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A STUDENT'S POV - As a young Jewish student in Los Angeles, I walked into City Hall not just to speak, but to be heard. I prepared my remarks carefully, hoping to contribute respectfully to a civic discussion that mattered to me and my community. Yet when I stood to make my public comment—when I tried to express my truth—I was not allowed to speak.
That silence has stayed with me. It wasn’t only my words that were dismissed; it was the idea that a young person, a student, a member of a community struggling to be understood, had a right to take part in civic life. In that moment, I realized how fragile democracy feels when the door to participation closes, even briefly.
City Hall is supposed to be the people’s house—a place where residents of every background, faith, and perspective can gather and be heard. Instead, what I witnessed was fear. Fear of tension, fear of emotion, fear of discomfort. But democracy was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be courageous.
In recent months, Los Angeles—like the rest of the country—has been tested. Protests, student actions, and emotional public meetings have reflected the pain and polarization of our times. And too often, instead of seeking to understand one another, our institutions have chosen to retreat behind procedure. We hear phrases like “decorum” or “time limits” used not to keep order, but to silence. Those tools, meant to ensure fairness, are increasingly being used to avoid facing difficult truths.
When I went to City Hall, I didn’t go to attack anyone. I went to share what it feels like to be a Jewish student today—to navigate classrooms, campuses, and public spaces with a growing sense of anxiety. I wanted to remind those in power that behind every speech, every protest, every headline, there are human beings simply trying to live with dignity and safety.
But I was told to sit down. My words were labeled as “not appropriate” or “off topic.” And I left the building with a question that every young person in this city should never have to ask: Does my voice matter?
Civic courage begins with listening. It means allowing space for disagreement and still finding common ground. It means understanding that when a young person takes the microphone, they are not trying to undermine authority—they are trying to claim a stake in the future that will one day be theirs to lead.
City officials often talk about the importance of youth engagement, diversity, and inclusion. Yet those principles mean nothing if they crumble the moment a conversation becomes uncomfortable. If we want a stronger Los Angeles, we must make our public spaces truly public—open to dialogue, empathy, and truth, not just to those with titles or experience.
And this must start at the very top. The President of the Los Angeles City Council should never silence or shut down public comment, no matter how passionate, emotional, or inconvenient it may be. Public comment is not a privilege—it is a constitutional right and the beating heart of civic participation. Shutting it down does not preserve order; it weakens democracy. Our elected leaders must have the courage to listen, even when it challenges their comfort or authority.
To my fellow students, I say: don’t stop showing up. Even when it feels like no one is listening, even when the process seems stacked against you, your persistence is an act of faith in democracy itself. To my Jewish peers: our history has taught us that silence in the face of injustice is never an option. We must speak—not with anger, but with moral clarity and compassion.
And to our leaders: please remember that leadership is not defined by how efficiently you manage meetings or how strictly you enforce rules. Leadership is defined by how bravely you face the voices of your people—especially the youngest among them.
Los Angeles has long prided itself on being a city of inclusion, resilience, and hope. But hope requires action. It requires the willingness to hear difficult truths and to allow space for all communities to express their pain and aspirations.
When a young person like me stands at the podium and speaks from the heart, that is not a disruption—it is democracy in motion. The moment we start silencing those voices, we risk losing the very soul of civic life.
I will continue to speak out, because I believe this city can do better. I believe in a Los Angeles where every student, every faith, and every resident feels that their story matters. I believe in a City Hall that listens.
True civic courage begins not with power, but with empathy. It begins with the courage to listen, to learn, and to let every voice—no matter how small—be heard.
(Shoshannah Kalaydjian is a Jewish student who writes about education, identity, and the challenges facing the next generation. Growing up in today’s climate, she has witnessed firsthand how rising antisemitism affects young people in classrooms and on campuses. Shoshannah is committed to sharing the perspective of Jewish youth, amplifying student voices, and encouraging leaders to create safer, more inclusive environments for all students.)
