To the Jewish students stepping onto campus — especially those who carry Zionism close to your heart — this moment is exciting, but it can also feel daunting.

College promises discovery, freedom, and growth. You’ll meet professors who open doors to ideas you’ve never considered, and you’ll form friendships that might stay with you for life. You’ll learn to see the world differently by encountering people whose backgrounds and perspectives are not your own. And along the way, you’ll also come to notice the small, grounding joys: a sunset after a tough day, an amazing meal shared far from home, or laughter echoing down the dorm hallway late at night.

But let me be clear: the campus you are entering is also filled with hostility and hate. You already know this. Israel has become a lightning rod for rage. And rarely is it spoken of with fairness or depth. Too often, slogans replace understanding. Israel is caricatured as a monolith of oppression. Zionism is dismissed as a moral failing. Posters, petitions, and protests make sweeping charges that ignore Jewish history and complexity. A word spoken in class can invite suspicion. Even silence is treated as guilt.

And the deepest pain may come from within. Some of your fellow Jews, often the loudest in Jewish campus spaces, will reject you for being a Zionist. That betrayal cuts more sharply than insults from strangers. To be pushed aside by your own people for loving Israel is not just isolating — it feels like exile within exile.

I want you to know: I see this clearly. I will not minimize it. The ugliness is real. You are not imagining it.

And yet — this is not the whole story. You are not as alone as you may feel in those moments. There are professors who still believe in open inquiry. Who will hear you out, even when they disagree. There are peers — Jewish and not — who understand the unfairness of singling out one people for relentless condemnation. There are vibrant organizations and communities nearby: Hillel chapters, Chabad houses, student Jewish unions, local synagogues, alumni mentors, and informal networks of supportive students. There are rabbis, chaplains, and laypeople ready to listen, guide, and champion you. Reach out. You will find others who will stand with you. The strength of Jewish life is that we never face our challenges in isolation.

You will also find anchors — moments that remind you who you are. The laughter of friends around a Sabbath table. The stirring words of Hatikvah sung in unison far from Israel’s shores. Festival foods, a prayer, the soft glow of candlelight, a melody from home. A professor praising the nuance of your argument. A peer defending you quietly in conversation. A campus lecture that expands your mind rather than trying to silence it. These moments are not trivial. They are reminders of why your convictions matter. Why your people endures.

Jewish history itself offers the deepest well of resilience. For centuries, our ancestors lived in exile yet clung to memory and hope. “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill,” cries Psalm 137 — a verse whispered in Babylon, sung in Spain, wept over in Eastern Europe, recited in every corner of exile. That was not nostalgia. It was a vow. A vow of continuity. Of resilience. Of return. That vow carried our people through pogroms, expulsions, and even the Shoah. And it is because of that vow that you walk onto campus today as a free Jew. Able to claim your identity openly. Zionism is not a political slogan. It is the lived continuation of that vow.

The Torah urges courage in the face of fear. “Be strong and have courage, do not fear and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9). That promise was true when Joshua marched across the Jordan River. And it remains true when you step into a seminar room where suspicion surrounds you. God’s presence and your history does not end at the synagogue door. It follows you into lecture halls, dining commons, dorm rooms, and late-night debates. To remember that is to reclaim your footing when the ground feels shaky.

And never forget this: your particular love for Israel is not a betrayal of universal ideals. To stand with your people is not to stand against others. To care for Israel is not to deny Palestinian dignity. To carry your heritage with conviction is not an act of exclusion — it is an act of integrity.

You will break down in tears at times; I certainly have done so more often than I can count since the October 7th massacre. Certainly, there will be moments of exhaustion, loneliness, and doubt. But as noted in Jeremiah 31, (15- 17), even in tears, your labor has meaning; your steadfastness carries hope forward. Every time you hold fast and every time you refuse to hide who you are, you plant seeds for a future you may not see, but that others will harvest.

Our people have always carried this burden and this gift. In Babylon, Jews hung their harps on the willows and still sang of Jerusalem. In Spain, amid expulsion, families clung to Torah scrolls as they crossed into exile. In the Warsaw Ghetto, with nothing left to lose, Jews lit candles and whispered blessings into the darkness. In the Soviet Union, refuseniks risked everything just to teach Hebrew in secret. At every turn, the Jewish story has proclaimed the same truth: we endure. We carry forward. We do not let go.

You are part of that story now. You stand in their line. On their shoulders. With their strength.

You are not alone. You never have been. And you never will be.

Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.