A Vision for the Future: NCJW CEO Sheila Katz Keynote at Washington Institute 2025

NCJW CEO Sheila Katz delivered the keynote speech at Washington Institute 2025: Together We Rise’s opening ceremony. The three-day event featured nearly 400 people learning from changemakers, creating meaningful connections, and taking their voices to Capitol Hill.

Watch her speech:

Read the full transcript:

Before I share where we’re going, I want to start with why we must go there. The world has changed in ways that demand more from us. From our values. From our voices. And from our movement. Let me start by telling you about three women.

Josselee Barneeca was 28 years old and 17 weeks pregnant when she arrived at a Houston hospital experiencing a miscarriage, something more than 720,000 women experience each year in the United States. But because of Texas’ abortion ban, the doctors were forced to wait until there was “no heartbeat” before treating her.

So she waited. Wait with me for ten seconds. Pause for ten seconds.

Now imagine waiting 144,000 excruciating seconds to receive care for your miscarriage. That’s forty hours Joselli waited before dying of an infection, leaving behind her four-year-old daughter. 

Adriana Smith, a 30-year-old woman from Georgia was nine weeks pregnant when she was rushed to the hospital with severe headaches. Doctors found blood clots in her brain, and soon after, she was declared brain dead.

Her family was then told that, because of Georgia’s abortion ban, Adriana would be kept on life support until the fetus could be delivered. In their shock and grief, her loved ones were stripped of the ability to make the personal decision about whether their daughter should be kept on life support or not. The state made that decision for them, with the financial burden of keeping Adriana on life support falling to the family.

And that loss—the loss of choice, of agency, of dignity—has only deepened their heartbreak. Adriana’s mother called the experience “torture.” 

Vivian Silver — was a 74-year-old co-founder of Women Wage Peace — the largest grassroots peace movement in Israel. She chose to live on Kibbutz Be’eri, close to the Gaza border, so she could build relationships with Palestinian women — partners in the shared pursuit of peace. On the morning of October 7, Vivian took shelter in her safe room as Hamas terrorists invaded her Kibbutz.

For weeks, her family held out hope that she was alive. But eventually, her remains were identified. She had been killed that day. Burned in her home.

These are not easy stories to hear.
But they are real. They are happening right now. And they are ours to carry.

As Jewish feminists, as changemakers, we have a responsibility to imagine what these women would say if they could… AND to act.

Lo ta’amod al dam re’echa

Do not stand idly by when your neighbor’s life is in danger.

National Council of Jewish Women…

THIS is a moment of real danger.
To our bodies. To our lives. To our future.
A moral crisis for the United States and Israel.

Just last week, Louisiana lawmakers advanced legislation to classify abortion pills as controlled substances — a move designed to criminalize essential health care.

Utah recently banned LGBTQ+ flags from its schools and government buildings. 

Wisconsin just announced extreme cuts to child care funding, which will close centers across the state, forcing parents to either pay astronomical costs or drop out of the workforce to .

Just yesterday, a fertility clinic in Palm Springs, California was bombed. One person died and four were injured. The FBI is investigating this as intentional domestic terrorism and has confirmed the fertility clinic was the target. 

And at a national level, a House committee recently approved enormous cuts to SNAP benefits that feed over 20 million children. 

These are not isolated incidents. This is a time of cascading, intersecting crises.

It sounds scary because it is. 

But history isn’t just something we live through.

It’s something we shape — together.

We are living through a defining moment not just for our time, but for the future of women’s rights, for the future of the Jewish people, and for the better world we are trying to build. 

And a moment like this — when the stakes could not be higher — demands we act.

This is our first in-person movement-wide gathering since October 7 2023, the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust.

At Nova, innocent music lovers were slaughtered. Families were terrorized in ways so brutal, a new word had to be invented: Kinocide—the deliberate destruction of families as a weapon of war.

Children murdered in front of their mothers.
Wives assaulted in front of their husbands.
Loved ones tortured, while others were forced to watch. Kinocide.

The cruelty was the point.

We’ve been in mourning as a people ever since. It has been 589 days of war, displacement, and pain. 

And at the same time, we must also take a moment to celebrate that Edan Alexander, the last remaining living American hostage, is finally home. We hold that joy alongside our grief. And we will keep advocating until every hostage is home. We will not forget them.

And still—we have not lost our humanity, even when it feels like so many have.

We believe every life is sacred.
We weep when civilians—Israeli or Palestinian—are killed.
We know that women bear the brunt of war.
And we grieve for every child whose safety, future, or life is stolen, no matter where they are born.

Somehow, that basic truth feels hard for so many to say out loud:

That, btzelem elohim, all people are created in the image of the divine. All human life is holy. 

That rape is always wrong.
It is not resistance.
There is never a justification.

It must always be condemned, including when it was deliberately used by Hamas against Israeli women on October 7th.

The days after October 7th should have been a time for Jews to receive an outpouring of support.
A moment when anyone who calls themselves feminist showed up in solidarity.

But that’s not what happened.

Many of our so-called allies were silent.
Some minimized Jewish pain.
And in too many spaces, Jews felt they had to minimize their own.

I’ve heard from so many of you:
So many in this room and across our movement, who felt deeply alone.
Abandoned by the communities we thought would have our backs.

That silence was loud. And it hurt.

But it’s also why it is so important we have each other.
Spaces where our heartbreak is honored, and our voices are heard.

We were loud for each other just as we have always been loud for others.
And we haven’t stopped showing up for others in the process.
All of that makes me proud to be part of National Council of Jewish Women. 

And we know our work doesn’t end there.

—

There’s a moment almost every woman knows.

You’re walking through a crowded space. Someone bumps into you—and without thinking, you’re the one who says, “I’m sorry.”

We’ve been taught to do that.
To smooth things over. To make others more comfortable. To take the blame.

And then we were taught to notice it.
To ask: Wait, why did I just apologize for that?

But noticing is only the beginning.
Because even once we see the pattern, we don’t break it right away.
It’s so deeply ingrained, so rehearsed, that it takes practice to undo.
To pause for someone else to apologize, instead of apologizing ourselves.
And that practice is a muscle we’ve worked hard to build.

Most of us in this room have spent years noticing the big, obvious forms of sexism that affect our daily lives and are working hard to do something about it: like discrimination in the workplace, gender-based violence, the pay gap, or our nation’s intentional lack of affordable child care and comprehensive paid family leave policies.

And we’ve gotten good at catching the subtle forms of sexism, too.

Like in the Obama White House, when the women staffers realized they weren’t always getting credit for their ideas, so they organized together in a strategy they called amplification.
If someone said, “Great idea, Steve,” after someone had said something similar previously, another woman would jump in with, “Yes, I’m glad Steve lifted up the point Ellen made earlier. Way to go, Ellen.”
They had each other’s backs.
They noticed what was happening and they responded.

That’s the muscle we’ve built as women.
Sexism and misogyny don’t disappear just because we’re in liberal spaces. It’s everywhere. We name it, confront it, and work every day to change the culture and policies that allow it to persist.

And here’s what we need to do now. It’s time for us to use and strengthen that muscle when it comes to being Jewish.

Because too many of us have been taught to downplay our experiences with antisemitism.
saying things like, “It’s not that bad.”

We are singled out as Jews, expected to condemn Israel to remain in coalition with organizations that have nothing to do with Israel.

We are expected to excuse organizations that won’t form a Jewish affinity group because, QUOTE “Jews aren’t really marginalized.”

We are expected to stay silent when people flatten Jewish identity implying that all Jews are white, or all Jews have power—some of the oldest antisemitic tropes there are.

And we see it clearly: the same groups that rightly and vocally condemn hate crimes against other marginalized communities often fall silent when it comes to antisemitism. Or they only mention it with a qualifier, as if antisemitism must always be couched alongside other forms of hate to be taken seriously. As if it’s not at an all-time high in this country.

And too many of us are not demanding more from the spaces and movements we’ve been a part of for decades.

When we don’t name these things, when we absorb them quietly, laugh them off, move along, or make excuses for them, we’re not ensuring our future success, we are helping lay the fertile ground for antisemitism to grow. 

We can’t downplay our Jewishness and then expect people to show up for us when it matters.

We know how to build awareness. We’ve done this as women.
We know how to make change and not tolerate being pushed aside—through policy, through education, through relationships, and through truth-telling.

This moment demands we do the same as Jews.
To notice antisemitism. To name it. To push back on it especially in the liberal spaces we call home. To stop getting used to the quiet, everyday ways antisemitism shows up and to start practicing what it feels like to speak up, even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like there may be consequences to doing so.

And one of the most powerful ways we can do that is to stop apologizing for being Jewish.
To be proud. To be vocal. To show up fully, in every space we’re in.

Because that’s what is needed of us right now—all of us, as individuals, to meet this moment.  

And now, I want to talk to you about how we can meet this moment as an organization: through National Council of Jewish Women’s new strategic plan, NCJW Forward.

This isn’t a change to our mission. It’s a bold recommitment to who we are: Jewish feminists and allies doing everything we can in a rapidly changing world to ensure that our mission thrives — now and into the future.

And here’s how we’re doing it: through three core commitments.

• First, we must grow our movement not by letting go of who we are, but by widening the circle. We need more people with us — more hearts, more hands, more voices.
  
  Our strength has always come from our people. We’ve grown to 250,000 strong. And now, we’re aiming for something bigger: 1 million changemakers in the next five years.

That means opening more doors — so anyone who cares about this work can take meaningful action with us. No matter where they are.

Because every person who steps into this movement brings power. More voices fighting for reproductive freedom and affordable child care. More people pushing back against antisemitism. More leaders organizing — in their communities, companies, courtrooms, classrooms, synagogues, and beyond.

• Second, in addition to growing in numbers, we will build our movement by creating more alignment, connection, and purpose.

Most people who want to engage with us, who haven’t, are busier, working longer hours, caretaking for their kids and/or their parents, and desperately trying to fit making an impact in the world into their busy schedules. Whether someone has three minutes a day or thirty hours a week, she deserves the opportunity to lead and make change.

This growth builds on what works: from the success of our State Policy Advocate program, into launching a new Advocacy Corps as NCJW’s platform for national activism — a grassroots platform for coordinated, collective action.

So we’re investing in your leadership — through Local Leadership Councils and new field staff, backed by national support, training, and tools. Because this movement was built by people like you. And its future will be, too.

• And finally, NCJW Forward  will strengthen the infrastructure behind all of this. Passion alone isn’t enough.
  
  We’re enhancing what works: better tech, expanded training, stronger communications, and more support for the people doing the work.
  
  And that’s why we’re launching the NCJW Center for Jewish Women’s Leadership — a multigenerational space to learn, grow, and lead. A place for Jewish women and allies to bring their lived experiences to advocacy and rise together to meet this moment.

For many of you, this is not new — because NCJW Forward was developed in partnership with you.

You’ve asked the hard questions. Offered your ideas. Helped refine the vision. And your voices will continue to guide it as we bring it to life.

Because we all want the same thing: a strong, vibrant NCJW — one that shows up powerfully for women, children, and families. One that rises to meet this moment.

This is not change for the sake of change.

This is the roadmap for our future.

And we’re building it — together.

I know this is a daunting task. And change is hard. We know that. Especially after everything we’ve been through in the past several years.     

The burden is heavy. The fatigue is real. And yet, the lives of women, children and families depend on us. On our ability to take this on,  to meet the moment, and to build the muscle to do it.

To rise up, together.

So I want to close the same way I began: by telling you about three women. Three Jewish women who were able to rise up in resilience. 

Hannah G. Solomon. We know her story: she was invited to the World’s Parliament of Religions at the Chicago World’s Fair, under the premise that she’d be given a platform to speak on behalf of Jewish women. 

But when she arrived, they asked her to serve coffee to the men instead. So she left.

She then turned to the women’s groups, but they said, “No Jews.”

Hannah refused to be sidelined. She knew that Jewish women deserved a seat at the table. So she founded National Council of Jewish Women, and built the table we’re all sitting at now. 

Before I share this next person, I want to invite you all to think about a Jewish woman in your life—who is resilient, who has bettered their community—maybe a family, a friend—maybe someone sitting right next to you. And I hope you share her story with me throughout the next couple of days. 

Let me tell you who comes to mind for me. 

Florence Katz. My Grammy Florence who passed away on Wednesday. Fewer people here know her story—but anyone who knows me well knows my tap dancing Grammy. Well into her 90s, she performed with the Leisure Knoll Footlighters—singing, dancing, narrating—always stealing the show. And it’s not surprising she made the most of every moment. She was a two time cancer survivor and believed in living life to the fullest. 

Grammy sparkled.

Her personality. Her wisdom. Her sense of humor. Her generosity. Her ability to make anyone feel special. Everything was brighter with Grammy Florence.

She believed in fun. In Jewish tradition. In family. But what stands out most is how fully she showed up for the people she loved. She instilled in me a love of Judaism, and a passion for making the world a better place. 

Yuval Raphael. On October 7, 2023, Yuval was dancing at Nova music festival when Hamas infiltrated the grounds and started firing.

Yuval hid in a small shelter, but Hamas found it, broke in, and repeatedly shot at those inside. Yuval pretended to be dead, and for eight excruciating hours, she hid under the dead bodies of her friends and fellow concertgoers. 

She survived. And less than two years later, she rose to one of the biggest stages in the world—to represent Israel at Eurovision. Protesters tried to intimidate her and some even tried to storm the stage while she was performing. 

But Yuval was ready. She had practiced to recordings of boos. She would not let anyone tell her that she didn’t deserve to be there. She is a survivor. 

At the grand finale, just last night, she sang out, “A new day will rise.” 

A new day will rise. 

She came in second place overall—but received the most votes from the public of any contestant. A reminder that, while it can feel at times like the whole world is against us, our resilience can still move the world, and we have a lot of friends. . 

So, too, will we rise. 

United in song.

United in hope.

United in our shared pursuit of justice.

To everyone here: thank you for your leadership, for your partnership, and for your resilience.

Together, we rise.