Last Wednesday, the New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani held a press conference in Harlem to announce that the civil rights activist Maya Wiley had endorsed him. As the event was wrapping up, the thing that always happens to Mamdani happened: Someone in the crowd wanted the candidate to prove that he was sufficiently opposed to antisemitism. “It pains me to be called an antisemite,” Mamdani said, and then, as he went on to describe what it’s been like, he choked up.
He has plenty of reasons to be upset. He has been subjected to a relentless barrage of anti-Muslim slurs and threats. Someone messaged, “The only good Muslim is a dead Muslim.” He has had to hire security. Meanwhile, New Yorkers have been receiving mailers illustrated with photographs of Mamdani doctored to make his beard fuller, darker and longer. An anti-Mamdani TV ad includes a montage of him wearing a kurta — a long shirt in a style often worn in South and Central Asia (though on the campaign trail Mamdani usually wears a jacket and slacks). Billionaires who support the candidacy of the former governor Andrew Cuomo bankrolled glossy fliers that warn that “Mamdani’s radical plans would make New York less safe.” The message: He is a Muslim fundamentalist who poses an existential threat to this city and its Jewish residents.
When I spoke to Mamdani on the phone a couple of days after that press conference, it became clear to me that there is another reason he chokes up: It’s hard to keep defending yourself against a false accusation. It’s logically impossible to prove an absence. And as anyone who has ever been falsely accused knows, it hurts.
The mayoral campaign isn’t the first time that Mamdani, who has spoken out in support of Palestinian rights, has faced accusations of antisemitism, but this time critics have focused on two events. In the June 4 Democratic debate, candidates were asked which foreign country they would visit first after becoming mayor. Cuomo named Israel. Mamdani said he would stay in the city and added, “As mayor, I will be standing up for Jewish New Yorkers and will be meeting them wherever they are across the five boroughs, whether it’s at their synagogues and temples or in their homes or at the subway platform.”
A moderator then insisted that Mamdani declare whether he believes in Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state. He answered that he believes “that Israel has a right to exist as a state with equal rights.” Cuomo cut in to score a point: “He said he won’t visit Israel!”
If there is such a thing as correct answers in politics, Mamdani had them. It ought to be uncontroversial for a mayor to focus on his city and for a politician to assert the value of equal rights. But the exchange fueled accusations of antisemitism.
Last week, Mamdani was interviewed on “FYPod,” a podcast aimed at a young political audience. One of the hosts asked Mamdani to comment on the slogan “Globalize the intifada,” which, the host acknowledged, means different things to different people. “Antisemitism is a real issue in our city,” Mamdani responded. “It’s one that can be captured in statistics,” he continued. “It’s also one that you will feel in conversations you will have with Jewish New Yorkers across the city.”
He talked about a Jewish man who told him about being at services at his synagogue, hearing a door creak open behind him, and feeling terrified. Mamdani talked about a Jewish man in Williamsburg who had started locking a door he’d always kept open. Then Mamdani said he would fight antisemitism not by banning words but by increasing funding for anti-hate-crime programming by 800 percent.
His response showed deference to the American tradition of free speech, evidenced commitment to tackling the issue at hand and showcased his remarkable talent for articulating the feelings behind the politics. More accusations of antisemitism followed.
As I watched a grainy Instagram video of Mamdani choking up during his press conference in Harlem, my mind flashed back to an interview I did many years ago with a Russian historian of Stalinism. During the period known as the Great Terror, hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens were accused of plotting to kill Stalin or overthrow the Soviet government. Surviving transcripts paint a surreal picture of their interrogations. Detainees would be protesting their innocence. Most were true believers in the cult of Stalin, and the accusation itself was unthinkable to them. But to an interrogator who might see dozens of defendants a day, the historian pointed out to me, the idea that so many people wanted to kill Stalin could come to seem perfectly normal.
Don’t get me wrong; obviously none of the players in the New York events are comparable to Stalin or his henchmen. But this contrast — between the person who is falsely accused and his accuser, who acts as though the crime is so common it’s practically the norm — is useful in understanding both the smear campaign against Mamdani and the state of our conversation about antisemitism more generally.
In recent years, the United States has had an alarming number of antisemitic episodes, from swastika graffiti to marchers chanting “Jews will not replace us” to attacks at synagogues. But in the wake of the Oct. 7, 2023, attacks on Israel, it has become increasingly difficult to separate instances of antisemitism from times when people and institutions are accused of antisemitism with little or no basis.
In short order, Representative Elise Stefanik and several of her Republican colleagues used antisemitism as a pretext to humiliate the presidents of elite universities. Later, the Trump administration took up the mantle, using the charge of antisemitism as a cudgel against higher education.
The Israeli government has leveled accusations of antisemitism at several European leaders, whole countries, the International Criminal Court, the International Court of Justice, the United Nations and, it sometimes seems, the entire world — whoever criticizes Israel.
In this country and elsewhere — most notably in Germany — a vast network of anti-antisemitism activists, many of them self-appointed and many of them not Jewish, have leveled this accusation against hundreds of thinkers, writers and artists who have criticized Israeli policies. Many — probably most — of the accused are Jewish. I am one of them.
A sequence of logical sleights of hand is required to falsely accuse someone of antisemitism. First, any criticism of Israeli policies or any acknowledgment of Israel’s alleged war crimes in Gaza or illegal occupation of Palestinian lands is cast as an attack on Israel’s right to exist — as though the state couldn’t survive without starving the people of Gaza. Second, the State of Israel has to be conflated with all Jews.
Israeli politicians, as well as many American ones, and mainstream American Jewish organizations have long promoted this conflation of Jews with Israel and criticism of Israel with antisemitism. Functionally, the definition of antisemitism drafted about a decade ago by the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance, an intergovernmental body, does, too. That definition has been adopted by the U.S. federal government, many cities and towns, and a growing number of universities.
Recently more than 900 academics signed on to an open letter from the newly formed Genocide and Holocaust Studies Crisis Network, calling on universities to drop this definition. In 2020, a group of such scholars drafted an alternative definition of antisemitism, known as the Jerusalem Declaration. It explicitly states that holding all Jews accountable for the actions of the State of Israel is antisemitic. I would add a logical corollary: Defining any criticism of Israel as a threat to all Jews is just as wrong.
What makes these conflations powerful and long lasting is fear. I heard an extraordinary description of how this fear operates in a podcast interview with the Columbia University professor Shai Davidai. If you are familiar with his name, it’s probably because he has been a lightning rod, a hero to those who believe that American universities have become hotbeds of antisemitism. Columbia, for its part, suspended his campus access, saying he had harassed and intimidated other university employees.
Before any of this happened, Davidai identified as left wing, an opponent of the Israeli occupation and a critic of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. A couple of days after Oct. 7, someone showed him an open letter issued by the Columbia chapters of Students for Justice in Palestine and Jewish Voice for Peace. It was the kind of strident, tone-deaf letter that student organizations were putting out at the time. It talked about the inevitability of armed resistance as a response to systemic oppression. It did not talk about Jews.
And then Davidai found himself on campus, looking at several hundred students wearing kaffiyeh and, at least as he understood it, celebrating the Hamas attack. A colleague leaned over to him, he said, “and says, ‘This is the antisemitism that our parents and grandparents warned us about, and we didn’t listen.’ And the moment he said that, everything changed for me.” Davidai started speaking out on social media and attracted a great deal of attention.
Davidai described his experience as an epiphany. For many people living in Israel — a nation founded by Jews for Jews — and many American Jews as well, antisemitism is an abstraction, the stuff of stories. (I have to give credit for this observation to my daughter, who moved from a very antisemitic society to New York City at the age of 12.) These stories come from great tragedy, especially for Jews of European origin, many of whom represent the lucky-survivor branches of their families. Seeing something you have only read about suddenly, at least seemingly, come to life is a kind of awakening — the kind that a person in grief and trauma is perhaps particularly open to.
Two recent brutal attacks in the United States have sent more fear through Jewish communities here and elsewhere: the shooting of two Israeli Embassy staff members outside of the Capital Jewish Museum, in Washington, D.C., on May 21 and the firebombing of a rally in support of Israeli hostages 11 days later, in Boulder, Colo. Both attacks have been widely denounced as antisemitic.
That’s no surprise — both were visible and deliberate attacks on public events with a high concentration of Jews. But that isn’t necessarily the end of the story. Daniel May, the publisher of the magazine Jewish Currents (I serve on its board), has argued in a powerful article that neither attacker made any obviously antisemitic statements — unless one considers “Free Palestine” an antisemitic slogan. The D.C. shooter’s 900-word purported manifesto didn’t contain the word “Jew” or even “Zionist.” Of course, someone could still act out of hatred even if he doesn’t shout it in a manifesto, but the absence in that document of any explicit mention does open the possibility that he had a different motive.
Neither of these events was exclusive to Jews, as a synagogue service might be. Both events were inextricable from the war in Gaza. And though the violence in Boulder was wide ranging, the shooting in Washington seems to have been very specifically targeted — at two representatives of the Israeli government.
None of this makes the attacks any less horrific. And none of it should offer any comfort to the victims or their families. The terrible human toll is the same no matter what the attackers’ motivation. But if we are looking to draw larger lessons from this brutality, it’s worth considering that violence that looks antisemitic may — even when it very effectively serves to scare a great many Jews — be something else.
What these attacks can be understood as is, undoubtedly, acts of terrorism. There is no universally accepted definition of terrorism, but scholars agree on some basics: It’s violence committed for political reasons, against noncombatants, with the goal of sowing fear. It’s notable that “terrorism,” a term that in this country has been used and misused to crack down on civil liberties, especially those of brown and Muslim immigrants, has been joined and even supplanted by the term “antisemitism,” wielded in similar ways, for the same purposes.
Terrorists aim to provoke a reaction. A violent and disproportionate response, because it amplifies their message that whatever they have targeted is absolute evil. They got that response in Israel’s devastation of Gaza following the Hamas attack on Oct. 7.
Terrified people tend to support disproportionate violence. Terrified people make perfect constituencies for politicians like Netanyahu because they can be convinced that the unrelenting massacre and starvation of Gazans is necessary to keep Israel safe, and for President Trump, because they may not question the justification for pre-emptively bombing a sovereign country.
My thoughts keep returning to that conversation with the historian of Stalinism. She studied an era of political terrorism carried out on the premise — crazy yet widely accepted — that the U.S.S.R. was full of people who wanted to kill their leader. Today, we may live in an even more cynical era, when political leaders, instead of acting on their own fears of violence, instrumentalize other people’s fear.
The conflations that underlie most political conversations about antisemitism make it seem as if everyone wants to kill Jews — that antisemitism is not just common but omnipresent. If you believe that the whole world wants you dead, then you are much less likely to stand up for human rights or civil liberties, other people’s or your own.
A casualty of this cynical era is our understanding of the actual scale of antisemitism, defined as animus against Jews as Jews. There are many reasons to think that antisemitic attitudes and attacks are on the rise, but the keepers of statistics often thwart the effort to get hard information, because they insist on conflating criticism of Israel with anti-Zionism and anti-Zionism with antisemitism.
New York City is home to the largest number of Jews outside of Israel. But for all the noise mayoral candidates and their supporters have made about antisemitism, Mamdani is the only one I have heard so movingly acknowledge the emotional toll that the real and imagined threats of antisemitism have been taking on Jewish New Yorkers. I wonder how many people can hear him through all the din.
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M. Gessen is an Opinion columnist for The Times. They won a George Polk Award for opinion writing in 2024. They are the author of 11 books, including “The Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia,” which won the National Book Award in 2017.
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