Facing Anti-Zionist Hostility in a Brooklyn Café
I never expected that an afternoon spent reading in a familiar café would take such a bizarre and unsettling turn. I had come to one of my regular spots in Brooklyn, a cozy café on Smith Street where I often went to unwind or get some studying done. It was one of those places where you could find a quiet corner, sip on your coffee, and disappear into your own world. On that particular day, I had brought a book that I was eager to read: Combating Antisemitism in Education: Advocacy for Zionist Inclusion. It covered the need to address antisemitism in schools and promoted creating spaces where Jewish students could feel safe, express their identities, and even celebrate Zionism without fear. It wasn’t meant to be controversial, just a study in advocacy and inclusion.
I had been sitting there for about twenty minutes, sipping my coffee and underlining some interesting points, when I noticed that I was attracting attention. At the next table over, a group of three people—two women and a man—kept glancing in my direction. I tried to brush it off at first, but the looks didn’t stop. Soon, one of the women stood up and walked over to me, her expression a mix of curiosity and something much less friendly.
She leaned in close, as if we were about to share a secret, but her voice came out low and harsh. “Is that really what you want to be reading right now?” she asked, her tone dripping with judgment.
I glanced down at the book and then back at her, genuinely puzzled. “I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s wrong with reading this?”
The woman folded her arms and raised her voice slightly, enough for nearby tables to hear. “You know exactly what I mean,” she said. “Reading about Zionism, acting like it’s some kind of noble cause—especially with everything happening right now. It’s offensive, don’t you think?”
I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected to be confronted over what I was quietly reading in a café. “I’m reading about combating antisemitism in schools,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tension. “It’s about making sure Jewish students can feel safe and express their identities without fear.”
The woman scoffed loudly. “Jewish students feeling safe? What about Palestinian students? What about people who are being oppressed by Zionists?” she retorted. “You Zionists hide behind your claims of antisemitism whenever anyone tries to hold you accountable.”
Her words felt like a punch to the gut. I had merely been reading, minding my own business, and here I was, suddenly accused of complicity in oppression simply because of my interest in Zionism. It was then that I noticed something strange: one of the two friends she left behind at her table was wearing an IDF (Israel Defense Forces) hat. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was some sort of statement, a joke, or perhaps something even more provocative. The man in the hat was just sitting there with a smirk on his face, clearly enjoying the confrontation as if it were a performance staged for his benefit.
I tried to explain myself. “The book isn’t about the politics of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,” I said. “It’s about combating antisemitism in educational settings. It’s about ensuring that Jewish students can feel proud of who they are without fearing harassment.”
She cut me off before I could finish. “You’re the one promoting hatred by supporting Zionism. It’s an apartheid state,” she snapped. “People like you are complicit in all the violence. If you want to read about Zionism, why don’t you read about the people suffering under it?”
As she continued to accuse me, I could feel the room shrinking around me, the stares from other tables growing more intense. The fact that her friend was wearing an IDF hat—seemingly mocking the situation—only made it more surreal. Here I was, being lectured on how offensive my reading material was while one of her friends casually sported the symbol she was condemning.
Then, her tone grew darker. “Hamas has the right to resist, you know. When people are being occupied, they have no choice but to fight back. But I’m sure you don’t care, as long as your people feel ‘safe.’”
Hearing her voice support for Hamas, an organization known for targeting civilians, including Jews, was deeply disturbing. The ease with which she endorsed violence was chilling. I looked around the café, hoping someone might step in or show some sign of disapproval. But all I saw were people watching—some curious, others visibly uncomfortable, and a few who seemed entertained by the spectacle. I felt utterly alone, as if I had somehow wandered into a place where being Jewish or expressing a pro-Israel view was grounds for public shaming.
After the incident, I didn’t just walk away feeling angry or embarrassed; I was shaken. The hostility I encountered wasn’t just aimed at me but seemed directed at the idea of Jewish identity itself. I wasn’t sure what to do next or how to process what had happened. So, I turned to someone who had always been a source of wise advice: my uncle.
My uncle isn’t Jewish, but he has a deep understanding of the issue. He lived in Tel Aviv for several years with his first wife, who was Jewish. They had shared countless conversations about the complexities of life in Israel, the history of the conflict, and how to respond to antisemitism. When I told him about the incident at the café, he listened quietly, then offered advice that struck a chord.
“You need to confront it, but not in the way they expect,” he said. “Whenever you’re faced with someone who’s determined to hate, you’re not going to change their mind in one conversation. What you can do is show that you’re not afraid and that their tactics won’t intimidate you. Share your experience publicly, bring it out into the open, and don’t let them have the satisfaction of driving you into silence.”
He told me about an approach his first wife used when faced with similar situations in Tel Aviv. “She’d always start by acknowledging the other person’s pain or anger,” he explained, “but then she’d redirect the conversation to focus on common values or shared struggles. It’s about changing the frame of the discussion so that it’s not Jew versus non-Jew or Zionist versus anti-Zionist, but rather people trying to find some humanity in a complicated situation.”
He added, “Remember, it’s not just about defending yourself. It’s about refusing to let the world dictate who you can be or what you can believe.”
Taking his advice to heart, I started speaking up more about what happened that day. I shared the story with friends and family, and eventually with my university’s Jewish student organization. Each time, I felt a little less alone and a little more determined. I even went back to the café a few weeks later, not to confront anyone, but just to sit there and read—because I refused to be driven out of places where I had every right to be.
The IDF hat continued to puzzle me, though. I wondered if it had been a bizarre attempt at irony or if it was intended to provoke some kind of reaction from me. It left me questioning the motives behind that entire encounter. Was the man wearing the hat aligned with the woman who confronted me, or was there a hidden tension even among them? The ambiguity added another layer of discomfort to the experience, making it feel almost surreal.
Reflecting on the incident, I realized that the situation in the café wasn’t just about one person’s prejudice. It was a symptom of a larger issue where hostility toward Jews is masked as political discourse, where supporting Israel is equated with condoning violence, and where discussions on campus and in public spaces are increasingly polarized. It wasn’t just antisemitism hiding behind a veneer of anti-Zionism; it was open hostility that left little room for dialogue.
My uncle’s advice gave me the courage to challenge these incidents when they happen, but also to know when to step away and protect my own peace. He reminded me that while one conversation might not change deeply ingrained beliefs, every effort to confront hate helps chip away at its power. I carry that wisdom with me now, knowing that even if I’m not always met with support, I won’t be silent in the face of hostility.
Ultimately, this experience has deepened my commitment to advocating for spaces where Jewish identity can be expressed without fear and where conversations about difficult topics can happen without intimidation. We need to ensure that antisemitism, whether explicit or disguised, doesn’t continue to find acceptance in our communities. It’s not just about defending oneself; it’s about standing up for a world where everyone can share their stories and beliefs without fear of being shamed or silenced.