A year on from the worst attack on Jews since the holocaust, the community is fearful, yet resilient, in the face of rising antisemitism, says Benjamin Bell
According to a classmate of my daughter, “Jews go to hell with the other demons”.
Not quite the lesson I send my seven year old to school for, but it’s all the girl took from that day.
A fortnight earlier she and my even younger son were with me and my wife on the Tube when a so-called activist branded us “disgusting” and refused the adjacent seat.
My crime? A visible Star of David symbolising Judaism. There ended the joy of a family day out that had begun with a visit to the synagogue where we married. The memory of our wedding anniversary is racist abuse in front of the kids.
A famous London restaurant has just concluded an educational course for staff after I told the manager a waitress had ended my order with an unprovoked rant that belonged in Hitler’s bunker.
All this happened in the past three months, and each incident was worse than any hate I’ve faced in four decades of London living.
My neighbourhood bears other scars. The Jews hounded out of a comedy show. The posters of lost pets pristine while those of captive humans are torn the day they go up. The schoolchildren beaten as they await the train. The falafel house vandalised. The park with racist graffiti. The students reluctant to return to campus. The kosher supermarket rushed by a knifeman.
I could offer more examples, but after a year of Jews whining about antisemitism following our worst loss of life since the Holocaust, you’re probably tired of hearing it. I can tell you we’re tired of experiencing it.
Meantime, I had to miss the Jewish New Year service with my family because I was part of a huge security presence outside the synagogue to help keep those inside safe. A week earlier was the routine guard shift at Sunday school so my children could attend with other youngsters who become targets the moment they are born Jewish. This is not paranoia. The threat is real and regular.
Youngsters become targets the moment they are born Jewish
Such hostility is more severe across Europe, with historical overtones which are hard to ignore. That hasn’t stopped us asking, wherever we go on holiday: “Could we live here?” We don’t want to go. Nor did most Jews displaced through the ages.
Like so many of us, my family line dates back to 1800s London and is paved with consistent contribution: from job creators to British soldiers. This is our home. Yet the moorings have loosened.
What has hurt more than the bigotry of a few strangers is the silence of the population at large. Where are the anti-racists in defence of our cause? Where is the outrage and intervention that would follow a fraction of similar treatment for other ethnic groups? Where is the protection from intimidating marches that make central London no-go every other weekend?
A pattern repeating
Our ancestors have dealt with worse. Perhaps we were naive to think ourselves history’s first Jews to elude persecution. Rather, we now see the pattern repeating. That makes more sense, senseless though it is.
In a world so silent in support, the burden has grown on us to make our own sound. That is what revealing our identity has been about. The unobscured necklaces, the social posts, the peaceful rallies.
7 October 2023 marks a before and after for global Jewry. It has lent perspective to what matters. It has brought the community closer. It has clarified relationships beyond, with friends either stepping up or letting us down.
Whatever one’s views on a foreign conflict, there is no excuse for society to allow a hateful minority to marginalise your neighbours and colleagues who simply want to be.
I take heart that a year’s tears and fears for London Jews masks an unshakeable resilience and pride. The limited allyship to date has helped get us through. We need more of that and more of you.
Benjamin Bell is a London-based corporate affairs leader