France Has a Jewish Problem And It Isn’t the Jews

Imagine hundreds of thousands of French Jews pouring into the streets. Imagine them smashing storefronts, setting fires, attacking police officers and turning neighborhoods into battlegrounds. Imagine Jewish demonstrators torching government buildings because they no longer felt safe in their own country.

The world would notice. Jewish organizations would immediately be asked to condemn the violence. Israel would somehow be dragged into the conversation. Television panels would debate what had gone wrong with French Jewry.

But French Jews are not burning Paris. They are not attacking police. They are not destroying the country whose protection they are asking for.

They are asking for something far more basic: the right to be Jewish without being afraid.

And the numbers should shame France. According to France’s Interior Ministry, 1,320 antisemitic acts were recorded in 2025. That was 53 percent of all anti-religious incidents in the country.

Jews represent less than 1 percent of France’s population.

Think about that: Less than 1 percent of the population. More than half of the country’s recorded anti-religious acts.

And this is supposed to be normal?

It isn’t.

France’s Interior Ministry itself says antisemitism has remained at a historically high level for three consecutive years.

Behind those statistics are human beings: a Jewish father wondering whether wearing a kippah on the Métro is worth the risk; a mother wondering whether her child’s Star of David should remain underneath a shirt; a family walking to synagogue past armed security and police; a Jewish student wondering whether expressing support for Israel will make him a target.

These are not abstractions. This is Jewish life in one of Europe’s great democracies.

And yet, remarkably, so much political energy continues to be directed not toward the Jews living in France, but toward Jews living thousands of miles away in Israel.

There is something profoundly backwards about that.

France has every right to criticize Israel. Israel is a democracy. Its government can be challenged, criticized and condemned like any other government.

But there is an enormous difference between criticizing Israeli policy and creating a political culture in which Israel becomes uniquely demonized and French Jews are subsequently expected to answer for decisions made in Jerusalem.

A French Jew in Marseille does not control the Israeli government. A Jewish student in Paris does not command the IDF. A Jewish shopkeeper in Lyon does not determine Israeli policy in Gaza or the West Bank.

French Jews are French citizens. Their safety should never depend upon what happens in Jerusalem.

And yet the connection is increasingly impossible to ignore. CRIF reported that nearly one-third of recorded antisemitic acts in France in 2025 contained explicit references to Palestine.

That should set off alarms throughout Europe. Because when anger toward Israel becomes permission to intimidate Jews in France, we are no longer talking merely about criticism of Israeli policy.

We are talking about antisemitism.

And Europe, of all places, should know where that road can lead.

There is another uncomfortable truth France must confront. For years, European politicians have sometimes acted as though distancing themselves from Israel will somehow buy peace at home.

Condemn Israel loudly enough. Pressure Jerusalem aggressively enough. Demonstrate sufficient sympathy for Israel’s enemies. Perhaps the anger will subside.

It won’t.

Extremism does not reward appeasement.

Hatred does not disappear because politicians redirect it toward a more convenient target. And antisemitism does not suddenly become enlightened because someone substitutes the word “Zionist” for “Jew.”

President Emmanuel Macron has spoken forcefully against antisemitism, and that deserves acknowledgment. But speeches are no longer enough.

France now faces a far more important test.

Can a Jewish child walk through Paris wearing a Star of David without fear? Can a Jewish man wear his kippah openly? Can Jewish students enter universities without being held collectively responsible for a Middle Eastern war? Can a Jewish family send its children to synagogue without passing armed guards?

These are not Israeli questions.

They are French questions.

And perhaps the most disturbing thing happening in France is not that Jews are rioting.

It is that they aren’t.

French Jews have endured years of threats, harassment and violence. And still they do not burn France. They organize. They speak. They vote. They protest peacefully. They protect their schools. They protect their synagogues.

And increasingly, some simply leave.

That should frighten France more than any burning barricade. Because when Jews begin asking whether their children have a future in a country, history tells us something important:

The problem is rarely the Jews.

France does not need another solemn ceremony declaring that antisemitism has no place in the Republic.

It needs to prove it.

Protect Jewish schools. Protect synagogues. Prosecute antisemitic violence. Confront hatred whether it comes from the far right, the far left, Islamist extremists or anyone else.

And stop treating French Jews as collateral damage in somebody else’s war.

There is a simple test of a democracy: Can its smallest minorities live openly, proudly and safely without hiding who they are?

For France, that test is happening right now.

So the next time France’s streets erupt and politicians instinctively turn their attention toward Israel, perhaps they should resist the temptation.

Look at Paris. Look at Marseille. Look at Lyon.

Look at the Jewish child wondering whether to hide her Star of David.

And look in the mirror.

Because France does have a Jewish problem.

The problem is not that France has too many Jews.

The problem is that too many French Jews are being given reasons to wonder whether France still wants them.