antisemitism wasn’t just something from the history books. It was real, and it lived right outside our community.

In 2000, I was a student at Florida State University in Tallahassee. I majored in psychology mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. I’d go to Hillel now and then for bagel brunches or Rosh Hashanah, but back then, Hillel wasn’t the best at engaging kids like me.

Then one day, a friend told me he had just come back from a free trip to Israel through a brand-new program called Birthright Israel. He asked if I was eligible. “Are you at least half Jewish?” I said, “Bro, I’m 100%. I’m all in.” It sounded too good to be true.

The Second Intifada broke out that fall, but I wasn’t scared. I knew Israel wasn’t some war-torn disaster zone. I also knew there’d be strict security protocols — no public transportation, armed IDF soldiers on our bus, curfews, and private guards. Birthright Israel would take care of us. So, I went. And it changed everything.

I saw kids experiencing Israel for the first time — crying at the Kotel, laughing on the bus, bonding over their shared Jewish identity, which many of them had never explored before. I’ll never forget that first-ever Mega Event in Jerusalem with Prime Minister Ehud Barak. It was incredible — thousands of Jewish young adults from around the world, waving their national flags and the Israeli flag. In that moment, I understood: we are one people, and we have a responsibility to each other.

When I got back from the trip, I changed my major to international relations. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to be part of the Jewish story. I took every class I could on the Middle East and Israel. I ended up going to grad school at George Washington University to more deeply study the Arab-Israeli conflict. One of my professors, Bernard Reich, became a mentor. I helped him with the second edition of his Historical Dictionary of Israel, and he included my name in the acknowledgments. That meant the world to me. I remember thinking, I’m in the book. I’m literally part of the Jewish story.

My first job in the Jewish world was at the Hillel at Florida Atlantic University. My role was to engage students, spark excitement about their Jewish identity, and encourage them to go on Birthright Israel. I loved it.

But I wanted to do more. One Friday night, over Shabbat dinner, I met Rabbi Andy Rosenkranz, the regional director of the Anti-Defamation League in Florida at the time. He started talking about fighting antisemitism, building relationships with law enforcement, and supporting victims of hate. Suddenly I was brought back to that day, when I was 11 years old, seeing the swastika spray-painted in red on our synagogue wall, wondering if I was safe.

I knew I had to be part of the fight. I joined the ADL and spent seven years there. It was my dream job, the most fulfilling work I could imagine. I didn’t think I would ever leave. But when Andy stepped down — coincidentally, to become the head rabbi at Temple Beth Torah, my childhood synagogue — I accepted a new role in development at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. Today, I direct a major regional office for the Museum. My work is about sustaining Holocaust memory, helping survivors tell their stories, and making sure the world never forgets.

Since I started in 2014, three-quarters of the survivors I worked closely with have passed. We are truly in the final years. I’ve been honored to serve as a bridge between generations, connecting young people with survivors while we still can. And since October 7, 2023, everything has become more urgent — the fear, the hate, the stakes. This past summer alone saw the double murder in D.C.  and the firebombing attack in Colorado, one of the victims of which was a Holocaust survivor.  It doesn’t stop.

And still, I feel so humbled and grateful to be a link in the chain. Like my Bubbe and Zadie, who made a conscious choice to instill a love of Israel in their grandchildren. Like the professors and mentors who helped me find my path. Like the founders of Birthright Israel, who gave an amazing gift to disconnected Jewish kids like me, enriching their lives and ensuring Jewish continuity.

Here’s my perspective: Birthright Israel is the most important Jewish initiative of the modern era. I challenge anyone to name a program that has changed more lives. Hundreds of thousands have participated, and there’s no question — it leaves its mark. You can’t go on the trip and come back unchanged. If you were secular, complacent, and unengaged before, you come back committed and inspired.

Looking back, I can say without hesitation: Birthright Israel was the turning point. It made me want to live a Jewish life, to build a Jewish future. I changed my major, changed my trajectory, and never looked back. Without that trip, I don’t know where I’d be. But I know I wouldn’t be here.

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