Fighting back: Even in the face of Jew-hatred, we must not hide

Be honest: Have you ever hidden your love for Israel to avoid judgment?

I’ll go first.

A couple of years ago, I did something I’m not proud of. I was reading a book with an Israeli flag and Netanyahu on the cover. Knowing how tense things can get on the subway in New York City, I hid it with a makeshift cover.

Looking back, I cringe. But I share this because it captures how many of us instinctively respond to antisemitism. My friend Yossi Klein Halevi calls much of today’s antisemitism the return of “conditional acceptance.” In certain circles, Jew-hatred is contingent. It doesn’t just target Jews — it targets Zionists or anyone refusing to bow to ideological trends demanding Jewish guilt.

If you’ve experienced this, you’re not alone. Maybe it was the silence in a work meeting after someone called out the “genocide” in Palestine. Or an uneasy conversation with your child about listing Jewish activities on a college application. Perhaps it was a social media thread praising “resistance,” to which you had no idea how to respond.

For Jews in elite spaces — academia, the arts, activism, nonprofits — these dilemmas are unceasing. Do we pay the price for conditional acceptance or do we speak up and risk being labeled the “Jewish problem”?

This dynamic reminds me of Jacob’s encounter with Esau in this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach. Returning home with his wives and children, Jacob fears Esau’s rage over the blessings Jacob had received decades earlier. His fear feels justified: Esau advances with 400 men, a formation that screams war.

Jacob does not flee as he has done twice before. But he doesn’t fight either. Instead, he strategizes. He divides his camp, prepares for battle, prays to God, sends extravagant gifts (read: bribes), and humbles himself before Esau, bowing repeatedly as a supplicant, not a rival.

I’ve always admired Jacob’s strategy — his family survived, after all. But this year, I find myself asking: at what cost? I can’t help but see us in this passage, where Jacob avoids confrontation. He’s secured safety, but at the price of diminishing himself.

We’ve seen this in environments historically more tolerant of Jews. Under Islamic rule, Jews were granted dhimmi status — protected, but legally subordinate. During European emancipation, Jews were offered inclusion, but only at the cost of assimilation. Political theorist Wendy Brown captures this paradox vividly: emancipation, which promised liberation, required Jews to be “transformed, cleaned-up, and normalized.” What was meant to “accept” Jews often demanded the erasure of their distinctiveness as a people.

Today, we see echoes of this same dynamic. Too often, we have contorted ourselves to prove we are “the good ones,” aligning with the oppressed, while avoiding anything controversial. And we’ve done this even as, unlike our ancestors in Aleppo or Berlin, we (mostly) enjoy physical safety — the privilege of choosing whether to accept or reject society’s terms. But history shows that these bargains are never stable. The promise of conditional safety is precarious, and when the tide turns, Jews are exposed.

Little wonder, then, that our Torah portion idealizes another path — one that preceded Jacob’s encounter with Esau. Here, Jacob encounters an angel — interpreted by the sages as the spiritual force of Esau’s enmity (Genesis Rabbah 77:3). In this encounter, Jacob doesn’t negotiate or run. Instead, he fights.

It’s a grueling struggle. Jacob emerges limping, scarred for life. But he also emerges transformed. No longer Jacob — the heel-grabber — he becomes Israel: the one who wrestles with God and man and prevails.

We might wonder as to the order of these two moments: after triumphing over the angel, why didn’t Jacob confront Esau?

I believe we can learn an important lesson from this.

Our battles are part of larger wars, and wisdom lies in knowing when to fight heads on and when to compromise for survival. But ultimately, it’s the fight that defines us — those moments of unflinching honesty about who we are, what we value, and who we stand with. Jacob’s confrontation strengthens him profoundly, even as he later bows to Esau. Just consider the following: like so many Jews in history, he might have been tempted not just to bow, but to internalize Esau’s view of the world and of himself. Yet, after strategically appeasing Esau, Jacob walks away. He and his family part ways, resolutely committing to live their story on their own terms. They will not make their home in spaces that offer only conditional acceptance.

We’re in a similar moment. Since October 7, many of us have woken up to realize the price is too high. A civilizational battle is unfolding, with Jews at its center.

For each of us, the battleground looks different — on the subway, at work, or online. For some, confrontation will be a constant mode of engagement; for others, like Jacob, it will coexist with moments of strategy and compromise. But to be a Jew — to be part of Israel — means that at some point, we need to come out of hiding.

We must embrace the moment and declare: Yes, I love Israel. Yes, I cherish my Jewish family. Yes, I stand with the IDF’s morally just war. And no, I will not apologize for my identity or buy into toxic ideologies demanding conditional acceptance.

Like Jacob, we might walk away scarred, but we can emerge as Israel — confronting, prevailing, and standing tall.