In the wake of the October 7 attacks in Israel, Jewish communities around the world have been facing new challenges, from rising antisemitism to shifts in interfaith relations.
As part of a special project by Ynetnews, journalist Eli Mandelbaum set out to different Jewish communities across the globe to understand how they have been coping since that fateful day. One of his stops was Detroit, Michigan—a city with deep Jewish roots, a strong philanthropic tradition and a community now at a crossroads.
How Detroit’s Jewish community grapples with the aftermath of October 7
(Video: Eli Mandelbaum)
The shockwaves of October 7 have left an indelible mark on Detroit’s Jewish community, which finds itself navigating increased security concerns, demographic shifts and growing tensions on college campuses. Through conversations with community leaders, activists and students, this report delves into how Detroit’s Jewish population is responding to the new reality they face.
Detroit’s Jewish community, which numbers around 70,000, has historically been a bastion of Jewish life in the Midwest. While certain segments, particularly the Orthodox community in Oak Park and Southfield, are thriving, others face significant challenges.
Euge Greenstein, a longtime community member, notes that the Orthodox community is expanding rapidly as more families move in due to affordable housing and the ability to work remotely. “The Orthodox community is regentrifying the area,” he explains. “At the same time, the Conservative and Reform movements have been in decline for years. Synagogues that once boasted hundreds of families have dwindled to fractions of their former size.”
While the demographic shifts within the Jewish community are notable, Greenstein also underscores a growing external challenge—the rising influence of Detroit’s substantial Muslim population, particularly in Dearborn. “For the most part, things are peaceful here,” he says, “but in the last two years, we’ve seen increasing demonstrations against Israel. At public meetings, some Muslim activists push for anti-Israel resolutions. One person even told me outright that Israel ‘doesn’t exist’—she was citing books by known anti-Zionists.”
Antisemitism has never been a major issue in Detroit—until now. Rabbi Jennifer Kaluzny of Temple Israel describes a community in mourning after October 7, not just for those lost in Israel but for the erosion of a sense of security in their own city. “The attack was a watershed moment,” she says.
“Our children are coming home from school asking why their classmates are saying hateful things about Jews. Adults are facing hostility at work. And suddenly, every gathering we hold requires heightened security—metal detectors, plainclothes officers, multiple checkpoints. It’s changed everything.”
Sheldon Freilich, president of the Zionist Organization of America’s Michigan chapter, has seen firsthand how antisemitism has taken root in academia. “College campuses are the front line,” he asserts. “At the University of Michigan, pro-Hamas demonstrations have made Jewish students feel unsafe. Some have been called slurs, others have been intimidated in class by professors who refuse to allow pro-Israel perspectives. It’s normalized Jew-hatred.”
Freilich also highlights the influence of political figures such as U.S. Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib, a vocal critic of Israel. “When an elected official can spread antisemitic tropes from the floor of Congress, it emboldens those who seek to delegitimize Jewish identity,” he warns.
Tessa Hewitson, a junior at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, offers a stark look into the struggles faced by Jewish students on her campus. “Frankly, it wasn’t great before October 7,” she admits. “The first essay I peer-reviewed in college talked about ‘Israeli terrorists.’ Since the attacks, I’ve had poor experiences with professors and students—whether through direct confrontations, social media harassment or subtle exclusion.”
The situation escalated to the point where Hewitson considered transferring. “I tucked my Star of David necklace inside my shirt because I didn’t feel safe with people knowing I was Jewish. I always used to say my star is close to my heart, where it belongs. But now, for my safety, I have to hide it.”
Hewitson emphasizes the critical need for Jewish students to find support networks. “On campus, Hillel estimates that there are fewer than 50 Jewish students. There’s no real coalition of Jewish students—it’s just me against so many. I’m lucky to have oversight from campus security, but in other universities where Jewish students don’t have that, I don’t think it’s safe.”
The social fallout has been equally challenging. “I’ve lost many friends. Some people stop talking to me when they find out I’m Jewish. Others avoid the topic altogether. But I’ve also met people who are secretly Jewish and too scared to reveal their identity. That’s what campus life is like now.”
Despite the difficulties, Hewitson draws strength from Detroit’s wider Jewish community. “I find my happy Jewish spaces outside of school, investing in programs and spending time with the larger Jewish community. That support gives me confidence and stability.”
When asked if antisemitism on campus differs from broader societal antisemitism, Hewitson is clear: “On campus, you have to show up every day. If a part of the city isn’t friendly to Jews, you can avoid it. But you can’t avoid a professor who is openly antisemitic. That’s why safe spaces on campus are crucial.”
Her message to Jewish communities worldwide? “Jews have a place everywhere—including the U.S. We’re not going anywhere. No matter what they throw at us, we will stay.”
Before October 7, Detroit’s Jewish and Muslim communities maintained a fragile but functional relationship. “After the Tree of Life synagogue shooting, Muslim leaders came to mourn with us,” Rabbi Kaluzny recalls. “And when the mosque in New Zealand was attacked, we stood with them.” But those ties have frayed. “Since October 7, that unity is gone. People have dug their heels in deeper. The willingness to engage in meaningful dialogue has diminished.”
Still, Kaluzny remains hopeful. “Interfaith understanding won’t come from leadership—it will come from individuals, from neighbors, from parents whose kids go to school together. We have to rebuild those connections one conversation at a time.”
Despite these challenges, Detroit’s Jewish community remains steadfast. “We’re here to stay,” Kaluzny insists. “We are deeply rooted. We continue to support Israel. We continue to build. And we continue to hope for a future where we can live alongside our neighbors with respect.”
Freilich agrees, though he acknowledges that the battle against antisemitism is far from over. “The Jewish community in Detroit will thrive, but we can’t ignore the dangers ahead. Our youth are being forced to think twice about where they attend college because of antisemitism. That’s the reality we’re facing.”
For now, Detroit’s Jewish community moves forward—watchful, resilient and determined to hold onto its identity in an increasingly uncertain world.
