The Noise and the Silence

The world feels like it’s on fire.

Scroll through your phone, flip on the news, open any social media app—it’s a relentless, never-ending cacophony. A storm of outrage, hysteria, and distortion.

Everyone is screaming.

Narratives are spun, outrage is manufactured, and the lines between truth and fiction are intentionally blurred. The sheer volume of it all makes it impossible to think.

And then, there are the real horrors.

The ones that don’t need spin. The ones that cut through even the loudest noise.

The images of Kfir and Ariel Bibas—two innocent children, sadistically tortured to death simply for being Jewish—seared my soul. There are no words. There is no justification. There is no equivalence.

But here’s the most insane part: even in the face of pure, unfiltered evil, the same media machine that amplifies every petty controversy, every fleeting scandal, suddenly goes quiet. The same influencers, politicians, and “activists” who rage about justice have nothing to say. The same people who demand moral clarity in every other context somehow become paralyzed when the victims are Jews.

And yet, as much as this evil exists—it is not everything.

Because when I put my phone down and step outside, the world is still there.

This morning, under a brilliant sun, I walked down my street. Construction crews hammered away, homes were being built, trees swayed in the breeze. People were going about their lives. Not arguing over hashtags. Not feeding into outrage for clicks. Just working, living, creating.

I see this every day in my work.

I speak with Platform Partners—men and women of every race, color, creed, and nationality—who wake up each morning and choose to build rather than destroy. They come from different backgrounds, yet they share the same values: the sanctity of life, the dignity of work, and the belief that tomorrow can be better than today.

That is reality.

As a Jew, I carry a heritage steeped in that belief.

“Es iz shver tsu zayn a Yid”—“It’s not easy to be a Jew.”

A phrase my father often said in the name of his father.

It never has been.

The difference between our world and theirs—the world of those who murder infants in cold blood and those who celebrate them for it—is stark.

We build; they destroy.

We sanctify life; they worship death.

We mourn every innocent life lost, regardless of race or religion; they hand out sweets when ours are taken.

And yet, even in a world that so often chooses destruction, there are still those who choose to build.

A few weeks ago, I met Yael, a young Mexican man working at a hotel. He wasn’t looking for someone to hate—he was looking for a way forward. He asked if he could come to America, saying he wanted to build a better life and work hard. I gave him my number and told him that if he ever had the fortune to become a U.S. citizen, he should look me up.

This morning, he WhatsApped me*.

While the world screams in outrage and collapses into division, Yael is not part of that noise.

He’s not arguing over politics, feeding into manufactured narratives, or tearing others down. He’s thinking about his future, about what he can create, about what he can build.

And that, ultimately, is the real battle.

This is what we fight for—not just survival, but the belief that life is sacred, that a better future is always possible, that people from all backgrounds and places still dream of something greater.

The United States, for all its challenges—its mounting debt, its imperfections—remains blessed by a foundation of Judeo-Christian values. These values, which celebrate human dignity, freedom, and the sanctity of life, have given us a voice in democracy that echoes back to ancient times. The freedom to speak, to act, to live as we choose—that’s the true blessing of America.

And yet, I see that foundation crumbling, eroded by moral confusion, cowardice, and a refusal to recognize evil for what it is.

Let’s be clear: there is no moral equivalence between those who massacre children and those who protect them. Between those who celebrate death and those who choose life. Between those who torch, maim, and mutilate, and those who build, heal, and restore.

In these times of division, let’s not lose sight of what truly matters: the sanctity of life, the fight against evil, and the responsibility we each carry to stand against it.

Despite everything, we build.

We remember.

We endure.

And we will not be broken.

Neither will Yael.

*Referenced WhatsApp