When Nazis March in Little Rock

Neo-Nazis marching in our streets are not a new phenomenon.

This has always been here. White supremacy has shaped this country since its founding, and Jewish identity in the United States has always existed in a precarious space—sometimes granted provisional acceptance, sometimes denied it entirely. For Jews, assimilation into whiteness has never been protection; it has always been conditional, temporary, and revocable.

Our community knows this firsthand. Taste of Olam Haba has been targeted for years by neo-Nazi and white supremacist groups through online death threats, doxxing, harassment, and even attacks at our homes.

These acts are not isolated. They are part of a broader ecosystem of hate fueled by Christian Nationalism, anti-LBGTQIA+ ideology, antisemitism, anti-Black racism, and the conspiracy of “Judeo-Bolshevism.” These groups target Jews not only for being Jewish, but for standing with all people who resist authoritarianism and bigotry.

And still, we refuse to hide.

Jewish tradition teaches us to bring our light into public space: to place the Hanukkah menorah in the window so its glow can be seen by all.

This is not merely ritual; it is a declaration. We choose visibility. We choose life. We choose to remain rooted in who we are, in the ancestral practices that have sustained us through every generation of threat and every attempt to extinguish us.

But in moments like this, we must speak honestly about how power responds to different communities.

Again and again, we witness a troubling pattern: law enforcement and public officials show restraint, accommodation, or even quiet welcome toward white supremacist groups while responding with far more aggression to protestors, immigrant communities, unhoused people, Black and Brown Arkansans, and others whose only “danger” is demanding dignity and justice.

This is not new either.

It is woven into a long history in the American South and across the country, institutions that coddle white supremacist violence while criminalizing those who resist it.

We know how fragile institutional protection has always been for us, especially when white supremacy, Christian Nationalism, and antisemitism converge.

So let us be clear: We cannot rely on these systems to keep us safe.

Safety only comes through solidarity. And solidarity is not symbolic. It requires understanding how our struggles are bound together. Antisemitism and anti-Judaism do not exist in isolation.

To build movements capable of resisting authoritarianism, we must understand how antisemitism functions within these systems: how it fuels conspiracy, how it scapegoats Jews while upholding whiteness, and how it is weaponized to fracture movements across the left.

We cannot have true solidarity unless we understand antisemitism. And we cannot build justice movements that ignore the ways our oppressions are intertwined. Our safety depends on recognizing these connections and acting from that understanding.

Together, we will meet hatred with courage, clarity, and collective power.

Together, we choose to keep our lights burning.