I'm a Jew, I met with Mamdani and this is what I learned

I grew up in an affordable housing project in the Hasidic community of Williamsburg. All eight of my great-grandparents were Holocaust survivors. From a young age, being cautious of outsiders was a way of life.

Zohran Mamdani was the unknown candidate. And in our community, like in many other tight-knit communities, the unknown is often accompanied by fear and suspicion.

In recent months, I've watched my family, friends, colleagues, and neighbors slip into full panic mode as the Democratic Socialist newcomer made his political ascent. Some called him antisemitic; others even worse. Videos circulated claiming that Mamdani “hates Jews and he doesn't even try to hide it,” going on to compare Jews supporting him to Jews who supported Hitler. A prominent rabbi declared that Mamdani is “a danger to Jewish New Yorkers.” National headlines followed, painting a grim picture: “Mamdani will be bad for New York Jews,” “Why Mamdani Frightens Jews like me,” and others like them.

It is in these moments of fear and confusion that I remember places I have visited, where fear is not a mood but a way of life.

In Caracas, when I exited the plane, I was immediately greeted by a poster offering a bounty for information on Nicolás Maduro's political opponent Edmundo González. Driving into the city, I asked my driver why Maduro's face seemed to be everywhere: billboards, walls, banners, even on buses!

He smiled and said, “We have a great country and an amazing leader!” I looked at him and pressed, “Are you free to speak your mind?” He paused, quickly turned around, winked at me, and said, “Sometimes.”

At a large synagogue in Caracas later that week, when the services ended, I asked some of the congregants similar hard questions, and every answer sounded almost rehearsed. “Things have been wonderful for us,” they said, and continued, “Our government is not like what you think in America.” Yet later, on the Sabbath, when I pressed one of them, he whispered to me: "Unfortunately, with the years, our community has learned the hard way not to speak honestly.”

Syria was a different world, yet similar. I arrived a few months after the fall of Bashar al-Assad. His face was gone, new flags replaced him, yet wherever I turned, fear was still lingering.

Visiting the last intact synagogue was a whole ordeal; we needed governmental permission, which was granted at last. Inside, I was greeted warmly by some local Jews, and to my surprise, they all spoke of their new leaders only with praise.

Like Venezuela, no complaints, no concerns. Perhaps the new government means well. Only time will tell. But the self-instinct of the oppressed Syrian Jews to self-censor was evident.

Those trips taught me something simple yet profound: our ability to criticize harshly, protest loudly and publicly, is not something many grasp the significance of, yet it's the simplest and biggest measure of freedom. Here in America, we call presidents liars, governors incompetent, mayors crazy, and journalists fake news or biased.

We protest, write, organize, and vote. No one is afraid of a midnight knock on their door or a police raid on their businesses with orders to shut them down for saying the wrong thing. That small difference is everything.

Which brings me back to New York and to Zohran Mamdani.

I chose to meet him. Knowing that we disagree on some serious issues. Knowing that not all of his policies are ones I can support. Knowing that we both feel deeply different about an ancient conflict overseas that has caused immeasurable human loss to both sides.

But this is the United States of America, a land where it is our God-given right to speak freely, argue passionately, and disagree fiercely while maintaining respect and basic human decency. Jewish freedom in America has depended on that promise since the founding of this country. If we forget that, we forget why our community flourished here.

So I sat down with Zohran with an open mind. We had an honest, thoughtful, and constructive conversation. I asked hard questions about things that concern my community.

He answered them warmly. I pushed and he pushed back. We found points of agreement and points of deep disagreement. That’s called civic life. It’s how adults in a healthy democracy communicate.

From our conversation, I have no reason to believe that Zohran Mamdani is antisemitic or remotely close to that. We disagreed, sometimes even sharply, on issues like Israel and policy, but disagreement is not hatred.

To my fellow Jews who are afraid: I hear you.

Our fear is not irrational, especially when our history is running deep in our consciousness. But we cannot let our fear turn us into people who refuse to speak, listen, meet, or even worse: people who demonize and mislabel our fellow citizens for their opinions.