Beyond 3 Ds of Antisemitism: A Case for Defiance

Recognizing antisemitism is only the beginning. Confronting it takes courage.          Changing it takes action.

Eighty-eight years ago today, on November 9, 1938, Jewish businesses, synagogues, and homes were attacked across Nazi Germany and Austria in what became known as Kristallnacht. Windows were shattered, synagogues burned, Jews were assaulted and murdered, and thousands were arrested. The violence was organized by the Nazi regime, but it also exposed the terrible consequences of a society in which too many people remained silent as their Jewish neighbors were persecuted.

Yesterday, on the eve of this anniversary, protesters in Philadelphia targeted six Jewish-owned and Israeli-associated businesses with a chilling demand: “These Zionist establishments must go! Not in our city!” Organizers insisted they were protesting Zionism, not Judaism. But demanding that businesses disappear from an American city because of their owners’ identities or presumed political beliefs crosses the line from legitimate political protest into discriminatory targeting.

The events are not historically equivalent, nor is there evidence that the timing of the Philadelphia protest was intended to evoke Kristallnacht. Yet their juxtaposition raises an important question: When Jewish businesses are singled out and told they do not belong, how should the rest of society respond?

In Philadelphia, hundreds of people offered an answer. They lined up outside the targeted restaurants, bought food, and stood with their neighbors. Their message was simple: You belong here. You will not stand alone. They showed up. On this anniversary of Kristallnacht, their response reminds us that remembering antisemitism is not enough. We must also be willing to more actively confront it.

More than two decades ago, Natan Sharansky articulated the three Ds of antisemitism: demonization, delegitimization, and double standards. His framework helps distinguish legitimate criticism of Israel from antisemitism. Criticism becomes something different when Israel is demonized, its legitimacy denied, or standards applied to it that are not applied elsewhere.

Others have suggested additional Ds, including dehumanization, dis-inclusion, and denial. Like Sharansky’s original three, these help us recognize antisemitism. I propose a fourth D, Defiance, not as another way to identify the problem, but as a call to collective and principled action, from ordinary citizens to the most powerful institutions.

Defiance requires courage. Israeli journalist and podcaster Haviv Rettig Gur has explored the importance of Jewish agency, the determination to shape one’s future rather than accept powerlessness. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, in The Courage Not to Conform, emphasized the moral courage to challenge prevailing opinion rather than follow the crowd. Together, their perspectives illuminate two dimensions of Defiance: the courage to stand up for ourselves and the courage to stand up for others, especially when doing so carries a personal or professional cost.

Courage, however, must lead somewhere. Defiance means refusing to accept antisemitism as inevitable and taking meaningful steps to confront it. Sometimes that means challenging a colleague, changing institutional policies, pursuing legal remedies, or confronting a government. Sometimes it means something as ordinary as showing up for a speaker defending Israel’s democracy.

This obligation has deep roots in Jewish tradition. The Talmud (Shabbat 54b) teaches that those capable of protesting wrongdoing who remain silent bear responsibility for their inaction. In Pirkei Avot (2:5), Hillel urges us to demonstrate moral character when others fail to do so. He also asks, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”  before reminding us that concern only for ourselves is insufficient.

These teachings speak to the distinction at the heart of the Philadelphia controversy. A Jewish American restaurant owner is not the Israeli government. An Israeli American selling falafel is not responsible for every Israeli military action. Political protest is legitimate; demanding that businesses disappear because of their owners’ identities or presumed beliefs is radically wrong, hateful and potentially illegal.

Consider the reverse. Imagine activists identifying Palestinian-owned restaurants and demanding their removal because their owners support Palestinian national aspirations. I would condemn such targeting, just as I oppose holding Palestinian Americans collectively responsible for Hamas. Our opposition to discrimination loses credibility when it depends on whose political views we favor.

These questions have particular importance in healthcare. As a family physician, I believe medicine carries a special obligation to care for patients and work with colleagues regardless of religion, nationality, or political beliefs. Yet recent controversies within healthcare organizations have raised troubling questions about whether those principles are being upheld.

In 2026, the American Psychological Association (APA) twice postponed recognition of the Association of Jewish Psychologists as an ethnic psychological association, prompting allegations of unequal treatment and a federal investigation. A study of 218 Jewish mental health professionals found that 39% reported antisemitic harassment and 21% professional exclusion. Although the study was not representative of all Jewish mental health professionals, its findings warrant attention. In Britain, a government review of antisemitism in the National Health Service described Jewish healthcare professionals experiencing ostracism and Jewish patients fearing that openly expressing their identities could affect their care.

Similar tensions have emerged in social work. Jewish social workers have reported harassment, exclusion, and pressure to disavow Zionism. In February 2026, the International Federation of Social Workers International Federation of Social Workers considered proposals to suspend or expel the Israeli Union of Social Workers. The American National Association of Social Workers opposed those proposals, which were ultimately defeated.

History offers examples of people who refused to tolerate institutional antisemitism, including two stories with meaning in my own life. In 1933, UNC medical school dean Isaac Hall Manning enforced a discriminatory quota limiting Jewish admissions. As documented by medical historian Dr. Edward C. Halperin, qualified Jewish applicant Morris Krasny was denied admission and enlisted Durham attorney and UNC trustee Reuben Everett to challenge the decision. UNC President Frank Porter Graham, who was not Jewish, intervened and ordered Krasny admitted, prompting Manning’s resignation as dean. The broader discriminatory practices did not immediately disappear, but Graham’s intervention mattered.

At Emory University, the history is personal. Between 1948 and 1961, approximately 65% of Jewish dental students failed or repeated coursework, compared with about 15% of non-Jewish students, under Dean John Buhler. My father, Dr. Marvin Goldstein, was among those who challenged Buhler and helped expose the discrimination. Buhler eventually resigned, although Emory did not formally apologize until 2012.

I think about these examples together. Graham challenged discrimination against a group to which he did not belong. My father confronted prejudice within the institution where he had trained. Both understood that recognizing injustice was insufficient if no one was prepared to challenge it. As a physician, I see a parallel with the work of medicine. Sharansky’s three Ds help us make the diagnosis. Defiance is our call to treatment.

Of course, organized resistance to antisemitism is hardly new. For decades, organizations such as the Anti-Defamation League, American Jewish Committee, and World Jewish Congress have documented antisemitism, challenged discrimination, pursued policy changes, and worked with civic and government leaders. Their efforts have successfully demonstrated the importance of sustained advocacy. But confronting antisemitism cannot remain the responsibility of these Jewish organizations alone.

Since October 7, 2023, legal action has become an especially visible form of resistance. Title VI of the Civil Rights Act protects students in federally funded educational institutions against discrimination based on race, color, or national origin, including antisemitism involving shared Jewish ancestry or ethnic characteristics. At UCLA, Jewish students challenged exclusion from campus spaces. Litigation produced a 2025 permanent injunction requiring equal access for Jewish students, faculty, and staff, including protections against exclusion based on religious beliefs concerning Israel. The injunction extends for 15 years.

At Harvard, January 2025 settlements with Jewish student plaintiffs and advocacy organizations produced commitments involving nondiscrimination policies, antisemitism training, complaint procedures, and public reporting. These cases demonstrate how civil rights protections can be invoked to challenge alleged discrimination and secure institutional commitments for equal treatment.

Perhaps even more troubling are healthcare professionals who publicly declare that they will refuse to treat patients identified as Zionists or Israelis. Whatever one’s political convictions, no patient should have to demonstrate ideological acceptability to receive medical care. Such statements warrant professional investigation and, when substantiated, meaningful consequences. Organizations such as StopAntisemitism have helped bring alleged antisemitic conduct to public attention, sometimes by notifying employers. Public accountability has an important role, but it must rest on reliable evidence, consistent standards, and proportionality. Documenting public misconduct is fundamentally different from exposing private information to encourage harassment.

Nor should people confronting discrimination be left to shoulder the risks alone. Jewish students should not have to jeopardize their education, or junior faculty their careers, to challenge prejudice. Universities, hospitals, employers, and professional associations have obligations to investigate credible complaints, protect those who report discrimination, and apply their standards fairly.

Philadelphia offered a different, but equally important, example. The Jewish Federation of Greater Philadelphia mobilized community support, Mayor Cherelle Parker and other officials condemned the targeting, and JewBelong installed billboards encouraging residents to oppose the boycott. The response brought together institutions, elected leaders, and ordinary citizens.

Yet action alone does not guarantee success. Graham’s intervention did not end discriminatory admissions practices at UNC. My father and others challenged discrimination at Emory, but a formal apology took decades. Their courage mattered, even when the results were incomplete.

As in public health, we should judge our interventions not simply by their intentions but by their outcomes. Are people safer? Are discriminatory policies changing? Can Jewish students, professionals, and patients participate fully in institutions without concealing their identities or beliefs? Those are more meaningful measures of progress than statements of concern alone.

Education is another essential response. Through my work with the North Carolina Council on the Holocaust, I hope to strengthen the connection between teaching Holocaust history and helping young people in North Caroloina recognize and challenge contemporary antisemitism. In her provocative new book, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question: A Love Story for the Living (2026), Dara Horn challenges Holocaust education that emphasizes Jewish suffering while teaching too little about Jewish civilization, values, and contributions. Teaching how Jews died is essential, but it cannot substitute for teaching how Jews have lived.

That history includes extraordinary resistance. From the Maccabees resisting religious persecution more than two thousand years ago to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943, Jews have resisted efforts to erase their identity. Under Nazi occupation, resistance also meant secretly preserving religious traditions, educating children, and documenting Jewish lives. Sometimes courage required armed struggle. Sometimes it meant quietly refusing to surrender one’s faith, culture, or dignity. Yet resistance, however justified its cause, never excuses the deliberate targeting of civilians. Jewish history is not only a history of persecution. It is also a history of people who refused to let others determine whether or how they would live as Jews.

The response of the broader Philadelphia community reminds us that confronting antisemitism cannot be the responsibility of Jews alone. It belongs to community and religious leaders, university presidents, physicians, elected officials, and neighbors willing to challenge discrimination even when doing so is uncomfortable. The same courage and principles that compel us to confront antisemitism must also guide us in opposing discrimination against Palestinian Americans, Muslims, Black Americans, and others. Our commitment to Defiance is strongest when we apply it consistently, regardless of who is targeted.

As a physician, educator, father, and Jewish American, I think often about what I am passing to the next generation. We teach our children to remember Kristallnacht. But are we also teaching them the courage to act when Jews and others face hatred and discrimination today across the U.S. or abroad?

Rabbi Tarfon taught in Pirkei Avot (2:16) that we are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are we free to abandon it. The first three Ds tell us when antisemitism is present. Defiance asks what all of us are prepared to do about it today.