(London, Spring 2026)

In recent months, I have seen a sentiment expressed more than once.

A person writes that they are grateful their parents are no longer alive — spared, they say, from witnessing the rise in antisemitism now visible across London, the UK, and the wider world.

It is not an unfamiliar voice to me.  It is, in fact, a deeply personal one.  And yet, I find myself unable to recognise the gratitude being described.

I understand the fear.

We are living through a period in which Jewish life feels newly exposed. Incidents that once sat at the margins now appear with unsettling regularity. There is anger, unease, and a sense that something has shifted — perhaps irreversibly.

In such a moment, it is not surprising that people reach for ways to soften the impact.

To imagine that those we love have been spared the distress. To place a protective frame around their absence. To try, somehow, to make loss feel purposeful.

I understand the instinct.

But I cannot share the conclusion.

I have lost both of my parents.

I have many sentiments about that loss. Gratitude is not one of them.

If anything, what I feel most acutely — especially now — is the absence of their perspective.

The resilience they modelled. The steadiness they brought to moments of uncertainty. The capacity to sit with complexity without collapsing into it.

I would be grateful for that now.

I would be grateful for their voice at the table. Even if that voice expressed anger, frustration, or deep discomfort with the world as it is.

This was brought into sharper focus for me this past week, attending the funeral and shiva of a friend’s mother.

She had lived into her nineties. A full life, by any........

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