People ride a motorcycle past a burned-out military vehicle, following deadly clashes between Druze fighters, Sunni Bedouin tribes, and government forces, in Syria’s predominantly Druze city of Sweida, Syria, July 25, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Khalil Ashawi

Syria has pledged to investigate clashes in the southern province of Sweida which killed hundreds of people last month — the second major episode of sectarian violence since the ouster of longtime Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad.

In a decree dated July 31, justice minister Muzher al-Wais said a committee of seven people — including judges, lawyers, and a military official — would look into the circumstances that led to the “events in Sweida” and report back within three months.

The committee would investigate reported attacks and abuses against civilians and refer anyone proven to have participated in such attacks to the judiciary.

The violence in Sweida began on July 13 between tribal fighters and Druze factions. Government forces were sent to quell the fighting, but the bloodshed worsened, and Israel carried out strikes on Syrian troops in the name of the Druze.

The Druze are a minority offshoot of Islam with followers in Syria, Lebanon, and Israel. Sweida province is predominantly Druze but is also home to Sunni tribes, and the communities have had longstanding tensions over land and other resources.

A US-brokered truce ended the fighting, which had raged in Sweida city and surrounding towns for nearly a week.

In March, hundreds of Alawite civilians were killed after government-aligned forces deployed to Syria‘s coastal areas following a deadly attack on new government forces by militias still aligned with Assad, who hails from the Alawite minority.

Assad’s brutal crackdown on protests against him in 2011 from within Syria‘s Sunni majority spiraled into a nearly 14-year war. Western leaders are keen to ensure the new government, led by a former Sunni Islamist group that has its roots in global jihad, conducts an orderly democratic transition.

The fact-finding committee established after the March killings last month referred 298 people suspected of carrying out abuses against Alawites to the judiciary.

The committee said it found no evidence of commanders ordering troops to commit violations and that 265 people had been involved in the initial attack on government forces.

A Torah scroll. Photo: RabbiSacks.org.

One of ancient Greece’s earliest philosophers, Heraclitus, is recorded as having said: “There is nothing permanent except change.” Along the same lines, he stated: “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” 

The sentiment of this ancient wisdom is simple – those who stay in the same place and never embrace new realities are doomed to disaster.

There are numerous examples from history of those who refused to change when catastrophe loomed. But far more refreshing are those who understood, when faced with disaster, that a correction was needed, sometimes urgently. 

One famous example is the sixteenth-century Dutch leader, William of Orange. In 1566, William faced an impossible choice. The king of Spain, Philip II, was tightening his iron grip on the Low Countries – crushing religious freedom and centralizing power in ways that had never been attempted before. The old system – accepting foreign rule while hoping for gradual reform – had failed spectacularly. 

William could have clung to the familiar, doubling down on diplomatic appeals and hoping for the best. But instinctively, he knew that this wouldn’t work out well. Instead, he did something revolutionary: he acknowledged that the old route wasn’t working and opted to change course.

The Dutch Revolt that followed could be viewed as a military campaign, but actually it was much more than that: it was a complete reimagining of what could be and how that could be achieved. William became the first Stadtholder of what would become the Dutch Republic, creating a new model that bore little resemblance to the monarchical systems that had preceded it. 

The change was radical, and initially it was both uncomfortable and uncertain. But it worked – because William and his supporters dared to honestly assess what wasn’t working and make the necessary adjustments until they got it right. What followed was a century of prosperity, known as the Dutch Golden Age.

This willingness to recalculate in the face of potential failure isn’t merely a political strategy – it’s a fundamental principle of how progress can proceed. And nowhere is this principle more beautifully illustrated than in Parshas Devarim.

Modern technology has given us an unexpected teacher in resilience. When you set your GPS to a destination, it sets your course – but inevitably, you will make a mistake and take a wrong turn. Without a fuss, your GPS will recalculate, offering you a new route to your destination. There’s no judgment, and no disappointment. 

Occasionally, the GPS will try to send you back to the original route, but more often it will simply offer you another pathway. Now, imagine if life worked like that. Imagine if every time we found ourselves going off course, we were offered the new route back to the best version of ourselves.

This is precisely the approach Moshe Rabbeinu takes in Devarim. As the Jewish people stand on the threshold of the Promised Land, about to change course completely from the secure existence they had enjoyed for four decades, Moshe offers them a platform to succeed in their new situation. Not criticism or recrimination. Instead, he offers something far more valuable: a retrospective that focuses not on blame but on learning from mistakes and charting a new route ahead.

Yes, there were the spies who brought back a discouraging report, and the repercussions were devastating. So, beware of those whose advice will set you back. 

Yes, there was the golden calf, and you almost went off a cliff before your journey even started. So, don’t fall into the trap of attractive ideas that will end up taking you down. 

Yes, there was the rebellion of Korach. So, don’t allow yourself to be drawn into self-destructive insurrections. 

Moshe acknowledges these missteps, not to draw attention to the mistakes, but to explain that every misstep is just a stumble along the way to your predetermined destination.

For forty years, the Israelites had lived as perpetual wanderers, always looked after by God – manna falling from heaven, water flowing from rocks, clouds providing direction and protection. They had become accustomed to a kind of spiritual dependency, where their basic needs were miraculously provided, and their major decisions were made through divine signs. 

Now, as they prepared to enter the Land of Israel, everything was about to change. They would need to plant crops and harvest them, dig wells and maintain them, establish courts and ensure justice, defend borders and govern cities. The wilderness mindset – reactive, dependent, whiny – had to give way to a completely different approach: proactive, responsible, and focused on building a society.

Perhaps no figure in Jewish history understood this principle better than Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai. As Jerusalem collapsed under the weight of the Roman siege in 70 CE, he understood that the Temple would imminently be destroyed. 

Unless there was a drastic adaptation to new realities, Judaism would disappear. The old system – Temple-based Judaism centered in Jerusalem – was collapsing. The rebels who presided over Jerusalem, including his own nephew, refused to consider any alternative. They clung to the familiar, convinced that doubling down was the only honorable path.

But Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai chose to recalculate. His famous request to the Roman general Vespasian – “Give me Yavneh and its sages” – was an acknowledgement that a new route was required to get to the same destination. 

The route through Temple worship was no longer available. So, instead of doggedly pursuing the same path and pretending that the destruction wasn’t happening, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai calmly assessed the new landscape and found an alternative route: a Judaism that could survive and thrive without the Temple, a Judaism centered on study and scholarship rather than animal sacrifices and pilgrimage.

The transformation was radical. The Judaism that emerged from Yavneh may have been significantly different from what had come before, but it worked — spectacularly. And the proof is that it has survived for nearly two millennia. Meanwhile, those who refused to change course disappeared without a trace once the Temple was destroyed.

This theme resonates powerfully with Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat of Isaiah’s Vision that precedes Tisha B’Av. The haftarah from Isaiah that gives this Shabbat its name is predominantly a prophecy of doom, and a divine indictment of Jewish failures. 

But if you look more carefully, you’ll see something else entirely: embedded within the rebuke is the ultimate recalculation. Isaiah acknowledges that the Jewish people are off course and the consequences for that will be severe – exile, destruction, and the loss of the Temple. 

But the prophet’s message isn’t “Game Over.” Instead, his underlying message is “Come now, let us reason together” (Is. 1:18) — even after destruction, we can recalculate. The vision Isaiah presents isn’t only about destruction, it’s also about reconstruction.

The entire concept of Tisha B’Av embodies this principle. When we fast and mourn, it’s not just about wallowing in historical tragedy. It’s about engaging honestly with our missteps so we can find our way back to the correct route. 

Our day of mourning is about the destruction of the past, but simultaneously it is also a day of recalculation, a hopeful acknowledgement that while we may have taken wrong turns, we remain on course for our destination.

Moshe’s retrospective in Parshat Devarim and Isaiah’s vision in the haftarah of Shabbat Chazon both carry the same essential message: it’s never “Game Over.” No matter how far off course we’ve traveled, no matter how many wrong turns we’ve taken, the GPS of divine providence is always ready to find the route that will get us back on track. 

The question is only whether we have the wisdom to listen and the courage to follow that new route home.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

Car in New South Wales, Australia graffitied with antisemitic message. The word “F***” has been removed from this image. Photo: Screenshot

On July 29, 2025, a national poll in Australia delivered a deeply unsettling message: perhaps the “silent majority” that we believed in for so long — those decent, fair-minded Australians who would reject antisemitism when it crossed a line — was never really there to begin with.

The survey revealed that just 24% of Australians hold a positive view of Jews, while 28% express negative views, and the rest are indifferent or unsure.

This is not the fringe — it is the center. And it lands after two years of unrelenting escalation, during which antisemitic incidents in Australia have surged by over 300%. Synagogues have been firebombed. Jewish businesses have been attacked. Marches in our cities have featured chants glorifying terror and calling for the annihilation of the Jewish State.

For the past two years, we’ve watched the unthinkable become normalized — and still, the silence has persisted. We reassured ourselves that when things got bad, or worse, Australians — quiet, pragmatic, egalitarian — would draw a line. We believed that behind the chaos of social media and the radicalism of campus protests, there was a steady, principled middle who would never let hate take hold. But perhaps we were wrong. Or perhaps we simply misread the signs.

We saw moments that encouraged hope: political leaders condemning antisemitism after high-profile incidents; universities adopting or referencing definitions of antisemitism — though often watered down, selectively applied, or lacking enforcement; and a few faith and community leaders standing shoulder to shoulder with Jewish communities in symbolic gestures of unity. We mistook these signals as proof that the mainstream was with us — that the loudest voices did not represent the majority.

But those signs were often just that — symbolic. Many condemnations were performative. Institutional policies were rarely enforced. And while we heard reassurances from officials that “most Australians reject hate,” we now know they didn’t have the data to back it up.

So why did we believe?

The truth is that the idea of a silent majority is emotionally powerful. It reassures us that we are not alone. It suggests that while antisemitism may be loud, decency is quietly stronger. It gives us permission to believe in the goodness of our neighbors, even when the evidence is thin. It tells us that democracy will self-correct, that morality will prevail in the end.

But increasingly, that belief feels more like a coping mechanism than a reality. We’ve clung to it without data, without proof, and — if we’re honest — without election results to support it. Because the alternative is terrifying: the alternative is that the center is not asleep, but absent.

And if the silent majority doesn’t exist — if it never did — what then?

It means that antisemitism isn’t just being ignored; it’s being tolerated. It means that when politicians offer symbolic recognition of a Palestinian state while Hamas still holds hostages and preaches genocide, they are not defying their electorate — they may be reflecting it. It means that when university encampments promote terror and intimidate Jewish students, and administrators do nothing, it’s not cowardice — it may be calculated silence. It means that we are not surrounded by quiet allies, but by people who either don’t care or don’t know.

It also means that we can no longer wait for “them” to speak up.

This isn’t just happening in Australia. Across the Western world, the same pattern is emerging. In Canada, antisemitism on campuses is surging, and the government now flirts with symbolic recognition of a Palestinian state — not as part of peace negotiations, but as a political signal. In Ireland, Spain, Norway, and the UK, similar moves have rewarded those who glorify terror while ignoring those who seek dialogue. In the United States, antisemitism reached record highs last year, with Jewish students and communities increasingly ostracized for daring to speak the truth.

These are not isolated developments — they are part of a deeper pattern: the moral center is shrinking, and the hateful fringes are being normalized.

At StandWithUs Australia, we fight back with facts, with education, and with pride. We equip students and communities to speak up for truth, to push back against hatred. But we cannot do this alone. We are a small community. And now, more than ever, we need others to stand publicly — not silently — with us.

Because if the silent majority was ever real, now is the time to speak. And if it remains silent now, then we must confront the hardest truth of all: that it was never there to begin with.

In that case, the path forward changes.

We must stop seeking quiet affirmation and instead build loud, unignorable support. We must shift from trusting that others will step up, to ensuring that we are strong enough to lead. We must teach, advocate, organize, and call out moral cowardice for what it is — whether it comes from universities, governments, media, or community leaders.

Because if we’ve learned anything from the past two years, it’s that silence isn’t safety.

And comfort, no matter how convincing, is not the same as courage.

Michael Gencher is executive director StandWithUs Australia, an international nonpartisan education organization that supports Israel and fights antisemitism.