There’s a lot of discussion about Jewish voters in politics this cycle.

With Democrats embroiled in loud arguments over Israel and Gaza, Republicans have been hoping to capture more of the Jewish vote by linking criticism of Israel to antisemitism. “How a Jewish person can vote for a Democrat is beyond me,” President Donald Trump said last month. His administration has made cracking down on anti-Israel campus activists — a top early priority — and has called Democrats “Palestinian” or “jihadists.”

Meanwhile, Democrats have pointed to the rise of openly antisemitic influencers within the conservative movement, which has become a divisive topic on the right that also runs into debates over Israel, as a pressing threat to Jews. 

But what do Jewish voters themselves actually want? That’s a nuanced question, and one that we have fresh polling and voting data on to help us dissect this cycle. 

American Jews aren’t a large voting bloc — just over 2 percent of the population — but there are also significant communities in some key swing states and competitive districts. As a matter of partisan politics, Jews have historically voted Democratic by wide margins, but Republicans have long hoped to peel them off, often by emphasizing their support for Israel. Though it’s been a common refrain from pro-Israel and Republican activists for decades that a GOP realignment was just around the corner, it wasn’t until the 2024 presidential election that these voices got a firm boost. Nationally, and in local communities, Jewish support for the Democratic Party seemed to drop slightly.  

Elections since then have been difficult to parse. In last year’s New York City mayoral election, for example, Zohran Mamdani won about 33 percent of Jewish voters, compared to the 63 percent that went for Andrew Cuomo in a race where divisions over Israel and antisemitism featured strongly. In the primary, many Cuomo voters also backed Mamdani ally Brad Lander, a Jewish progressive who was sharply critical of Israel — and who went on to easily defeat Rep. Dan Goldman in a congressional primary in a heavily Jewish district this year while running to his left on Israel issues. Meanwhile, in New Jersey, left-wing Democrat Analilia Mejia won a special election for a House seat while harshly criticizing Israel. But her candidacy led some Jewish strongholds to swing massively toward Republicans.

So, what happens to the Jewish vote in the 2026 midterms? This segment of voters is no monolith, experts say, and finding the “right” way to talk about Israel is no guarantor of electoral success. Polls show Jewish voters hold competing priorities in their minds: They’re increasingly concerned about antisemitism and their personal safety in America, and they hold complex and divergent views on Israel, which often is not a defining voting issue, even as it seems to be the dominant way strategists and pundits talk about this electorate. 

Here’s what the latest data has to say about what Jewish voters want and how their politics are changing this cycle.   

The remarkable consistency of the Jewish electorate

Aside from Black voters, there have traditionally been no more loyal Democratic voters than Jewish Americans. Since 2008, between 60 and 80 percent of these voters picked the Democratic candidate, while about 60 percent have consistently identified with the party over the last two decades.

That changed slightly after 2024, when exit polls suggested a six-point swing toward Donald Trump compared to 2020. Jewish communities in New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania, meanwhile, shifted more dramatically — which analysts for the election data site Split Ticket argued last year represented a 5 to 10 percentage-point swing against Democrats.

There are plenty of arguments over how and why this happened — pollsters and experts I spoke with told me that, despite the majority of Jewish American voters still siding with Democrats, the voting group mirrored other traditionally Democratic voting groups’ swing against the incumbent.

“Biden won the election, Harris lost the election,” Tali deGroot, the national political director of J Street, told Vox. “That means that every single community likely saw shifts with fewer people voting for the Democrat.”

Others argue it was a return to more of a baseline of voter behavior. 2020 was the aberration, with remarkably high support for Biden because of pandemic conditions.

But what still stands out beyond these trendlines is the steady support Democrats receive from these voters — whether because of the high level of college education among these constituents (a blue-coded trait in the Trump era), the geographic location of these voters (primarily in Democratic states like New York and California), or the socially liberal beliefs many of these voters hold (Jews historically support abortion rights, for example).

Even heading into 2026, Democrats still hold overwhelmingly strong support from these voters, Jim Gerstein, a founding partner of the polling firm GBAO, told me.

“What’s remarkable is actually how consistent Jewish voting behavior and political beliefs and values have been for years and still through today,” Gerstein said. “You have these massive developments in domestic, international, political events, actual things that happen in the real world, and the Jewish vote is just remarkably stable.”

Entering 2026, Gerstein argues, two dynamics remain at play that are preserving their Democratic lean. The long-held liberal ideological bent of Jewish Americans, along with the issues they prioritize, broadly align with the Democratic Party. And, on the other end, their antipathy to Trump and the Republican Party is “intense,” a force that pushes these voters away from the GOP, even if there were broader reasons to realign.

“Not only do they identify with the Democrats, they share positions on the major issues, shared values,” Gerstein said. “And they also have a strong opposition to the Republican Party and leading Republican figures.”

These dynamics also reveal themselves when looking at various denominations within the Jewish electorate. The largest segments — nondenominational, Reform, and Conservative Jews — lean heavily Democratic and have remained more or less steadily Democratic over the last few years. A smaller segment, Orthodox Jews — who make up about a tenth of the Jewish population but are growing — lean toward Republicans, are more strongly supportive of Trump and Israel, and have been shifting right over the last five years.

“The Orthodox population is in its own political world relative to the rest of the Jewish population,” Gerstein said. “To the extent there’s any shifting [broadly], there’s been some shifting among Orthodox to make them even more Republican. That is offset by the fact that the Reform population is much larger. They are extraordinarily Democratic, and if anything, are moving a little bit more Democratic.”

How Jewish American voters are feeling about 2026

Polls of Jewish voters this year suggests these dynamics are largely baked into the electorate at this point. A national AP-NORC survey of voters, with an oversampling of Jewish Americans, in June found that Jewish adults’ approval of how Trump is handling his job is nearly 10 points lower than among all American adults generally.

“We see that same pattern on most of the issues that we asked about, such as the economy, immigration, and Iran,” Emily Alvarez, a senior research scientist at NORC, told me. “But when it comes to his handling of Israel, they’re actually slightly more likely than the general public to approve. It’s a very small difference, but it is a difference, and it’s kind of a reversal of that trend that we saw with the other issues.”

NORC’s polling also suggests that domestic, kitchen table issues continue to be the dominant priorities of these voters generally. More than 80 percent of Jewish adults say the economy and healthcare are top priorities for them this year. About 56 and 66 percent say Israel or foreign policy are important concerns. 

This June finding roughly matches the priorities that two other pollsters identified this year. The Mellman Group’s polling for the Jewish Electorate Institute from March found that Jewish voters largely say Democrats are better aligned with their views on abortion rights, healthcare, fair elections, and supporting the middle class.

And polling from GBAO on behalf of the Jewish Voters Resource Center in the spring found that the future of democracy (37 percent) and the cost of living/affordability (32 percent) are the top two issue priorities of Jewish voters, broadly speaking. Concerns over antisemitism round out the top three (25 percent).

Fear of discrimination and antisemitism is the biggest unifying concern for Jewish adults. When GBAO asked respondents about dealbreaker issues, 20 percent cited antisemitism as being their red line for supporting a candidate. And AP-NORC’s polling found that 62 percent of Jewish adults feel they are less safe than before October 7.

And while Jewish voters tend to be more aligned with Democrats on issues, the polling also found they remain wary of partisan politics — a common trait among many demographics in recent cycles. 

“Jewish Americans really feel a sense of political dissatisfaction. They don’t feel particularly well supported by either political party. Very few say Democrats or Republicans support them well,” Alvarez said. “Republicans tend to feel a lot better supported by Republicans, and then they feel really supported by President Trump, but then far fewer Democrats feel the same way about their own party or about the president.”

The Israel factor

It’s hard to disentangle the effect of the Israel-Gaza war from the current political environment for Jewish voters.

Sam Markstein, the political director of the Republican Jewish Coalition, told me that October 7 was a defining moment for many Jewish voters who had preexisting misgivings about the Democratic Party. Changing political and public opinion on Israel and acts of violence against Jewish people and at places of worship, as well as shifts among Democrats and the left’s broader tension with AIPAC, suddenly made safety and antisemitism more pressing issues.

“After October 7, American Jews focused a lot more on their safety,” Markstein told me. “The main questions we heard, time and time, was who would best keep us safe, who would stand up for our students on the college campus quad, who would make us feel better about walking with our young kids to shul on Saturday morning, who would actually stand with the Jewish community and empower us to wear our Stars of David in public and not have to hide it.”

While concerns about antisemitism are widespread, views on Israel and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict itself are nuanced, particularly among Jewish Democrats, various pollsters told me. 

AP-NORC’s polling, for example, found that Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was broadly disliked by American Jews, with six-in-10 adults expressing unfavorable views. By contrast, Mamdani, the New York City mayor who recently explored arresting Netanyahu, was viewed favorably by 44 percent of Jews, with 39 percent expressing an unfavorable view. 30 percent of Jews said they believed Israel had committed genocide in its war in Gaza, while 49 percent said it had not. 

One important wrinkle that’s often divided Israel critics is the context of that criticism. Many Jews are concerned about Israel’s security and direction and hope to see a new government with a stronger commitment to forging peace with Palestinians and neighboring states. Michael Bloomfield, a lead pollster and managing director for the Mellman Group, told me that “what often gets forgotten is that almost all American Jews, 86 percent, consider themselves pro-Israel,” including a similar share of Jewish Democrats.

But a rising segment of the left — including candidates like Abdul El-Sayed — often describe Israel’s founding vision of a homeland for Jews as inherently oppressive and sometimes calls for replacing the country with a secular and binational Arab-Jewish state. By contrast, New York’s Brad Lander, also on the left, describes himself as a “liberal Zionist” who wants a peaceful two-state solution that preserves Israel’s existence.

Polling this year, sponsored by the Jewish Electorate Institute, found that, while many Jewish Democrats are critical of Israeli government policies and the US partnership with Israel in the war in Iran, they are still strongly supportive of Israel as a state.

Overall, nearly nine in 10 American Jews describe themselves as pro-Israel, they found, but only about a quarter, 23 percent, consider themselves both pro-Israel and supportive of Israeli government policies. Six in 10 are pro-Israel and critical, half of whom are critical of “some” and another half who are critical of “many” policies. That broadly aligns with partisan identification. While 84 perfect of Jewish Democrats are “pro-Israel,” 73 percent of them are critical of Israeli policies. Republicans, a smaller share overall, are less likely to be critical.

There are also differences based on religious and cultural identity within the Jewish electorate, apparent in the NORC polling. Jews with a religious affiliation or strong attachment to Israel as part of their religious identity tend to be more supportive of Israel’s actions than secular Jews. About half of those with religious affiliation say the Gaza military campaign is justified, while a quarter believe Israel has committed genocide, compared to about two in 10 secular Jews who say the Gaza campaign is justified, and 4 in 10 who agree with the genocide charge. Three-quarters of that cohort say they are “not too” or “not at all” emotionally attached to Israel.

While concerns about antisemitism are rising, there’s room for nuance, Bloomfield told me.

“There is a policy debate about how much aid Israel should get, there’s a policy debate about where our relationship should be,” Bloomfield told me. “That is different than the worry when it gets to antisemitism and feeling uncomfortable in the Democratic Party.” The Mellman poll for JEI found that a majority of American Jews agree with the statement that “too many supporters of Israel claim any criticism of Israel is antisemitism as a way to avoid legitimate debate over Israeli policy.” 

Nearly half of Jewish Republicans (47 percent) agree with that, along with 59 percent of Democrats. At the same time, 83 percent of Jewish Americans agree that “too many critics of Israel use tropes and generalizations about Jews to play into antisemitism, whether they mean to or not.”

Those nuanced views speak to the moment of uncertainty that many Jewish Democrats feel right now, he said. Israel, and the US relationship with it, does not dominate their vote choice or decision-making, but the way the party’s rising leaders, activist class, and press talk about it may become a bigger pressure point later this cycle. In the latest Mellman/JEI polling, few Jews say they’ve been following the discourse and debate over AIPAC and other pro-Israel groups’ spending in primary contests. Some 62 percent of all Jews say they have not heard much — including a majority of Jewish Democrats.

That number has likely gone up since then, given high-profile contests like Michigan’s Senate primary this month, which featured extensive arguments about pro-Israel spending and whether criticizing them shaded into antisemitism. And the salience of these debates may change in either direction depending on the news. Democrats could pursue a more aggressive policy to pressure Israel if they win the House, for example, or Israel might find room for a reset if Netanyahu loses his premiership later this year. 

 “There are cross currents and Jews can feel both ways at the same time,” Bloomfield said. “We ourselves can be concerned where people use antisemitism as cries as a way to get out of legitimate debate. On the other hand, there’s even more of us concerned that a lot of what is being debated by Israel often does veer too quickly into something that’s antisemitism. We can have both feelings at the same time.”

The acrimonious Democratic primary contest in Michigan is over: Dr. Abdul El-Sayed will move on to face the Republican former Rep. Mike Rogers this November for a must-win seat in controlling the US Senate.

Al-Sayed’s victory, as the first Muslim major-party Senate nominee, is historic for Muslim Americans. But the race also pitted various constituencies of the Democratic base against each other, and set the Democratic establishment and heavy AIPAC spending against El-Sayed, a progressive political newcomer.

To get a better sense of the significance of this moment, and to get an on-the-ground perspective of the repairing of bonds that Democrats must now do to prepare for the general election, I turned to another trailblazer: Abdullah Hammoud, the mayor of Dearborn, Michigan.

In 2023, Dearborn became the first majority-Arab American city, and a large percentage of its residents are Muslim. Hammoud was the first of both communities to be elected mayor. He has long been on the front lines of how these communities engage with, or feel left out of, the Democratic Party. He was a prominent voice of the Uncommitted movement back in 2024 which urged people to vote “uncommitted” in Democratic primaries in 2024 in protest of President Joe Biden’s handling of the Gaza war. That issue pushed many residents out of the party. Later that year, Dearborn, along with Michigan, shifted right, with Donald Trump winning a plurality of the city’s vote and contributing to former Vice President Kamala Harris’s eventual loss.

Two years later, things are very different, he told me. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

You endorsed and campaigned for Abdul El-Sayed. How are you feeling today, and how is your community feeling?

Many of us are feeling exhausted because we haven’t slept. But what I can tell you, honestly, is that many people are feeling hopeful. In addition to, obviously, the outcome of the elections yesterday up and down the ballot, what was hopeful this morning is just seeing the whole party come together.

So kudos to Congresswoman [Haley] Stevens, to state Sen. Mallory McMorrow, to Curtis Hertel, the chair of the Michigan Democratic Party, for announcing right away that we know what we’re facing down in November, we have a lot more that we agree about than we disagree about; it’s time to come together and continue marching forward and to build this momentum and this movement.

But I think overall, people are just feeling inspired. I’m out and about today, and a lot of people are just approaching, talking about how hopeful they are.

How much of that hopefulness is about the possibility of El-Sayed making history as a Muslim American in the Senate?

Listen, most certainly I’m not going to take away the significance of a potential first. And as a fellow Abdul — I mean, Abdul is just short for all of our full names — it’s beautiful to see a son of Michigan who’s authentically himself, welcomed and uplifted by the people of Michigan. What is more American than that? That you’re willing to support a candidate regardless of the direction in which they pray, because of the direction in which they lead? And that is the American story.

I’m wondering, are you worried at all about the spotlight that this has all brought, or fearful about more ugliness? Already the GOP is trafficking in Islamophobia: Mike Rogers tweeted out that he’s going to save Michigan from El-Sayed, just as when he went after terrorists.

The ugliness and the Islamophobia and the bigotry is not going to be anything new. Keep in mind, what did they do to our first Black president, whose middle name happened to be Hussein? How much Islamophobia was thrown out there at the idea that he may have been Muslim? 

And when we’ve had women run for office, whether it was Secretary Clinton or Vice President Harris, you saw the sexism come out. Time and time again, regardless of who you have at bat, this type of hateful rhetoric always seems to emerge. And unfortunately, the algorithms seem to promote it. 

That’s honestly what’s most problematic: a lot of the rhetoric you do hear online, it’s fake accounts, it’s bots, and it’s because these social media owners and operators, these conglomerates and these monoliths, are so afraid of the president that they’re unwilling to have a check on hate speech. Rather than focus on the hate, again, people feel hopeful because you have candidates who are authentically themselves, who are not only welcomed and accepted, but uplifted and supported. And it’s because they spoke to a set of values that people of all faiths, of all backgrounds, of all ethnicities, of multi-generational, multi-ethnic coalitions that were constructed, all share. And they’re a set of values that we want to apply globally and they’re not exclusionary.

A lot of money was spent on painting an educated, kind man as misogynistic, who is married to a far smarter physician, who is the father of two young daughters. And I’m a girl dad myself, married to a far smarter physician. But stereotypes, they get acted on for the purposes of immediate political satisfaction…there will be some carryover as a result, with Republicans now utilizing those stereotypes, trying to cast fear because of Abdul’s name, Abdulrahman. They tweeted out his full name. He’s Abdulrahman Mohamed El-Sayed, I’m Abdullah Hussein Hammoud, so unfortunately that will happen. But again, I choose to believe that people are bigger than the naysayers and people are bigger than all the negativity.

Was there anything about El-Sayed’s contest that reminded you of your own run for mayor?

Obviously my race was far smaller. And I’m in the city of Dearborn, where people expect somebody with a name like mine to come to office, although we were the first at the time. I’ll tell you, even then in that race, in a city like Dearborn, there was a lot of rhetoric that said Hammoud could be the mayor for some, but not the mayor for all.

And you hear that underlying nature with the Mike Rogers attack ads, with the Republican Senate campaign coming out and saying, look at his full name. 

What is wrong with that full name? It’s a beautifully American name. And so yes, there are similarities in that sense, similarities in other candidates who were the first who rose to power. 

What surprised you about this primary? 

On the ground, we felt like there was a lot of momentum. And obviously I’m talking about the city of Dearborn, and obviously El-Sayed took nearly 80 percent of the vote here.

I would say that this election was also a stark reminder that people are hungry for a politics that answers to working families, not to corporate PACs and special interests. And the influence of big money has too often drowned out the voices of everyday people. And so, it’s beautiful to see that there’s an opportunity to restore a government that works for those it was meant to serve. And I think that is an underlying story that is foundational to the campaigns we’re seeing not only in Michigan, not only in the US Senate race, but in campaigns all across this country. It’s the mini versus the money, as Abdul would say.

How have things changed since 2024? Trump made major inroads with Muslim and Arab American communities back then — how does it feel now?

What’s changed are candidates who are trying to build authentic connections with people on the ground on a set of values and ideals that we can all corral around, versus in 2024, just being told that, well, the other candidate is worse.

Everybody knows what Abdul’s platform is. And remember, people in Dearborn didn’t vote for Abdul because he’s Muslim. They voted for Abdul because he showed up, he knocked on the doors, he went to places of worship. He canvassed and rallied. He had an agenda that wanted to tackle the main issues that so many working families are facing, economic issues. 

And obviously in ’24, slightly different, but I would say that people did not feel heard in 2024. And yes, Trump came to the City of Dearborn. I rejected meeting with Trump. I spoke to the threat that Donald Trump presented, to unravel the very fabric of America, and we see that happening each and every single day. But unfortunately at that time, the [Democratic] party was not willing to move. And I think there were lessons happening in that election, and I think we’re kind of seeing that play out right now.

You were a pretty vocal leader of the Uncommitted movement back then. My colleague Astead Herndon recently made the case that El-Sayed’s campaign has its roots in this movement, and in some way his victory came about because of those 2024 efforts. I’m wondering if you agree, or how you think about that legacy.

For me, getting 100,000 votes for Uncommitted, I don’t categorize it personally as victories. For me, it was, can you demonstrate that children being blown up in their homes or in their schools, or in hospitals being bulldozed, that these are things that universally we as human beings should all be opposed to? And you saw a multi-generational, multi-ethnic, multi-faith coalition be constructed around that.

It wasn’t an Arab, a Muslim issue. And in this election, what I see is that that coalition grew.

We’re still seeing atrocities unfold, but what is beautiful is people are bold enough, daring enough to come forward now and say, “Hey, why send our tax dollars for death and destruction when we need to build and uplift and support working families here?” Blind to who is being killed or murdered. And I think that’s ultimately what we were trying to achieve. 

The Uncommitted movement was an anti-war coalition, a pro-justice movement. And I think that’s what you’re seeing manifest in these candidates on the ground. And so I don’t like to consider anything a mere victory. It’s one election. We’re in another election right now. And ultimately victory is when working families feel seen, feel heard, and when policies change to change their lives for the better.

That is victory and that has yet to happen.

You mention this multi-ethnic, multi-faith coalition. I’m wondering if there have been any constructive interfaith conversations you’ve heard, or had, in this primary.

We worked a lot with organizers on the ground when they asked us, how do you mobilize and canvass in cities like Dearborn? And we told them, it’s not the traditional sense where you send out a text message or do phone banking. You got to show up. You got to be seen in community with them. 

We believe in authentic relationships. And I think that the same is true about many communities where they don’t want you to show up just during election time. And so I think the coalition-building and the community-building has been happening for quite some time between myself and my residents, obviously.

We educated them; when we did do canvassing, I gave them the tips about the cultural norms, the greetings. Don’t jump right into politics. Ask somebody: What do they care about? Find the issue that matters to them and try to uplift that somehow and speak to that. Show up multiple times. “Oh, I appreciate you passing by a place of worship once.” It’s not enough. You should be there every single week, if you authentically mean and stand by the idea that you want this community to support you. What are you doing today? Today’s the day after the election — are you coming back?

It was a pretty bitter race at times, particularly on the Israel and Palestine question. Lots of attempts were made by Republicans and Democrats to drive a wedge between Muslim and Jewish voters both in Michigan and in other races around the country. What’s it going to take to rebuild trust, to repair relationships? 

Prior to the genocide in Gaza, there’s been strong relationships between the Jewish community, the Muslim community and the Arab communities. The City of Dearborn is a city that uplifted its Jewish uncle Bernie Sanders twice in the presidential election. I personally endorsed Andy Levin when he first ran for Congress against Congresswoman Haley Stevens. We’re in contact. 

I’ve worked with Jewish Voice for Peace (the pro-Palestinian national Jewish activist organization) for several years now. We just put up the Wall of Tears mural in the City of Dearborn, which highlights the nearly 20,000 children in Gaza that have been killed. They brought the idea forward to work with us. 

Sometimes the media likes to speak to a relationship that is fraught with many issues. The reality is we know that antisemitism and Islamophobia and anti-Arab sentiment are one and the same. When you see a rise in one, you see a rise in the other, and we have to counteract all this together. And we have to distinguish between criticism of a government and criticism of a people.

Editor’s note, Aug. 5, 6:20 am ET: Kansas voters rejected a proposed amendment to change how state supreme court justices are selected. This piece below was originally published on August 4.

Four years after the Dobbs decision, abortion battles have largely taken a backseat in national news to other policy fights this cycle. Leaders in the anti-abortion movement say they’re disillusioned with President Donald Trump’s unwillingness to push for further restrictions. The federal battle over access to abortion medication seems to be settled — for now. Public awareness of that fight is limited, and even at the state level, a couple years have passed since the high-pitched but successful state-level efforts to protect abortion access in red states.

Yet a little-known battle has been playing out in Kansas, where a ballot measure to change the way state supreme court justices are selected serves as a reminder that these fights over abortion are still active, even if they take the form of creative procedural and administrative efforts. 

If it succeeds, opponents say, it would open the floodgates for similar efforts in other states to politicize the remaining independent state courts (13 other states use a method similar to Kansas) and provide a road map to undoing abortion protections in other states that have safeguarded them.

On Tuesday, Kansans are deciding whether to change the way judges on the state’s highest court are selected. Up until now, judges were selected through a nonpartisan merit-based system: When a spot opens on the bench, a nine-member commission submits a list to the governor, who then selects a replacement.

The referendum would replace this system with direct, partisan elections of judges, like any other politician. Proponents say it’s a democratic move, a way to better express the will of voters over “unelected” bureaucrats. Yet critics say it’s first and foremost about restricting abortion rights — which both the court and voters have rejected.

How Kansas became an abortion rights flashpoint

In 2019, the state supreme court recognized the right to abortion in the state constitution; three years later, after Dobbs, voters rejected a Republican-championed proposal to overturn that ruling, choosing to preserve abortion rights by a 59-41 margin in a deeply red state.

It was after that failed vote in 2022 that then-state attorney general Republican candidate Kris Kobach outlined a new strategy for undoing these protections: changing the way the supreme court is selected, electing anti-abortion candidates, and “slowly and quietly” overturning the 2019 decision and 2022 vote.

“If you look at the various proposals, one of the proposals that is crystal clear is allowing people to popularly elect justices to the supreme court, which is the most common system among all of the states in the country,” Kobach said in 2022.

He’s a bit more careful talking about this in 2026: “There is a real desire to bring back some accountability to the judiciary,” he told the New York Times this week. “It’s not just about abortion.”

Tuesday’s results would have huge ramifications, critics said, given that nonelected state courts have been a final bulwark against Republican supermajorities and governors in red states. Kansas has been an island for abortion access for women in the South and central US since the Dobbs decision.

The victory in 2022 also inspired abortion rights advocates to try to use ballot measures to enshrine these protections in about a dozen other states, which successfully overturned abortion bans in Missouri and Ohio. State courts in Utah and Wyoming, meanwhile, blocked bans.

The next frontier in the abortion wars

These independent checks on power have been under attack for years, Michael Milov-Cordoba, a court expert and counsel in the Brennan Center for Justice’s judiciary program, told me. 

“State legislators across the country are increasingly trying to undermine those courts. … That retaliation takes a few different forms, but changing how judges are selected is top of the list,” Milov-Cordoba said. “And what we’ve seen is that in many states where courts stand up for abortion rights and strike down abortion restrictions, efforts to change state judiciaries have followed.”

He noted the complete reworking of the Utah supreme court in the last year, including by expanding and packing it. Similar retooling of the state supreme court happened in Iowa in 2022. Montana is likely the next battleground, where Republican legislators are exploring various avenues to strip or limit the state supreme court’s powers. That in turn has led the ACLU to get involved to boost a constitutional amendment this year that would preserve the nonpartisan status of judicial elections.

And in recent years, state supreme court elections have been inundated with spending and attention from both in- and out-of-state backers. Last year’s Wisconsin judicial election, for example, became the most expensive race of its kind in US history, with more than $100 million spent — just two years after a contest for a different seat on the state supreme court had set its own record at more than $50 million spent.

“If these courts become partisan, then they will be just like any other election fight — subject to being bought and sold by billionaire political funders,” Deirdre Schifeling, the chief political and advocacy officer at the ACLU, told me. “They become a race to the bottom … and [Republicans] are finding backdoor ways to seize power to push their ideological agenda.”

Already, Kansas has seen heavy spending: More than $12 million have been spent from both sides, including about $5 million from the ACLU, Schifeling told me.

”Everyone’s focused on the Michigan Senate race, other kind of big-ticket, sexy elections,” Schifeling said. “Well, this is just as important and much more under the radar. Without a balanced court, we are going to lose rights and liberties across the board in a state like Kansas.”

It’s been just over a year since a shooter in Minnesota attacked two Democratic state lawmakers and their families in their homes — killing state Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband, while injuring state Sen. John Hoffman and his wife. This “night of terror” stunned the political world: the shooter had a hit list and intended to carry out more assassinations of state elected officials, according to federal prosecutors.

Only a couple of months later, Charlie Kirk, the conservative founder of the Turning Point USA student political organization, was fatally shot at a campus event. As young and politically engaged Americans watched footage of his killing travel across social media, many worried that civic life would never be the same — and whether it was even safe for them to participate.  

“It was terrifying and it was horrible and I will never forget where I was when I heard the news of Charlie Kirk,” Katie Fire Thunder, a 26-year-old Democratic member of the Montana House of Representatives, told me recently. 

At the time of Kirk’s death, the Oglala Lakota Sioux Tribe member was preparing to enter public service herself — she’d go on to be appointed in December 2025 to replace a retiring state representative after years of political organizing and activist work — and was suddenly pondering if it would be worth it.

It was not the first time she’d had the thought. Growing up, she was well aware that public officials faced violence — whether at a community event, or a baseball practice, or at their home — even as she was drawn to the idea of service.

“Strangely, I always had a fear when I was little of being assassinated — I don’t know what it was, but I remember telling my mom, ‘I think I want to be a judge or an attorney, but I’m too scared that someone would get upset at me and try and come after me and shoot me’,” she told me.

Yet the calling to pass policy and engage communities won out. She’s now running for a full term in office — and wrestling with what the future will hold for her as polarization and political violence seem to be reaching new heights in tandem. 

“Now being an elected official, I’m really like, ‘Okay, what was little Katie thinking?’ And I’m really trying to process that,” she said. 

In conversations with young politicians and public servants, people in both parties described going through a similar journey. They feel a calling to change the status quo, an imperative to serve their neighbors and help the marginalized, and a drive to replace the aging establishment. But in addition to all the other challenges of politics — poor pay, demanding work schedules, nonstop fundraising — they’re increasingly grappling with the risk of violent retribution.

These fears are already shaping the next era of politics — changing how leaders behave, how they engage with constituents, and whether they run at all. In ways subtle and loud, the costs will be borne by all of us. 

Young legislators are balancing two clashing priorities

Security challenges — in the shadow of the Hortman and Kirk killings — dominated discussions at a gathering of Gen Z and millennial state lawmakers last week on Capitol Hill.

The four-day event was organized by Future Caucus, a bipartisan political organization that supports rising young lawmakers. Speakers and panelists discussed ways elected officials can modernize legislatures, craft policy, and exchange tips on being young and in office. 

But a recurring question hung over the room: Who even wants to run for public office these days? And what’s preventing a new generation of leadership from sticking with the job once they’re in?

Security was tight this year, just like last year’s Future Summit, which took place just days after Hortman’s killing. Attendees weren’t advertised before the event, guards buzzed around elevators and conference room entrances, and scheduling and programming was not released in advance, including to news media. 

These preventive measures, combined with panel conversations about the trade-offs of public service, emphasized the struggles these young politicians from both parties are facing: balancing openness, accessibility, and idealism with the reality that the very efforts they make to organize and participate in their communities may put their digital and physical safety and security at risk.

“Most electeds have to use social media in order to be successful and it also opens us up to critical attacks from people whose identities we can’t often verify,” Tiara Mack, a 32-year-old Democratic state senator from Rhode Island, told me. “We have to be able to reach a broad audience, which also means a broad audience can reach us.”

Since first being elected to the state legislature, she has received countless death threats, bigoted verbal abuse, and a terrifying episode of doxxing a couple of years ago: after a video of herself twerking in support of reproductive rights went viral, her home address and the floor plans of her apartment were posted online.

“When I had my floor plans leaked and when I had bomb squad dogs come to my home, circle my building to make sure that there were no bombs — very few people know what that experience is like,” she told me.

The incident caused her to reconsider whether her political career was worth continuing. Instead of leaving public service, though, she and her colleagues looked together for ways to feel safer and more in control. But these measures often come with sacrifices, including keeping constituents at a distance at a time when young voters frequently want more engagement, more access, and more authenticity from their leaders. 

Though she uses Instagram, TikTok, Bluesky, and Facebook actively, Mack draws a line at indulging in parasocial relationships with followers who she doesn’t know offline. She and her colleagues employ a “post-and-ghost” policy online now: publishing content online and then deliberately not reading or replying to the comments. She doesn’t advertise event locations in advance, only sending out addresses after RSVPs are submitted. She doesn’t post her location online until after she has left a place, and she tries to keep a polite and politically neutral tone online now. 

Most shocking to herself — and particularly the version of herself who first ran for office in the pre-pandemic era — is her rethinking her stance on carrying a firearm.

“That’s now a conversation I’ve had with some of my colleagues, who are grappling with what it would mean for me as someone who sponsored gun safety legislation to pursue a concealed weapons permit,” Mack told me. “And it’s a hard conversation, but I think it’s become more necessary and more and more people and women of color that I know personally are having that conversation, including myself.”

On the policy front, state lawmakers have discussed new security rules, some relevant campaign finance reforms, and mutual assurances to tone down rhetoric.

Speaking during a Future Summit panel, 35-year-old Minnesota state Rep. Isaac Schultz, a Republican, shared some of the hard lessons learned from last year’s killings. The state capitol used to have an open-door policy — “we’re a state that believes in high-contact politics,” he said — but weapons screenings now happen at the two building entrances. The Minnesota state patrol and local law enforcement now have a dedicated communications system with the sergeants-at-arms of each legislative chamber — a “massive change” from before the killings, which revealed the poor channels of communication that existed.

“We had colleagues on a hit list who didn’t have local law enforcement at their homes for over 24 hours,” Schultz said. “They were in their homes hiding. … That’s a trauma that remains.”

Minnesota and 24 other states have now passed laws to allow campaign funds to be used to reimburse or cover the cost of camera and home security systems, most of them after the Minnesota shootings. Future Caucus itself offers a discounted membership to home and digital security services, as well as some in-person security services for special events.

“State lawmakers do not have the tools that Congress has in order to keep themselves safe, but it’s just as important,” Mack said. “Cameras only do so much to keep individuals safe. They’re oftentimes a way to check after the fact. … There still need to be more robust conversations about how we keep our physical statehouses protected.”

But hearing from these lawmakers themselves, it’s hard to shake the sense that these measures are all, to an extent, stopgaps when polarization and radical thinking, including around political violence, are growing more popular, acceptable, and widespread. The reaction to the last year of killings only underscored the threat: Charlie Kirk’s death inspired conspiracy theories on the right and cruel mockery on the left, while a US senator made light of the Minnesota shootings on social media and blithely stoked rumors about the motive.

The threat of violence is changing how politics operates

According to Future Caucus’s own research, political violence egged on by hyperpartisan rhetoric is now a defining obstacle for both state legislators and those aspiring to hold public office. 

“Combined with structural and cultural barriers, they threaten lawmakers’ ability to effectively serve their communities,” Reed Howard, Future Caucus’s chief strategy and public affairs officer, wrote in a 2025 report detailing reasons young legislators end up leaving public service altogether. “Even as many Future Caucus members view public office as temporary service rather than a long-term career, it is essential that they have a fair opportunity to be productive and impactful.”

They aren’t alone in these experiences. Some four in 10 state legislators, and one in five local officeholders, reported experiencing threats or attacks since 2020, according to a series of surveys completed in 2023 by the Brennan Center for Justice. Significant shares of state legislators reported then that the seriousness and rate of abuse and harassment they have received has increased in the time they’ve been in office.

Elected officials who reported more physical threats tended to be women and nonwhite, while Republicans tended to be more likely to say the severity of abuse has increased. And since the report, “swatting” — hoax calls to police departments to trigger a show of force at a home — have continued to be a constant threat: Supreme Court Justice Amy Coney Barrett and former Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg were both recent targets.

But the common thread is that lawmakers themselves are worried that more aggressive forms of rhetoric and politicking will become accepted as the new baseline even as more violent incidents occur. Particularly for younger legislators, who may lack a steady financial base, may be trying to start families, and may be trying to juggle other full-time jobs, these security concerns compound the challenge of public service. 

“Especially with young people, they are seeing it way more firsthand than any other generation,” Fire Thunder said. “And that is having impacts in ways that we may not be seeing yet. It’s a fear tactic of: If you are running and you are standing up and being vocal on these issues, we are going to come after you.”

Fire Thunder’s most recent run-in with a serious potential threat happened not too long ago: A disgruntled citizen showed up at a public comment session her interim legislative committee was hosting, went on a conspiracy-laden rant, and threatened a trans legislator on the committee.

“We did not have security because it was not the actual committee hearing, but in a moment, I realized that this person could have had a weapon, could have had a gun, and just point-blank shot one of us in that room,” she told me. 

As she embarks on her first full-term campaign this year, Fire Thunder told me her campaign is preparing not just to engage and rally her community, but also for inevitable threats to her life. Her campaign manager frequently reminds her, “What is our plan? What is our safety plan?” between events. She’s learning to live with that cloud, but she also worries what the country will lose if others decide it’s all too much to justify getting involved.

“The biggest negative impact of it isn’t even on me,” she said. “I don’t want other young people seeing the threats and things that I’m getting to discourage them.”

On June 28, Sister Leticia “Letty” Ugboaja, a Catholic nun from Nigeria, stepped out of her home to take the short, one-block stroll to her church in McAllen, Texas. It should have been uneventful: dressed in her white habit and bearing a rosary, Sister Letty was walking to Sunday morning mass at Our Lady of Sorrows.

She didn’t make it — US Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents stopped, arrested, and handcuffed the 56-year-old. They took her to a detention facility an hour away, reportedly confiscated her rosary, and declined to bring her the medication she takes. She called her diocese for help — and as news spread, both Republican and Democratic members of Congress appealed directly to Homeland Security Secretary Markwayne Mullin for details. Hours later, she was released — without explanation.

Plenty of questions surrounding this incident remain. According to her diocese, Sister Letty had worked as a registered nurse in the area for about a decade and entered the country legally. 

But the incident is not a one-off — and instead is representative of a concerning trend in America over the last year. Though ICE and President Donald Trump’s immigration enforcement activities have receded from national headlines, Sister Letty’s detention shows how two forces are clashing in the second Trump term: the drive for hardline immigration enforcement and the constitutional imperative of preserving religious liberty and free exercise in America. 

The tightening of federal immigration enforcement around religious spaces and believers

The last year of Trump’s mass deportation program has produced many cases like Sister Letty’s — even if they haven’t made national news. Federal immigration agents have detained and harassed Catholic, Protestant, and Muslim chaplains and priests, while sparking fear across denominations — particularly as religious leaders and communities organized and led responses to immigration crackdowns across the country.

Both the Department of Homeland Security and Immigration and Customs Enforcement did not immediately respond to requests for comment on Sister Letty’s case, or other religious liberty concerns. They have also not responded to requests for comment to other local and national outlets in the case of Sister Letty.

In November, the Episcopal bishop of Texas reported that a Kenyan priest working for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice had been detained by ICE while leaving his workplace and transferred to a detention facility. His diocesan leaders said he was working in the US legally, and had the proper documentation to be in the US. In July 2025, a Muslim hospital chaplain in Ohio was arrested and detained during an immigration check-in. An Egyptian immigrant, he was held in detention for weeks before finally being released. And earlier this year, Catholic Cardinal Blase Cupich of Chicago reported that priests in his archdiocese have been stopped by federal agents and ordered to prove their citizenship. That’s all on top of clergy who were shot at with pepper balls or sprayed with tear gas at anti-ICE protests in Illinois and California.

Yet this clash has shown up not just through harassment of clergy and those dedicated to religious life, but also in restrictions on how those in detention receive pastoral care, how those trying to provide that care are allowed to operate, and whether places of worship can be free of a federal presence. 

For years, federal immigration enforcement was limited by “sensitive location” rules designed to protect places like hospitals, schools, and churches from unnecessary intimidation. Those guidelines were first formalized during the Obama administration, kept in place by the first Trump administration, and reaffirmed during the Biden presidency. Nor were these restrictions entirely new: Some form of protection for houses of worship has existed for more than 30 years, according to the legal organization Democracy Forward. 

But DHS rescinded the “sensitive location” rules at the start of the second Trump presidency — to “empower” CBP and ICE  to go after “criminals” who “will no longer be able to hide in America’s schools and churches to avoid arrest,” according to a DHS statement at the time — triggering legal responses from immigrant rights and religious freedom groups.

“For decades, the federal government recognized a simple truth: targeting people at houses of worship violates religious freedom and harms communities,” Bradley Girard, the senior counsel at Democracy Forward, said earlier this year when announcing friend-of-the-court briefs in federal cases brought by a coalition of Quaker, Sikh, and Baptist groups. “These briefs make clear that the Trump-Vance administration’s policy is not only unlawful — it is dangerous. It chills religious exercise and undermines public safety by driving people into the shadows.”

Many of those suits ended up succeeding — at least in getting judges to protect various Baptist, Lutheran, Christian, and Sikh places of worship that could prove they were being affected by immigration raids. But broader federal protections for places of worship have not yet been formalized.

Instead, churches, religious organizations, and legal aid organizations have waged piecemeal legal fights to secure religious liberty protections, like in Minnesota and Illinois — particularly to exercise pastoral care, like providing counseling, sacraments, and religious rituals. In Minneapolis, for example, Groundwork Legal, a local nonprofit, public interest law firm, sued ICE over a ban on clergy access to the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building.

“Under federal law — both the Constitution and statute — it’s clear that the government can only limit the ability of somebody to practice their religious faith, including the ability to provide [or receive] pastoral care, in the least restrictive means possible given the circumstances,” Irina Vaynerman, the co-founder and lead attorney of Groundwork Legal, told me. “And here, a categorical bar from even entering the building, to offering that care to anyone who wants to receive, it was obviously not the least restrictive means.”

Groundwork filed that suit in February on behalf of multi-denominational faith organizations and faith leaders under both the federal Religious Freedom Restoration Act and the First Amendment’s free exercise protections. They won a preliminary injunction in March, with a judge ordering the federal government to allow faith leaders to offer pastoral care to those held by ICE at the building.

Catholic clergy and religious leaders launched a similar suit last fall in Illinois after ICE and CBP officials denied clergy access to the Broadview federal center to minister to detained people — including offering Communion to them. They won a partial victory this year, when a judge ordered federal agents to allow clergy access for Ash Wednesday services — and in May, ICE and religious leaders reached an agreement to allow daily visits once again while litigation plays out. 

Vaynerman reiterated to me that the Illinois case is still playing out — these agreements and changes are temporary reprieves, in part because no national protections or guarantees have been formalized beyond piecemeal fights over religious liberty and free exercise in specific cities and around specific federal buildings or places of worship.

“Certainly this is something that we know folks are experiencing across the country…and we know that this is happening all over the country because there is not a standard protocol or policies related to this incredibly important constitutional and statutory right,” she said. “It is so important that the government recognizes [the importance of pastoral care] and then offers that level of access that is constitutionally required to support people going through one of the darkest times in their lives.”