Rosh Hashanah, 9/11, and an accounting of our democracy

Twenty-five years ago this Friday was my first day of graduate school. I'd spent a decade after college educating and organizing young Jews around social justice issues, and I'd gone back to school to better understand the causes of the problems I was trying to fix.

As it happened, that first day of grad school was September 11. I remember encountering the shock and dismay on the faces of my new teachers and classmates, and sensing, in real time, that a core assumption I'd been building my career on – that my work was contributing to a trajectory of progress already underway – had just been interrupted.

It would take me years to understand how much.

I came of age in a genuinely anomalous stretch of human history – life expectancy rose, extreme poverty fell, and the number of people living under some form of democracy increased dramatically. While millions continued to struggle, for many, the second half of the 20th century was good enough that at its end, Francis Fukuyama mused that we might be at "the end of history."

And I’ll admit – somewhat self-consciously – that my worldview was partially shaped by that sentiment. While I worked hard for social change, and believed that hard work was necessary, some part of me also believed that progress was inevitable.

Then came September 11, which Fareed Zakaria wryly called "the end of the end of history."

The 21st century has been a rejoinder ever since: democracies in retreat worldwide, trust in institutions eroding, and violent conflict again on the rise. The assumption that democracy and social progress were self-sustaining turned out to be illusory.

And for American Jews, the post-war decline of antisemitism similarly reversed course. Turns out Conor Cruise O’Brien was right: antisemitism really is a light sleeper.

This year, for the first time, Erev Rosh Hashanah coincides with the anniversary of 9/11. I won’t be precious about the coincidence, but I do think it's worth sitting with. At the heart of the Yamim Noraim is the practice of cheshbon hanefesh: an accounting of the soul. We look honestly at where we've fallen short, alone and together, and we ask what teshuvah, a "return," would actually require of us.

Teshuvah is an invitation to re-commit to the people we want to be. That accounting has always struck me as fundamentally relational: it asks something of us toward each other, not just toward ourselves.

This is precisely what democracy asks of us, too.

As global democratic decline since 9/11 shows, democracy isn't a possession we inherit and keep. It's sustained, generation by generation, by people who organize, speak up, and take responsibility for one another – and this work comes due precisely when showing up feels least urgent.

So this year, as Rosh Hashanah and 9/11 coincide, I’m supplementing my ordinary cheshbon hanefesh with some very particular questions: Where have I stayed quiet when my voice could have mattered? Where has frustration become an excuse for disengagement? Where have I assumed someone else would do the work of protecting what we all depend on?

I'm inviting you to ask yourself the same thing – and not to stop at reflection.

This year, American Jews can make a real difference for democracy by ensuring the 2026 midterm elections are free, fair, safe, and accessible for every eligible voter, and that the results are trusted once they’re counted. It doesn’t take a heroic effort – there is a role for each of us in protecting free and fair elections. Sign up to serve as a poll worker or a poll chaplain, build relationships with and offer legal support to election officials, or act as a trusted messenger of accurate voting information in your community.

We don’t have to do everything; we just have to do something.

Francis Fukuyama notwithstanding, history is still rolling along, and it’s ours to bend in the right direction.

May 5787 be a year in which we approach both our souls and our democracy with the clarity to name what's broken, the humility to make amends, and the courage and fortitude to act differently when it counts.