This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
For Jewish writers, the act of storytelling has always been more than a craft; it’s a profound imperative. In every generation, from ancient scrolls to modern screens, we’ve faced an unyielding truth: our stories must be told, our voices must persist. Even now, amidst fear, isolation, and the looming threat of cancel- culture, this singular rule remains: keep talking. To be a Jewish writer is to proudly affirm our existence, defend our right to speak, and reclaim the safety to write what we are meant to write.
One might be tempted to do the opposite — to retreat, to fall into the silence. In an era marked by the pervasive menace of cancellation — particularly within the arts— the pressure to conform, to shy away from challenging prevailing views, is immense. This phenomenon, which eerily echoes Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann’s “spiral of silence” theory, uses threats and isolation to stifle dissenting voices. Yet, this is precisely why we can’t yield. To me this isn’t a good reason to adopt a pseudonym, to deny our tradition, our culture, or our beliefs. To become someone we aren’t, simply to fit in.
The Shifting Sands of Belonging
We live in paradigmatic times where the tag of diversity is championed worldwide, yet conspicuously, not all communities, nationalities, and creeds are deemed worthy of universal support. This era reveals a stark truth: contemporary diversity is often not inclusive. Instead, the narrative is frequently crafted for political and ideological convenience, harnessing emotional reactions to discussion of identity and belonging rather than focusing on the rational.
As George Steiner observed nearly fifty years ago in Nostalgia for the Absolute, the decline of traditional grand narratives, such as formal religious systems, might lead to the emergence of new belief systems, which he termed “metareligions.” We’re now witnessing the rise of a new concept of faith, where faith, stripped of its sacred and consecrated elements, functions as a key resource for identity, shaping how we perceive and question reality. In this context, instinct, personal experience, emotion, and subjective perspectives have become the new arbiters of truth, acceptability, and possibility. This need to believe provides a sense of belonging and an inexhaustible source of certainty — unverifiable, yet compelling. Ultimately, as Steiner suggests, we’re creatures of faith, driven by a need to believe, and this belief can relieve us of the often difficult and solitary task of independent thought.
It is precisely in this landscape, however, that literature thrives, pushing forward narratives outside the mainstream. We wield the written word to articulate our truth. Our purpose is to reveal our unique perspectives, to tell stories, even when parts of the world would rather not listen.
This is why writers can be perceived as inconvenient to a regime or larger group. Our primary aim is to dispel intellectual complacency. We seek to inspire doubt — that essential, imperfect process where individuals question the fairness of their own ideas and are prompted to reconsider their beliefs. Moreover, we write to encourage readers to envision other possible worlds, realms governed by entirely new rules. All of this might be impossible to achieve in a repressive or self-repressive context.
Writing after October 7th
As Jewish writers, our mandate is twofold: to keep memory alive and to record our present. This requires us to empathize deeply with the experience of the other. We write for those who cannot speak — right now, or voices silenced in the past. We write for those who were killed in pogroms and concentration camps, and for those who were killed on October 7th. And profoundly, we write for peace. I, personally, feel a deep urgency to reach that peace.
I’m not ashamed to admit that my sense of Jewishness was changed by the events of October 7th.Not because I felt differently about my spiritual connection to the larger global Jewish community, of but for the fact that I really understood that silence was not an option.
As Argentinian journalist Javier Sinay aptly captured in an interview published in the newspaper La Nación with Rabbi Delphine Horvilleur: “Suddenly we have to teach simultaneously about the universal bridge between Judaism and the world, and also about the need to protect ourselves. It is a major tension. On the other hand, Jews are not simply Jews: we are Jews and so many other things. Many people, if you had asked them how they defined themselves a few years ago, they would have said, ‘I’m French, I’m European, I love running, I love to eat sushi, and I’m Jewish.’ As of October 7, not because they chose it, but because the world forced them to reverse their personal definition, now these people suddenly see their Jewish identity take center stage.” Horvilleur adds: “It’s not that we obsess over ourselves as Jews, but we have no choice, because suddenly we’re threatened and we’re going back to the old things. It’s not the same story, but there’s a kind of echo. When I was a child I disliked that my grandparents, no matter what we talked about, always said, ‘Is it good or bad for the Jews?’ It seemed ridiculous to me that they would still think that everything was for better or worse, and I didn’t expect that in my life I would suddenly hear their voice again. My grandparents died a long time ago, but right now I feel like they’re yelling at me, like they’re constantly saying to me, ‘See? We told you so! You were wrong to be so convinced that we had already overcome those historic moments.” (This translation is my own.)
In fact, I can truly say that I learned how to be a Jewish writer during the harrowing days following the Hamas attack on October 7th. As countless lives were extinguished, including children, and women endured unimaginable atrocities, a profound silence descended upon much of the feminist movement within the art world. It was then that I first fully embraced the role I now champion. I recall writing two or three phrases on my Instagram, imprinted with crystal clarity:
Diversity must be truly diverse, not merely convenient.
Feminism that rejects Jewish women shouldn’t be called feminism.
Writers like me are comfortable with the uncomfortable zone. I have no desire to be politically correct; correct me if I ever stray. My commitment is to honesty, both to myself and to my readers.
Some people unfollowed me. Initially, it stung. Then, I realized it was simply confirmation. While I may aims for a global conversation, the true impact often resonates with only a select few. On that day, I understood: I had to be careful, but never quiet.
The Trap of Being a Jewish Artist
In one of George Steiner’s last interviews, in conversation with Laure Adler, Steiner recalled the profound philosophical question posed by Sidney Hook: the decision to be or not be Jewish after the Holocaust. Hook posed the idea: “If you knew there would be another Holocaust, a new Auschwitz, a genuine threat to the lives of your children and your children’s children, would you consider conversion? Or, as a second option, would you consider not having children at all?”
Steiner admitted that he had once posed that very question to himself, and his answer was an unequivocal no. He argued that many Jews would still refuse to deny their Jewishness in any conceivable way.
Steiner suggested that the reason why is that the Jewish people have an existential denial of disappearance.
This idea led me to think about the artists’ denial of silence, and not only the Jewish ones.
The denial of disappearance relies on a denial of silence.
Every artist in the world must raise their voice to continue creating. We cannot create in silence. And if we remain silent, we shall disappear.
*As I wrote this article in English and not in Spanish, my mother tongue, Gemini AI helped me to adjust some terms and concepts.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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She is a journalist (TEA) and has a degree in Communication (UBA-UCES) and a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from the University of La Rioja (Spain), from which she graduated with honors. He also studied a Master’s Degree in Journalism from Clarín and San Andrés with a scholarship for academic merit. She began her career at La Nación and was a political speech writer in one of the most important public opinion polls in the country. As a freelance journalist he wrote for El Cronista, La Gaceta Mercantil, Planeta Urbano, Leedor, Diálogo Político, Cosecha Roja and RPP Noticias (Peru). She has been an e‑learning advisor at Favaloro University for more than ten years. She is co-author of More than a body, The No Diet Method, We Are What We Eat and That Is Not Eaten (Aguilar) and was a collaborator of Obesity: Crossroads and Approaches. She is also co-author of Digital Narratives (Infociudadana/Konrad Adenauer) and author of Desmuteados (Akadia) and Manual of Political Journalism: Guidelines for Citizen Information and Fact-Checking (Konrad Adenauer). She is an associate editor at BeCult, where she talks to writers, and writes for Barbarie. He trains journalists for Infociudadana, Konrad Adenauer Foundation (Argentina/Uruguay), Universidad Católica de Santa Fe, Nutrinfo and Fopea. She is the academic coordinator and teacher of the DP Campus of Political Journalism, organized by the Konrad Adenauer Foundation (Uruguay), La Silla Vacía (Colombia), Participación Ciudadana (Ecuador), Infociudadana (Argentina) and with the participation of Google News Initiative (GNI). She was Secretary of Culture of Hebraica Argentina, directed Academia Abierta and is a member of the CD of Limud., where she organizes the Buenos Aires Jewish Book Fair. She is a lecturer on topics such as disinformation, creative and non-creative writing, discourse hybridization, news avoidance, solutions journalism, digital narratives, communication and scientific dissemination, assertive communication, social networks and artificial intelligence. In 2023 she was a TEDx speaker and published her first novel, Barullo, which premieres at the El Tinglado theater in August 2025. In 2024 she premiered her podcast Eso no se come, co-hosted with Mónica Katz, on WeToker/TN. She was awarded a scholarship by the Vargas Llosa Chair (2022), the Science Journalism Forum (2024) and the Salzburg Global Seminar in the Creating Futures: Art of Narrative Program (2025).