Antisemitism as the Wound of the West

How many Europeans, over the course of the past 2,600 years, have believed that Jews should be, at the very least, excluded- and at the very worst, eliminated?

This is one of the central questions posed by philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy in his dialogue with Danielle Cohen-Levinas in the recently published essay The Hatred of the Jews. Nancy warns that antisemitism, “as a phenomenon, belongs to the West, occupying a constitutive place.” In other words, one cannot understand the history and identity of the West without recognizing that antisemitism has been a constant component of its development.

What is most unsettling about antisemitism is its resilience and ability to transform. It emerges as a relentless force that directs, spreads, and amplifies hatred toward Jews—even, and especially, when Jews believe themselves to be safe. That perception of safety becomes a critical element.

Jews felt safe in interwar Europe, particularly in the Weimar Republic. Jewish cultural and religious life flourished as never before, embodied in figures such as Franz Rosenzweig and Martin Buber, who represented a vibrant Jewish experience just before the utter devastation unleashed by Nazism and its allies.

Even in societies grounded in strong legal systems and progressive, pluralistic values, antisemitism stands as a persistent reminder of the precariousness of Jewish existence, wherever it may be. And this must be stressed: that precariousness may begin with the Jews, but it rarely ends with them.

In this sense, the existence of the State of Israel represents a rupture with centuries of Jewish fragility. Yet this rupture is neither cost-free nor goes unnoticed. Perhaps nothing better illustrates the persistence of antisemitism than the ease with which some circles question the very legitimacy of the Jewish state.

If antisemitism is indeed embedded in the foundational structure of the West—as Nancy suggests—then the global resurgence of anti-Jewish hatred, along with the erosion of values we once believed to be firmly rooted in Western societies, is not a historical accident. Rather, it is a continuation of the ambiguity, confusion, and moral disorientation that characterize our times.

It is within this context that we mark another Yom HaShoah. And we do so not only by remembering the victims of the Holocaust as the most extreme manifestation of antisemitism, but also by recognizing that this horror was not the end of the story. Today’s reality forces us to reconsider the Shoah not as a closed chapter, but as a peak in a still-unfolding narrative.

Antisemitism does not disappear—it mutates, reinvents itself, and hides in plain sight. It remains deeply rooted in the trenches of the West, always ready to resurface in new disguises, with more sophisticated tools, and, yes, in more vulnerable societies.