A Star of David in My Pocket: Reflections on Moldova, Safety, and the Weight of Identity | Josh Aronson

I recently returned from Moldova, where I had the privilege of attending the historic inauguration ceremony of the country's new Chief Rabbi, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Axelrod. It was an impressive gathering of community leaders, dignitaries, and visionaries. Under normal circumstances, an opinion piece about this trip would focus on the extraordinary people I met.

I would have written about Israel's ambassador to Moldova, Yoram Elron, whose diplomatic presence highlighted the deep ties between the nations. I would have highlighted the Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rabbi Kalman Ber, and Rabbi Mendy Kotlarsky, head of all Chabad emissaries worldwide, whose leadership continues to shape the future of Jewish life globally. I would have even told you about the dynamic twin brothers and journalists, the Risel brothers, who covered the event with sharp insight. But as I reflect on the trip, none of these prominent figures is the focus of what I feel compelled to share. Instead, my thoughts — and my heart — return again and again to a small piece of metal sitting quietly in my pocket: my Star of David.

The Quiet Choice at the Airport

While traveling through Istanbul on my way to Eastern Europe, I faced a difficult and sobering choice. Before passing through the terminal, I reached out, unclasped the chain, and tucked my Star of David into my bag. This was a decision born not of cowardice, but of calculated survival. I am a proud Jew and a proud Zionist. I am a person who openly supports peace and a two-state solution, deeply believing in a future where all people in the region can thrive side by side. But none of these diverse political beliefs matter to a crowd driven by irrational hostility. In today's climate, the hatred around us has become so volatile that people are all too prone to physical attacks just because they see a Jew.

Removing my Star of David felt like a betrayal of who I am, even if it was only for the duration of the flight. It exposed a grim reality: the freedom to openly express a Jewish identity has become a calculated risk.

The Complexities of Human Nature

This disturbing wave of blind hatred brings to mind the messy, and often troubling, complexities of the human psyche. The famous psychologist Sigmund Freud described the primal and darker impulses within human nature — the deep conflicts of the subconscious, where civilization constantly grapples with raw and destructive desires.

Freud's work reminds us that humans are inherently flawed. No one is perfect. We are creatures driven by fears, prejudices, and historical baggage. Yet, acknowledging our flaws is not an excuse to succumb to them; rather, it is a call to action. We must strive to understand, learn, and look beyond the surface. Research, education, and genuine dialogue are essential keys to dismantling the ignorance that fuels antisemitism and xenophobia.

Looking Ahead

My time in Moldova was inspiring. Witnessing the resilience of a growing Jewish community reminded me that our heritage has survived centuries of darkness. When I returned home, the first thing I did was take the Star of David out of my pocket and return it to my neck, where it belongs. We cannot allow fear to force us to hide permanently. But we must also remain clear-eyed about the world we navigate — a world desperately in need of more empathy, deeper understanding, and the courage to choose education over hostility.

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Reclaiming Zionism: From the Ashes of History to the Voices of the Present

Language is a living, breathing thing, constantly shaped and reshaped by cultural currents and political struggles. Today, few words carry as much friction or passion as "Zionism." In the eyes of critics, it serves as a political slur — a dirty word intended to paralyze dialogue and criminalize identity.

But as someone on the autism spectrum, a journalist, and a lifelong advocate for the inclusion of people with disabilities, my understanding of Zionism is rooted not in abstract talking points, but in history, survival, and deep human solidarity.

To grasp the depth of this identity, you must examine how the past flows into the present. We recently witnessed a powerful testament to this continuity with the reburial of Theodor Herzl's grandparents. When I visited Budapest and Vienna — the birthplace of modern political Zionism — I stood in places where history's heaviest shadows loom. I visited what was once the psychiatric hospital to which Dr. Hans Asperger sent people like me, people with disabilities, to their deaths.

Standing in a space designed to erase our existence, and realizing that this site is now a thriving Jewish school, struck me with intense force. This transformation is the ultimate act of Jewish restoration. It tells us that we are not just surviving our history; we are repurposing it.

However, contemporary discourse often flattens these complexities. Pro-Palestinian activists often use "Zionism" as a blanket pejorative to delegitimize the Jewish homeland and the people associated with it. They try to make the label toxic. But true Zionism is the exact opposite of exclusion: it is the enduring belief in self-determination, sanctuary, and the work of building a society that protects the vulnerable.

For me, this is not just a political philosophy; it is a living, daily reality. As a journalist covering the Jewish world and the diaspora for Maariv, and as an activist promoting global accessibility and the rights of people with disabilities, my work is tied to how we treat the most fragile in society. But even activists hit walls.

Just a few weeks ago, I faced a severe mental health crisis. Overwhelmed by burnout and a severe mental breakdown, I couldn't even bring myself to attend my graduation ceremony at the University of Salford, where I had just completed my master's degree in international journalism. I felt hollow, depressed, and deeply defeated, as if my years of work as a Zionist and community activist were unrecognized or unsustainable in this moment of darkness.

And then the true meaning of Zionism was revealed.

Ideologies are ultimately judged not by their grand manifestos, but by how they show up for people when they break. In my darkest hour, I did not encounter judgment; I encountered community. Kol HaAm stood by my side. Through President Isaac Herzog's "Kol HaAm" initiative — where I am proud to serve as a council member alongside global leaders — and through my wider Jewish community family, people stepped in.

They helped me, pulled me back from the edge, and gave me the confidence to carry on.

This is essentially the essence of Zionism. It is not a weaponized political slogan; it is "Kol Yisrael," the unwavering mutual responsibility that binds us together. It is the spirit that takes a hospital once intended to destroy the lives of autistic people and turns it into a Jewish school. It is the strength that lifts a broken journalist when he cannot make it to his graduation ceremony. We are a people of resilience, of rebuilding, and of standing by one another — no matter how dark the path may be.