Earlier this week, I watched this thought-provoking video comparing electric cars to gasoline-powered ones. The speaker made a striking observation: if everyone drove electric vehicles, no one would ever seriously propose switching to gas. The idea would seem absurd—too noisy, dirty, and inefficient. We only accept gas cars as “normal” because that’s what we inherited.
The analogy struck me. For most Jews living outside of Israel—born and raised in America, Europe, Australia—the Diaspora is our “gas-powered car.” It feels familiar and manageable precisely because it’s what we know. But imagine if every Jew in the world lived in Israel. Would anyone seriously argue it was time to build new communities in New York, Paris, or Sydney? The suggestion would seem unthinkable. Yet because Diaspora life is our default, we view Aliyah as the radical departure.
This isn’t a call to pack your bags tomorrow. It’s an invitation to examine how we’ve internalized our circumstances—and whether we’re asking ourselves the hard questions.
Recently, an article by Hillel Fuld made waves across Jewish social media. Hillel is a proud warrior for our people, someone whose dedication to promoting Jewish interests and generating kiddush Hashem through his advocacy is beyond question (Hillel is also a close family friend). In his piece, written with passionate concern, he predicted an imminent, coordinated terrorist attack against Western Jews, warning it would happen within a month and spark mass Aliyah. He compared our current moment to 1935 Germany, pointing to rising antisemitism, anti-Israel marches, and growing public hostility.
I deeply respect not only Hillel’s commitment to our people but also the love and anguish that drives his warning. When someone who has devoted his life to Jewish advocacy sounds an alarm, it comes from a place of genuine fear for Jewish lives and authentic care for our collective future. His concerns reflect what many of us feel but hesitate to voice: that the ground beneath Western Jewish life is shifting in ways that feel increasingly precarious.
The signs Hillel points to are undeniably real and deeply troubling. Armed guards at Jewish schools have become standard. Shuls remain locked during services. University campuses have become hostile environments for Jewish students. Public antisemitism has shed its traditional shame and become increasingly brazen. Jewish families across America, Europe, and Australia are having conversations about safety and a future that would have seemed unthinkable just a few years ago. When a thoughtful person looks at these trends and feels compelled to warn others, that impulse comes from a place of profound love and responsibility.
Yet I believe that translating these legitimate concerns into confident predictions about specific attacks crosses an important line—not because the fears are invalid, but because we are not prophets, and the stakes are too high for us to pretend to be.
Even if such an attack were to occur, it wouldn’t vindicate the prediction. Tragedy doesn’t transform anxiety into prophecy, or intuition into divine insight. Judaism teaches us to read signs and remain vigilant, but also to be humble about what we can and cannot know.
Here lies the profound challenge: Hillel’s warning emerges from a place of genuine love and legitimate concern, yet both extremes—paralyzing fear and willful complacency—can prevent us from asking the question that actually matters: What are we waiting for?
This question isn’t meant to trigger panic, nor is it meant to dismiss the very real anxieties that drive warnings like Hillel’s. It’s meant to serve as a mirror, reflecting how we’ve made peace with circumstances that, viewed objectively, are certainly less than ideal. We’ve normalized what Rav Meir Simcha of Dvinsk zt”l warned against: treating our place of exile as our permanent home.
Rav Meir Simcha zt”l, in his monumental work Meshech Chochmah, warned that in every land of exile, Jews find stability and prosperity before being displaced within one to two centuries. He was particularly troubled by German Jews who called Berlin their “little Yerushalayim.” America is approaching its 250th year. By any historical measure, we’ve exceeded the typical lifespan of Jewish diaspora communities.
This doesn’t mean catastrophe is imminent. It means the conversation is overdue.
Running Toward, Not Away
The families I know who are making or seriously considering Aliyah aren’t “running” from anything—they’re running toward something. Toward raising children who see Jewish sovereignty as natural rather than miraculous. Toward participating in a national project that feels generative rather than defensive. Toward aligning their daily lives with their deepest values rather than constantly negotiating between their Jewish identity and their surrounding culture.
This distinction matters profoundly, especially in moments like these when fear threatens to become our primary motivator. Aliyah driven by terror creates communities defined by what they’re fleeing—reactive, defensive, always looking over their shoulders. Aliyah driven by vision and aspiration creates communities defined by what they’re building—confident, creative, focused on contribution rather than survival.
I understand why Hillel’s warning resonates with so many. When we see the trajectory of antisemitism, when we witness the normalization of anti-Jewish sentiment in spaces that once felt safe, the impulse to sound an alarm comes from the deepest place of Jewish responsibility. Yet precisely because the stakes are so high, we must be careful not to let crisis thinking override the deeper work of discernment.
When we frame Aliyah only in crisis terms, we rob it of its dignity and appeal. We make it seem like a desperate last resort rather than a meaningful choice. We replace the natural process of discernment—weighing values, dreams, and practical considerations—with the artificial urgency of an emergency evacuation.
Here’s what I’ve learned from countless conversations: nobody makes Aliyah with a perfect plan. The numbers never fully add up. The questions never get completely answered. What happens instead is simpler and more profound: it becomes time.
For some people reading this, that time may be now. For others, it may be years away, or never. Both responses can be legitimate, thoughtful, and rooted in genuine values. The key is engaging with the question honestly rather than dismissing it reflexively.
If not now, when? isn’t meant to pressure or manipulate. It’s meant to create space—space to dream, to plan, to consider what kind of Jewish future we want for ourselves and our children.
We live in a moment of profound complexity. There is real beauty, safety, and vibrancy in Diaspora Jewish life that deserves recognition and celebration. But there are also unmistakable signs that the ground beneath us is shifting. Political hostility toward Jews and Israel is rising in ways that would have seemed unimaginable just a decade ago. Cultural norms that once seemed unshakeable now feel fragile. Many thoughtful Jews—people like Hillel—are asking whether it’s still wise to build long-term futures in the West, and for those who aren’t asking these questions, perhaps it’s time to begin.
These questions aren’t paranoid or alarmist—they’re historically informed and entirely reasonable. Hillel’s concerns deserve to be taken seriously, not dismissed as fear-mongering. But the answers cannot come from terror alone, nor from someone standing on a metaphorical rooftop declaring we have thirty days left. The gravity of the situation demands the opposite: deeper wisdom, more careful discernment, and decision-making rooted in vision rather than dread.
The answers have to emerge from within each of us—from serious reflection, spiritual consideration, and honest assessment of our values and priorities. Even when that reflection is motivated by concern, it should be guided by wisdom, not dread.
The Gemara in Shabbos 31a teaches that when we leave this world, Hashem will ask each of us six questions, one of which is: “צפית לישועה?—Did you yearn for redemption?” Yearning isn’t abstract sentimentality. It’s planning. Considering. Opening your heart and your life to possibilities that align with your deepest convictions.
If not now, when?
Not because the sky is falling, but because the soul is calling. Not because we must flee, but because we might choose to build. Not (only) because the time is running out, but because the time to ask—really ask—might just be now.
The question won’t disappear by ignoring it. And it deserves better than fear-based ultimatums or comfortable deflection. It deserves the dignity of serious consideration, guided by faith rather than anxiety, by vision rather than dread.
And so, let us ask ourselves, what are we waiting for?
To Whom It May Concern 