The Sound of the Shofar: A Civic and Communal Call This Rosh Hashanah

With campuses reopening and the Jewish High Holidays approaching, Jewish students must recognize that Rosh Hashanah is more than a date on the academic calendar. It is a holy day that embodies continuity, courage, and community. We gather to hear the shofar, to taste apples dipped in honey, and to pray and reflect together.

These moments do more than mark time — they declare that Jewish life endures. And we must make that statement now, clearly and proudly, in a season when Jewish identity is too often questioned, minimized, or attacked.

Across centuries and continents — through exile, persecution, and flight — Jews have gathered for Rosh Hashanah. They did so in shtetls and synagogues, in ghettos and camps, sometimes in whispers, and sometimes in defiance. That act of gathering itself became a statement: we will not disappear. We are part of a people, bound across generations, who mark time not only by the turning of the seasons, but by the turning of the soul.

To gather for Rosh Hashanah on a college campus is to stand in that same stream of continuity. Today, thank God, Jewish students gather not under duress but in freedom. Yet the meaning is similar: hatred has not silenced us, assimilation has not dissolved us, fear has not erased us. Standing together with classmates and friends, Jewish students declare: we are visible, we belong, and our values are not only intact but alive.

Judaism is not a private disposition. It is a public and communal faith. We gather to hear the shofar not alone, but together — not hidden, but visible.

The synagogue is more than a sanctuary — it is a gathering place. The shofar is not sounded for one individual’s ear but for the conscience of the entire community. This matters especially on campus, where belonging is contested, and identity is often treated as optional or disposable. When Jewish students step away from ordinary routines to gather for Rosh Hashanah, they proclaim not retreat, but presence. The visible act of praying, eating, singing, and being together is itself a civic statement: Jewish students are part of the campus community, not apart from it.

Rosh Hashanah is also about values and ideas that speak directly to the student experience. Renewal is central: the chance to begin again with honesty and hope. Accountability is demanded: recognizing where we have fallen short and seeking repair. Hope is sustained: the conviction that life has meaning, that community endures, and that the future can be better than the past. These values are not parochial. They are civic virtues, urgently needed in higher education. Renewal mirrors intellectual curiosity and the willingness to admit mistakes. Accountability parallels the integrity demanded of scholarship and research. Hope provides the resilience that sustains learning communities in difficult times.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured this universal power when he wrote that the shofar is “a wordless cry in a religion of words, a sound produced by breath.” That cry pierces complacency and insists on reflection. And in another reflection on the High Holidays, Rabbi Sacks added: “We defeat death, not by living forever, but by living by values that live forever.” Jewish continuity is not merely survival — it is the determination to live by values strong enough to withstand hatred, exile, and indifference.

These truths are not abstract. They have been lived out on campuses across the country. At the University of Pittsburgh, Chabad held a “Shofar in the Park” service where students, families, and faculty gathered outdoors to hear the sounds of the ram’s horn and to share brisket sandwiches.

The event came amid concerns about rising antisemitism in the city, yet students still came. “Community is the best part — showing that every Jewish student here has a family,” Rabbi Schmuli Rothstein told them, reminding each student that they are part of something larger than themselves, a family across generations. At other universities, Hillel chapters organized services and festive meals, some drawing hundreds of students who might otherwise feel alone in their observance. On the Georgetown campus, services included public blasts of the shofar so that even those walking by could hear. At large state schools and small liberal arts colleges alike, the act of gathering for Rosh Hashanah became a visible affirmation: Jewish life is here, proud, and present.

That affirmation is critical in a moment when antisemitism is rising in classrooms, in student organizations, and online. Jewish students have reported feeling pressured to conceal their identity or their commitments. Observing Rosh Hashanah openly is therefore not only an act of faith, but an act of strength.

The world does not stop for the Jewish calendar. Classes go on, deadlines remain, and the pace of academic life is relentless. That reality makes it all the more important to pause, to observe, to celebrate, and to make a statement.

And there is strength in that very tension. The refusal of the wider world to bend to the Jewish calendar has always been part of Jewish resilience. For millennia, Jews have carried their holy days into the rhythm of other people’s worlds. That same determination is required today. To stop, to gather, to hear the shofar even when the rest of the campus marches on, is a declaration that Jewish time matters and that Jewish life endures.

So this year, the call to Jewish students is clear: use your voice. Be part of the Jewish community. Choose to gather at services, to share meals, to hear the shofar, to mark time in the way our people always have. Jewish life thrives when it is lived openly, not quietly deferred.

And to the broader campus — administrators, professors, and fellow students — this holiday carries a challenge of its own. Notice Jewish students when they step away. Support them with respect, not reluctance. Understand that their observance is not withdrawal but contribution. Judaism is about public gathering and visible continuity. To neglect it is to weaken not only Jewish students, but the very ideals of higher education.

The sound of the shofar is a reminder of what is at stake. It echoes beyond sanctuaries and into quads, libraries, and lecture halls. It proclaims that Jewish life is here, vibrant, and indispensable, affirming that hatred has not won and will not win. It insists that Jewish continuity is not merely about survival, but about living by values that endure. And it invites the campus to see in Jewish observance a model of what community, resilience, and faithfulness look like in practice.

Am Yisrael Chai. The Jewish people live, and Jewish students belong.

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