“There were smashed watermelons left in the yard. A note slipped under the doormat. I think the first line was, ‘When you die, I hope you never know peace.’ I immediately just ripped it off and threw it in the trash.”

Sadly, this wasn’t new. “We have things happen to our house every year,” Joshua says. “We’ve experienced antisemitism in multitudes, mostly from one side and now, since October 7, we’re feeling it from the other side too.”

He still remembers the very first year he owned the house. “They painted swastikas all over my steps and my decorations. That was a surreal evening.”

But the most terrifying moment for Joshua came in broad daylight at a neighborhood convenience store. “The 7-Eleven incident was probably the worst one. I was just walking down the street to the store. I was wearing my Hanukkah sweater and when I went to leave, somebody who lived locally just accosted me.”

“That was probably the first time my wife really thought about possibly taking our lights down,” he says quietly. “That maybe we shouldn’t keep doing what we do as the neighborhood Hanukkah House.”

In fear, Joshua reached out to The Associated. “I remember being like, ‘Hey, I don’t feel safe. This is really scary.’ I had a lot of support pour out toward us, from the community, from The Associated itself.”

Together, he and his wife decided they would finish that season, then take time to reassess. Corey, who is not Jewish, had never experienced antisemitism before their life together.

That joy stands in stark contrast to the antisemitism Joshua has faced since childhood. At the time, the attacks weren’t physical. As he moved through different spaces, school in Towson and later life in the city, he saw new forms emerge.

“The Internet changed everything,” Joshua says. “It’s emboldened people. It’s allowed them to speak with anonymity. These are like micro versions of antisemitism, but they’re constant.”

What alarms him most today is how open and normalized it has become. “There used to be subcultures where this lived. Now we’re seeing it become normalized on a level that is terrifying.”

Since buying his home in 2017, the pattern has been painfully consistent. “Every year I’ve lived in the house, I’ve experienced some sort of antisemitic attack. Some can be cleaned up with a power washer. Some need to be replaced like decorations and whatnot. It’s saddening. I don’t know if I’d say surprising.”

Yet every year, the Hanukkah lights go back up.

In a season defined by miracles, Joshua’s home has become one of quiet defiance and visible pride. A reminder that Jewish life does not and will not retreat into the shadows.

And sometimes, resistance looks like hundreds of tiny lights shining in a Baltimore neighborhood. Because to turn them off would let the darkness win.