Over bein hazemanim, my son and his family took a ferry across the Hudson River, planning to spend the day in Manhattan for a family outing.

As occurs so often near the city with one of the largest Jewish populations, while on the ferry that shuttles back and forth from New Jersey to Manhattan, he and his wife noticed a man who seemed completely secular. He looked Middle-Eastern, with clearly nothing outwardly hinting at a shemetz of Yiddishkeit. There was one detail that they spotted that gave a pretty big hint.  Around his neck was a Magen Dovid.

In today’s climate, with the uncomfortable tension and rising antisemitism that so often fills the air of the city, it felt refreshing. Here was a man, not visibly religious, yet unafraid to display, in his own way, a quiet connection to his heritage.

Like most of us, when seeing a proud co-religionist — even a secular one — in a hostile environment, my son felt a certain warmth, a silent kinship.

The man made brief eye contact with my son’s family. It lasted only a second, but suddenly something shifted. The man quickly looked away. Within moments, almost as if on instinct, he tucked the necklace out of sight.

Why? There were no protests, no hostilities, and he was not on a college campus. What made him hide his Magen Dovid?

It was them. What caused this man to hide his Magen Dovid was not the presence of those who might hate him, but rather the presence of those who might understand him. A simple chareidi family.

And that can be even more unsettling than outright hostility.

Not fear of harm, but fear of connection. Not fear of confrontation, but fear of conversation.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was afraid that a simple “hello” might lead somewhere deeper. Maybe he would have to explain where he came from. Maybe he once had more of a connection. Maybe he grew up with a certain image of chareidim or even a disdain. And what happens when that image begins to crack?

There is something telling in that instinct. The Magen Dovid, for many Jews who are not observant, functions as a symbol of ethnic belonging — a badge of solidarity worn especially in difficult times. Antisemitism surges, and suddenly, the Star of David reappears on necklaces and lapels across the city. It is a statement of defiance: I am not ashamed to be a Jew.

And yet, in the presence of real, practicing Jews, the necklace disappears.

That tension reveals something important. It is one thing to identify as a Jew in contrast to the outside world. It is another thing entirely to confront what that identity actually means from within. The former requires only pride. The latter requires something far more demanding: honesty.

I recently heard about a young man, Zevi Samet. Zevi grew up in heimishe circles, a product of the familiar warmth and structure of our world, yet life led him down an unexpected path. He became a star player on YU’s basketball team, a place where he quickly realized that he stood apart. Not only was he the only frum player on the team, but he was considered by his peers as “chareidi.”

Many in that situation might quietly blend in, tone things down, and keep their religiosity private. Zevi chose otherwise.

With quiet confidence and genuine warmth, he brought his Yiddishkeit with him and projected, not as merely a statement, but as a presence. On the court, off the court, in the locker room, in conversations, in the small interactions that build bridges without announcements. His three-pointers and blocked shots may have impressed his teammates, but it was his authenticity that left the lasting impact. And through his sincerity, barriers softened.

Teammates who had grown up secular, some even with a strong negative perception of chareidim, began to see something different. Not stereotypes, not headlines, not assumptions, but a person. A real person. One who listened, who respected, who lived with purpose. He pushed hard on and off the court. He arranged minyanim, where teammates who never stepped inside a shul began to daven before playing ball.

Eventually, the team decided to spend a few Shabbosos together, one in Lakewood and one in Inwood, among others. What began as curiosity turned into something much deeper. These Shabbosos were not just successful. They were transformative. The players did not want to leave.

Some of them later reflected, almost wistfully, that had they known earlier what chareidim were really like, their entire perspective and approach to them while growing up might have been different.

There is a beautiful Medrash Tanchuma that tells us that when Moshe turned aside to approach the burning bush, the Ribbono Shel Olam declared: “You troubled yourself to look. You are worthy to redeem Klal Yisroel.”

At first glance, it seems strange. But it is not. Moshe understood that once he turned toward that remarkable sight, he would be drawn into a new and demanding level of responsibility. Most people would have looked away. They would have tucked in their Magen Dovid. He approached. And he was chosen.

But sometimes, people choose not to know. And perhaps that is what my son witnessed on the streets of Manhattan. Not rejection, not hostility, but hesitation. A quiet fear that if one gets too close, if one allows himself to see clearly, it may require a reevaluation. And reevaluation is uncomfortable.

Which brings me to a remarkable observation I heard in the name of Rav Elya Brudny. He noted that up until recent composers, Vehi She’amdah was always sung to an upbeat, triumphant niggun. He posed the obvious question: Shouldn’t it be sung like a dirge? After all, the paragraph speaks of the nations rising in every generation to destroy us. It is a sobering, even frightening reality. Shouldn’t the melody reflect that weight?

His answer is profound. We sing it with joy not despite its content, but because of it. Yes, the nations have always sought to destroy us. But why? Because we have something. Something they sense, even if they cannot name it. A light. A covenant. A purpose that has never expired. The persecution itself is not evidence of our failure. It is, paradoxically, testimony to our significance. We are hated because we matter. And so we do not sing Vehi She’amdah as victims. We sing it as a people who know what they carry.  That is not a song of sadness. It is one of triumph.

And perhaps that is precisely what the secular man on the streets of Manhattan was running from. Not the hostility of the world, but the quiet, undeniable pull of that very same light. You can tuck away a necklace. You cannot so easily tuck away what it represents.

The man with the Magen Dovid may not have been afraid of others finding him. He may have been afraid of finding himself.

And that, more than anything, was his loss.

Just saying.