How does one become a “Good Jew?” What is the ideal response in the face of hatred? Should one choose silence and appeasement to avoid conflict, or express unapologetic pride and deter one’s enemies? Should we remain in the confines of our Jewish communities, or spread our wings beyond them? These questions, reflecting contrasting philosophies in the Jewish ethical wills of Eleazar of Mayence (1357) and Judah ibn Tibbon (1160-1180), resemble the questions we ask ourselves today.

In the Middle Ages, Jews typically left statements of inheritance to their children; beyond such wills, Jewish ethical wills — known in Hebrew as Tzevaot — conveyed values and guidance for learning and living to their descendants. Penned widely across Ashkenazi and Sephardic worlds, from al-Andalusia and the Levant to Germany and France, ethical wills show us what Jewish priorities and principles of character were valued at the time, and what we can contemplate in the modern age.

Judah ibn Tibbon, a successful physician and scholar, lived under Islamic rule during the Middle Ages. Medieval Islamic society was relatively tolerant toward Jews under the Pact of Umar; yet, there were restrictions under protected status, or dhimmi status, which provided conditional protections and required additional tax payments known as the jizya. In al-Andalusia, Jews including Tibbon, Maimonides, Abraham ibn Ezra, and others, lived enriching lives as public Jewish figures.

In contrast, Christian Europe had no such pact with its Jews. Elazar of Mayence, writing from Germany, lived through the Black Death and experienced pervasive Blood Libels and other chimerical myths that inspired mobs to massacre Jews with no government retribution. From this analysis, it is understandable why Elazar would advise his sons and daughters to reside among Jews and keep a low profile by remaining silent and avoiding any confrontation. At the same time, it makes sense that Tibbon prescribed his son to excel in medicine, philosophy, and science, and to build a good name for himself as a deterrence method.

The insights from these two authors — and noting the very different environments in which they lived — can inspire how Jewish college students would contemplate an ethical will for their descendants (i.e., future generations of Jewish students). I hope that, just as Jewish scripture and helping others were critical for both authors, knowledgeability about Judaism and Israel, and playing a role in the campus community, manifest as priorities for every Jewish student.

In the aftermath of October 7th, Elazar’s prescription of silence and appeasement is one that I believe would imperil the Jewish future. I was incredulous when some of my fellow Jewish peers expressed that we should hide in the Hillel building during the pro-Hamas encampment on my campus, instead of urging the administration to dismantle it immediately.

A similar feeling overcame me when my classmates began to isolate their friend groups exclusively to the Jewish community, and most of all, when they callously cut off friends who disagreed with them, most notably after this past election.

For generations, there has been discourse around the “Good” versus “Bad” Jew: one who exuded power or powerlessness, assimilated or remained visibly Jewish, tried to resolve conflicts through compromise or direct confrontation, or one who supports Israel and one who does not.

Throughout my university experience, I’ve approached the question of being a “Good Jew” in multiple ways, reflecting myriad ideas posited by Elazar and Tibbon.

In my sophomore year, I considered giving up the fight against antisemitism on campus and keeping quiet due to fears for my safety. After conversations with professors and family friends, and because silence felt wrong, I continued writing articles, speaking at a variety of events, getting involved in student government, and meeting with the George Washington University administration; yet, my initial advocacy approach attempted to appease university officials by providing them with constructive solutions, in my efforts to work with them in good faith.

Students like myself have sought to educate rather than expose administrators for their ignorance and negligible indifference. However, after my efforts proved fruitless — and pro-Hamas rallies continued sweeping the nation unabated, with administrators allowing and thus enabling them — this approach was bound to escalate anti-Jewish behavior rather than deter it.

The Jewish people today live in very different circumstances than Elazar, and even Tibbon. While we may not be fully protected by institutions, America stands with us, and Israel ensures our safety like never before. We have the right to defend ourselves, and in this eight-front war against Israel, Jewish courage has risen to the challenge. This courage is vital not only for Israel’s future, but for higher education and Western civilization. Our strength and victories inspire millions, proving that more stand on the right side of history than we may realize.

While it may seem that the Jewish community has never been in this much danger since the Holocaust — and many of the signs that we saw in Nazi Germany with the indoctrination and harassment of Jewish students by their professors and classmates seem eerily familiar — we should engage with the outside world in the ways that Tibbon prescribed.

In following the teaching of Pirkei Avot, “he who is wise learns from everyone,” we should all engage in social groups and academic circles where we may be the only Jew or only Zionist voice. Here, we have an opportunity to share the true stories of the Jewish people — along with personal, family stories that our peers can connect to. We should equally listen to the stories of others who may present opposing narratives and viewpoints — and be okay with that. While fabricated, propaganda-filled curricula should never be held as fact, the power of viewpoint diversity should never be compromised.

The “Good Jew” is the one who, like the shamash, serves the community by lighting all its neighbors with glimmers of wisdom and can be surrounded by those who hold different perspectives.

Simultaneously, the “Good Jew” should be able to read a variety of sources no matter how contrary to their beliefs. As the lesson of Hanukkah prescribes, the “Good Jew” is the one who does not assimilate or isolate himself to one source of knowledge or one community. The ideal response to hatred is continuing to shed light on truth by maintaining an unwavering Jewish spirit — asking challenging questions and spreading written and oral knowledge. Dissent, discourse, and debate are critical to prevent the permeation of fabrications about the Jewish people in the civilized, educated world and the West — a world in which we have the freedom to channel our merits and spread our wisdom.

A miracle is often seen as a divine, unexplainable event. But in Jewish tradition, miracles require human effort. The Hanukkah story exemplifies this: Judah the Maccabee fought against assimilation and prevailing norms among his fellow Jews, setting the precedent for modern Jews to never surrender their identity and power. Similarly, Elazar urged his descendants to stay rooted in Judaism, while Tibbon engaged with diverse philosophies and cultures without compromising his faith.

Exposure to other ideas should strengthen, not weaken, our beliefs. The combination of these elements should resemble the portrait of the “Good Jew,” which we have the duty to embody and channel for generations to come.

The author is a senior at George Washington University.

The post The Ethics of a ‘Good Jew’ on College Campuses Today first appeared on Algemeiner.com.