On Saturday afternoon I stood outside Scotland Yard as the national march came towards us, and tried to count how many times we had been out on the streets this month.
Seven events and protests. Ten days. 7/10.
Nobody planned it. We knew October would be heavy. We did not know it would arrange itself into the date that broke us.
Three years ago, on the night of October 6, I was working at my pub in London. I woke up the next morning to a different world.
I am Israeli. Until then I had never been involved in the Jewish community here. I ran a pub. I raised my children. I thought that was enough.
Then the hate started. The marches. The posters of our hostages torn down within hours of going up. So we put more up. Every night, every corner of London, and especially Waterloo, near my home. They ripped one down, we put two back.
That became the 7/10 Human Chain Project, then Enough is Enough, then Stop The Hate. We made one promise. Whenever they march, we will be there.
This month we kept it seven times. Taken together, those ten days are a map of where British Jews stand three years on.
They began on October 1 outside St Thomas's Hospital, where we stood with Our Fight against BDS activists demanding that the NHS drop Palantir. In the evening we followed them to Palantir's offices in Soho Square.
The NHS uses the company's data platform to run its hospitals and get patients treated faster. The campaign against it would make British patients wait longer so that Israel can be punished. A hospital exists to protect life.
A campaign that would slow down treatment to punish the Jewish state has its priorities the wrong way round.
Two days later we were in Brighton, where the Green Party conference was preparing to debate a motion declaring Zionism racism.
Two hundred of us stood outside the Brighton Centre with one message: stand up to racist Greens.
Antisemitism does not become acceptable because you dress it up as politics. That is how far it has travelled. From the street to the conference floor of a party that wants to govern.
The next day it reached our own history. Ninety years ago, the Jews of the East End and their neighbours stopped Mosley's Blackshirts at Cable Street. This year the union organising the official commemoration did not mention Jews in its first announcement.
When Jewish groups planned to march as a bloc, the organising committee called them unwelcome. So the children and grandchildren of those who fought in 1936 held their own march, and we marched with them.
Around a thousand people, with Jews at the front of their own story. On the other march, they chanted "Zionist scum off our streets". In 1936 it was Jews off our streets. They changed one word.
We did not ask anyone's permission to remember our grandparents. We took part on our terms.
Then came the anniversary itself. At midday, university students gathered at Russell Square to treat the worst day in Jewish life since the Holocaust as something to celebrate. We came with Yoseph Haddad and Emily Schrader. Two hundred and fifty of us. We outnumbered them.
The Metropolitan Police then imposed conditions on the ground that left us with neither sight nor sound of the march we had come to counter.
On the anniversary of the murder of 1,200 people, the celebration went ahead in central London. The Jews who objected were moved where no one could see them.
Those students worry me more than any professional activist. They are 19 and 20. Most were children when it happened. They learnt the story of October 7 from their phones, and in their version it was resistance.
That is how a generation is lost. Not to argument, but to a lie told often enough with nobody standing opposite. That is why we counter. The truth has to be standing in the same street.
That evening, 420 people filled South Hampstead Synagogue for our vigil. Rabbi Shlomo Levin opened it. Sharone Lifschitz came straight from speaking at Downing Street to talk about her father. Oded Lifshitz was 83 when Hamas took him. He had spent his life working for peace with his neighbours. He died in captivity in Gaza.
Sharone spoke not only about how he died, but about how he lived: his courage, his Zionism, and the peace he never stopped believing in. For years, he drove sick Palestinians from Gaza to Israeli hospitals for treatment. That is the man Hamas took.
Rabbi Eli Levin, Colonel Richard Kemp and two representatives of the Israeli Embassy spoke. So did Lourd Atia, an Israeli Arab Muslim teenager from Jerusalem, who described her shame on that day and her determination to fight for the truth. Yoseph Haddad, an Arab Christian Israeli, followed her. Two Arab Israelis on the bimah of a London synagogue, under an Israeli flag.
That is the Israel the marchers will never show you. A Muslim and a Christian, both Arab, both Israeli, standing in a synagogue to mourn Jewish dead. For them, coexistence is not a slogan on a placard. It is their neighbours, their classmates, their country. That is also Israel's future. If peace comes, it will look like them.
Three days later we were at Scotland Yard. Two Tiers Ends Here. Three years of watching the Met fail to police Jew hate, and we took it to their front door. Then the national march came through, and our protest became a counter-protest.
That was the moment it came full circle. We started because Jews were too frightened to come into central London on a Saturday. On October 10 we stood there with Israeli flags and Union flags, as proud Zionists, and refused to leave. London will never be a no-go zone for Jews. Not while we are here.
Three years on, the marches have not stopped. But when they started, there was nobody on the other side of the road. Now there is us. Every steward, speaker, placard and sound system across those ten days was run by volunteers. Stopping may be in our name. It has never been in our nature.
I used to think remembrance was something you did quietly, once a year, with candles, in a room with the doors shut. I was wrong.
Remembrance is a poster on a lamppost at Waterloo at two in the morning. It is 250 people in Russell Square. It is a teenager from Jerusalem on a synagogue bimah, fighting for the truth. It is refusing to let the people who celebrate our dead own the streets, the story or the history.
I have learnt that politeness did not protect us. Being seen does. And the antidote to fear is not safety. It is each other.
None of this happens without Yochy, Lori, Max, Mehrdad, Haya, Hayley, Mel, Gina, Jack and Devorah: the incredible Stop The Hate team. Or without everyone who gave up a Saturday, a lunch break or a voice, or simply turned up and stood with us.
We did it for Oded. For the 1,200. For the hostages who came home, and for those who came home to be buried. And for every Jew in Britain who has been told to hide their Star of David, take off their kippah or stay home on a Saturday.
We are not Jews with trembling knees. We will not be intimidated. We will not be silenced. And we will not stop standing up for our community.
7/10. We remember. We are still here.
Itai Galmudy is a co-founder of Stop The Hate UK
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