I spent a lot of winter break reflecting on the war in Israel, reading articles, talking with people I love, and thinking. Many of these reflections were interrupted by Jewish relatives and friends, who approached me with worried faces and hands on shoulders and asked: “How is campus?” “How are things at school?” Behind these peppering questions and sympathetic eyes, a tense undertone pervaded: Are you safe?

They were speaking, of course, about the headline-grabber since Oct. 7, 2023: a mass attack-turned-war. As the conflict rages on in the Levant, ravaging the earth with hostages and bombs and corpses, a mirror conflict rages across Western media and campuses and streets. The rally cry of the highly progressive, “pro-Palestine” left viciously battles the hashtags and chants of the “pro-Israel” side, forming a divide that has generated roaring mobs, doxxing, vandalism, and resignations at a sickening intensity.

Yet what I find so frustrating about this seething battle is that, from the people I’ve spoken to and the articles I’ve read, many people actually seem to agree on a great deal about the war. If you were to boil down most belief systems of the similarly-educated students, activists, and scholars that dominate our campus and our social media feeds, I think you’d find they hold many near-identical truths: Netanyahu and the Israeli far right are dangerous and offensive entities, who endanger almost all who live in the Levant. Palestinian people have suffered injustice under occupation and continue to suffer to a nauseating degree under the invasion. Hamas’ violence towards Israeli citizens comprises acts of inhumane antisemitism and hate. There are certainly moments of disagreement across these belief systems, and different agendas and goals. But I would argue there is absolutely enough in common between these different sides that we should be able to come together in productive conversation, with the comfort of knowing that the people we sit across from share our goals for peace and the preservation of life. 

This isn’t to say our conversations should produce agreement. In fact, I would go so far as to say disagreement can be crucial. This conflict is unendingly confusing, spanning centuries of history, anthropology, international relations, theology, and politics that hold within them thousands of different experiences and truths. Academic, artistic, and political debate, when executed productively, gives us the ability to hold one another accountable, understand one another better, and work toward effective solutions. If there is one thing my Jewish faith has taught me—and my years as a competitive debater have solidified—it’s that discourse, debate, and asking questions are sacred acts.

But then I open my Instagram feed, and I’m hit with a blinding display of dogmatism woven into infographics and sentence segments. And I wonder, why isn’t this debate productive? Why, when it should produce empathy and solutions, does it create only escalation and alienation?

And my answer came from where all answers come from: my nervous Jewish relatives. 

What occurred to me very quickly was that their concern didn’t stem from their opinions on the geopolitical war. Most of the Jews in my life are very left-leaning, and they hold a wide array of political beliefs about the conflict, some of which predate Oct. 7. But quickly—more quickly than many realize—the main topic of conversation related to Israel and Palestine in Jewish homes like mine has become local antisemitism. 

At this point, it feels important to note that this diagnosis does not apply to every Jewish person. In fact, processing the war and the activism surrounding it might look different for every person in our community. But as I’ve tried to process my experiences through connecting with Jewish friends and relatives and collecting information, I’ve seen a pattern of similar fear emerge. This fear that pervades my family and friends’ inquiries about campus is a fear of bomb threats and sucker punches and vandalism and snarky comments sections. And their concerns aren’t unfounded: antisemitism has risen hundreds of percentage points over the past few months as the left surges with political vitality over the war. For many of us, this might not feel new. Antisemitism might feel like a familiar part of the American Jewish experience. But what makes this wave of prejudice so nauseating is that it isn’t coming from middle school boys’ vandalism or far-right conservative hashtags. It has come, at least in some part, from the American left. And for someone who has lived in the comfort of the American left for most of my life, this is frightening.  

Some of these acts of antisemitism are targeted towards publically Zionist organizations or individuals, but in many cases they aren’t. Over the past few months, I’ve watched Jewish TikTok comment sections stormed with flags and nostalgia for the Holocaust, visibly Jewish individuals on the streets or subways being spit at, and swathes of bomb threats pouring into my progressive synagogue in the weeks following Oct. 7. This fear exists in my Jewish community, tense and loud.

When this fear is expressed, it is often met with mockery. A TikTok I saw a few weeks ago perfectly encapsulated this problem. It featured someone mocking American Jews for feeling afraid of the current political climate surrounding Israel. The maker of the TikTok, a young woman, ridiculed diaspora Jews for their “overdramatic” and “attention-seeking” fear, given their privilege as Americans.

Only the TikTok, in its mockery, didn’t say “Jews.” It said “white millionaire Upper-West-Side Zionists.”

This TikTok hit me like a punch in the gut. The creator made an antisemitic piece of media, with enough self-awareness to know that directing her disdain toward Jews would be inappropriate. Instead of using this awareness to reconsider her content, she changed a few words to make it acceptable for social media. Make no mistake: the prejudiced sentiment is still there. The adjectives—wealthy, white, privileged, whiny—are characterizations of Jews that sit at the center of centuries-old antisemitic tropes that manipulate public opinion against Jewish people. These are not accidental words, flippantly used; they hold immense meaning for Jewish viewers. But the TikTok creator found a way to publish these ideas without being accused of hate.

This is all perniciously also true for the inverse. Diaspora Palestinains and Arab Americans in the United States and across the West have faced increased rates of racism, islamophobia, and outright violence as a result of their identity. In November 2023, in Burlington, Vermont, three Palestinian American students were shot and injured—a devastating indication of the capacity for hatred and violence from those who oppose the Palestinian right to life and safety. And many face similar forms of online and in-person vitriol, generated by the culture of the “Pro-Israel” side. Because I don’t hold this identity or bear witness to these experiences, I can speak definitively only on the diasporic Jewish experience, not the Palestinian one. But I can say with certainty that hate and its impacts pervade every side of this conflict.

Not every participant in activism about Israel-Palestine is guilty of prejudice, but many are culpable in the negligent response. These moments of antisemitism or islamophobia happen, and Jewish or Muslim communities express concerns in response. But when I scroll through my social media or engage in conversation on campus, too often I hear these worries written off as politically motivated, manufactured, and unjustified. Instead of hearing Jewish or Arab concerns from worried family members, “Pro-Israel” and “Pro-Palestine” activists and organizations are keen to debunk claims, refute feelings, and in some cases mock concerns about safety. So the TikTok creator who called out the silly worries of “white millionaire Zionists” didn’t take the time to consider or understand why Jews—even wealthy or esteemed ones—might feel fear right now. Instead, she found a way to belittle collective fear while avoiding the rhetorical consequences of overt antisemitism. 

So perhaps this answers the question of why our debates aren’t productive? Our debates are happening in classrooms and lecture halls, on streets and online platforms. But there is an underlying fear that permeates these conversations. This is a fear more proximate than many political beliefs. It is a fear that the people you love are unsafe on their campuses or in their places of worship, wearing keffiyehs or kippahs. Suddenly, choosing a side isn’t just about favoring a one-state or two-state solution; it’s about the climate of the movement, the hashtags, and the events where your children and friends will be the most safe. For Jewish Americans, that fear prevents many of us from crossing the aisle to listen with open hearts. For Palestinians or Arab Americans, a fear of violence and prejudice might inhibit comfort in entering a space that mainly speaks of the Israeli perspective. For everyone taking part in this movement, fear can lock us into our beliefs, our people, our solutions—and out of meaningful discourse and empathy.

It’s important to reiterate that not all participants in these movements are responsible for inspiring this fear. But I know in my community—a community that experiences fear of ostracism—little moments of anti-Semitism can shatter a feeling of safety. That shattered safety transforms the culture of discourse and activism, and these seemingly small moments of prejudice can make it challenging to welcome a speaker with a different belief to campus or to a classroom, because their words become metaphors for a larger alignment to a larger threat. 

Consider this a reframing of our collective understanding of fringe anti-Semitism or Islamophobia. I believe it is a mistake to write off responses to antisemitism as manipulative or self-indulgent. For the Jewish people in my life, these small moments and the movement’s response to them matter. If my friends and family don’t think a protest, a vigil, or an Instagram page will be a safe place for the Jewish person they love, no matter their political alignment, they will not send me there. And when these worries are met with criticism, they don’t get resolved. You can’t refute fear. You can only alienate those who feel it.

In high school, I served as an equity officer for a local competitive debate league. My job was to integrate equitable practices into the field of competitive debate, and a great deal of this work involved conflict mediation and behavioral guidance. The biggest thing I learned in the job was that equity, respect, and safety are not silly or frivolous aims in the context of productive and advanced competitive arguing. They are central. Successful debaters must navigate their arguments with kindness and respect for their opponents. High-level intellectual discourse and genuine persuasion come only when debaters invite people into their argument, not when they attempt to bully people out.

Along this vein, I invite anyone participating in Israel-Palestine activism to consider internal movement culture. Activism and education are not practices of intellectual domination. Perhaps more than ever before, we have the capacity to shape this conversation, for good or for bad. The way we treat criticism, concern, and prejudice in our communities sets the tone for the type of debates we can have outside our communities. Instead of immediately writing it off, we could use these confrontations as moments of self-reflection and redirection, a space to listen to someone new with productivity and empathy. I believe we have to make the hard, humbling, messy choice, for the safety of the causes we defend and the people we love, to speak for good.

Julia Schroers is a member of the class of 2027 and can be reached at jschroers@wesleyan.edu.