During my time in the Biden Administration, serving as a U.S. Public Delegate to the United Nations I helped to shape our country’s first National Strategy to Counter Antisemitism. Today, as the world’s justified horror at the humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza grows, that work has taken on new urgency.
In the shadows of a necessary outrage, an ancient poison is reemerging: a unique and persistent refusal to take Jewish fears seriously.
Some of the erosion of credibility, young American Jews across the country tell me, stems from those who insist all criticism of Israel is antisemitic, diluting the term’s power. Even more dangerously, others weaponize “fighting antisemitism” for political gain, using Jews as props while emboldening forces that seek to harm us.
These dynamics have politicized and hollowed out the world’s oldest hatred. But as those young people would be the first to tell you, that doesn’t mean the threat isn’t real.
Antisemitism in America
The stubborn myth that Jews are too safe to be targets is colliding with a painful new reality.
For the first time, a majority of American Jews—including many of the young people I met—are changing their lives out of fear, a fear now validated by the FBI, which recently recorded the highest number of anti-Jewish hate crimes in American history. Jews make up just 2% of the population but are the victims of nearly 70% of all religion-based hate crimes. The question is no longer whether a crisis exists, but what we will do in response.
I know that for some, any discussion of antisemitism is seen as an attempt to silence legitimate criticism of the Israeli government or its policies. But that valid concern cannot become a shield used to deflect from real and rising threats. As someone who has consistently worked to differentiate criticism of Israeli policies from antisemitic behavior, I believe the line is crossed when we equate Jewish identity with the actions of a state, when we demand collective responsibility for a government’s decisions. To call on Jews, worldwide, to answer for Israel’s policies is to single them out because of their faith. That is discrimination, plain and simple.
And as anti-Israel rhetoric has increased sharply, so too has antisemitic violence.
Here in America, and all across the world, Jews with no connection to the actions of the Israeli government are being harassed, threatened, and even killed by people who claim to be acting in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
An erosion of empathy
Let me be clear: what is happening in Gaza is a horrifying humanitarian catastrophe.
With hospitals overwhelmed by emaciated children and over 1,000 Palestinians killed just seeking food, the world’s outrage is not only justified; it is a moral necessity. And while people have the right to make that outrage known through peaceful protest, we must be honest about the line between protest and threat, resistance and harm.
History teaches a sobering lesson: it is precisely in moments of intense conflict, when the world is awash in anger and blame, that antisemitism finds its most fertile ground. It thrives on chaos and exploits legitimate grievances, twisting them into targeted hate. To ignore it now—to put it aside for a “better time”—is not a sign of focus, but a failure of foresight.
When many Jewish people say that certain slogans—like “Globalize the intifada” or “There is only one solution: Intifada revolution”—evoke pain, even among the most progressive and justice-oriented of us, it’s not because we oppose Palestinian freedom, or justice, or liberation. It’s because we carry memory.
In particular, “intifada” is inextricably tied to two bloody chapters of Jewish history, marked by suicide bombings, mass shootings, and the murder of Israeli civilians. To speak the phrase now as if it were just a theoretical call to resistance is to ignore the lived experience of those who remember what it wrought.
Language doesn’t only reflect intention—it carries the weight of past use, of collective trauma, of coded threats. It has an impact. And so, when a community tells you a phrase evokes existential fear, it’s not enough to say, “I didn’t mean it that way.”
To do so is more than just a failure of sensitivity—it’s a failure of solidarity. And this is where so many well-meaning people lose their way. They treat empathy as if it were conditional, or zero-sum. They hear Jewish pain and ask first whether it aligns with their politics, parsing slogans instead of listening to those affected by them.
This hurts Jews. But even more than that, it fractures coalitions, pushing away people who, too, strive for collective justice—and driving them toward those who cynically (and capriciously) dangle the carrot of protection.
Empathy doesn’t require agreement on every issue. It requires listening, learning, and acknowledging harm. To condemn these slogans isn’t to call for censorship or criminalization. It is to say: this hurts people. And if we’re serious about building a kinder, fairer, more peaceful world, we ought to care about that.
A path toward solidarity
As Jews, we have the responsibility to model this behavior ourselves. Our tradition commands us to refrain from ona’at devarim—causing harm through words—teaching that even unintentional speech that causes emotional pain is a transgression. More than avoiding malice, we are called to take responsibility for the impact of our words.
This ethical imperative for responsible speech is deeply intertwined with a centuries-old commitment to social justice. Forged by a history of exile and persecution, Jewish Americans have consistently championed dignity and equality. From Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel marching arm-in-arm with Martin Luther King Jr. in Selma to advocating for LGBTQ+ rights and disability inclusion, this enduring legacy of partnership makes today’s silence—or worse, dismissal—from some quarters profoundly painful. This moment urgently calls for rededication to these shared causes, fostering bonds with all who seek peace and dignity.
Today’s public discourse demands moral clarity and renewed mutual respect. Bad actors are counting on us to tear each other apart—to fall for the narcissism of small differences, to turn on our allies instead of our oppressors. But we can’t give them that satisfaction.
Instead, let’s be brave enough to say: I didn’t know what those words meant to you. I do now. And I won’t use them again. That’s not weakness. It’s strength. It’s what solidarity should look like. And I believe it’s possible.
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