I Thought My College Valued Free Speech. Then I Spoke About Israel.

EMERSON COLLEGE,  BOSTON— It was 2:00 am when I returned from a Passover Seder to campus. As I approached my dorm, a human chain of keffiyeh-clad protesters blocked the entrance. I had hoped the chants for intifada and “we don’t want no two states, we want 1948” that filled the encampments had died down by my early morning arrival. That hope vanished.

I walked up to the group and smiled politely. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to pass through their arm-linked blockade.

“Zionists aren’t allowed in this alley,” one of them spat, scanning me, their eyes locked onto my “Bring Them Home” dog-tag and my Star of David necklace that read “Am Yisrael Chai.” The inability to blend in–that’s the nature of the Jewish story after all. 

“I’m a student here. The only entrance to my building is in this alleyway,” I responded, pointing behind them. The group eerily stared at me in silence, stone-faced, not budging.

Only when I pulled out my student ID and insisted, “You can’t prevent students from entering their residential buildings,” did one finally break formation. “Everyone break” she muttered. Two of them unlinked arms, allowing a narrow entrance for me to pass through.

Heart racing, I walked past chalked graffiti covering the sidewalks that read: “Student intifada,” “No Zionists on our campus,” and “Resistance by any means necessary,” to name a few. My campus was unrecognizable. 

“Student Intifada” written on one of the walls of Emerson College’s Boylston Place Alley, outside of my dorm building on April 29, 2024. (Photo by Margaux Jubin)

This wasn’t some dystopian nightmare. This was an American college campus in 2024.

The atmosphere on campus had been shifting for months, starting in October 2023.

“How is everyone today?” my African Studies professor asked, scanning the tired faces in the 8 a.m. class. She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Well, I guess the silence makes sense. There’s a genocide happening right now.” 

Less than a week earlier, Hamas had slaughtered over a thousand Israelis in their homes, in their beds, and at a music festival. But she wasn’t talking about them. She wasn’t talking about the babies burned alive or the entire families massacred. 

My stomach twisted as the weight of her words settled in. My eyes scoured the room, eagerly searching for a reaction. Most stared blankly, completely indifferent. Several students nodded in agreement with her. The silence was suffocating, and I knew this was only the beginning.

I never expected that just two years after committing to my dream school, I would be packing my bags, withdrawing, and walking away from the life I had created. But I had no choice. I could not stay at an institution where my peers and professors had become radicalized, spreading false and dangerous rhetoric that ultimately put my safety at risk.

 The worst part of it was that my campus lacked a Jewish community–and as a result, I had been alienated because of my Jewish identity. 

Even before the war, I struggled to find my place on campus. I quickly realized the student body was intolerant of political diversity that did not match up to their so-called Progressive beliefs. Yet, I pushed forward, hoping to carve out a space for myself. 

Perhaps the school’s journalism program would provide a space to channel my voice. But that hope shattered when I attempted to write an opinion piece for Emerson’s student-run publication about my feelings of isolation and my grief following October 7th.

The relentless distortion of Israel’s reality was worse than I had imagined: In the opinion piece I submitted to The Berkeley Beacon, my editor-in-chief refused to publish my writings in which I called Hamas a “terrorist group,” even when citing the U.S. Department of State’s list of designated foreign terrorist organizations. 

“The word ‘terrorist’ has a racist connotation,” my editor-in-chief told me. “There’s no universal definition of terrorism.” I wasn’t allowed to call October 7th a “murderous rampage” either, because it didn’t follow the paper’s “style standards.”

Tears streamed down my face as I held up my phone, showing my editor images of children’s bedrooms covered in blood after being overrun by terrorists. I explained that even if she chose to ignore Hamas’s official designation as a terrorist organization, this was my opinion piece—I had the right to call them what they were. Not fighters. Not militants. Terrorists. 

Eventually, she relented, allowing me to keep the word “terrorist” but persistently warned me of the intense backlash I would face. Even after I firmly stood by my decision to publish, the editors held multiple meetings to discuss “what to do about Margaux’s article.”

After three weeks of being “under review” by a newly formed “advisory board” for articles about Israel, my piece was finally published online. On Tuesdays, when the print editions are typically distributed, the usual stack of newspapers was missing from the silver rack in my dorm’s entryway. It seemed odd, but I assumed the distribution had simply been delayed.

Once Thursday afternoon rolled around and the prints were nowhere to be seen, I started to get skeptical. I scoured the academic buildings and ended up exploring the backroom of one of our smaller buildings when I found a rusty rack that held hundreds of copies of that week’s newspaper hidden away, with my article in it. I couldn’t believe it, but there was no time to process that. I photographed the hidden stack for my records and then loaded the pile into my tote bag and distributed them across campus myself.  

I couldn’t help but feel that this was deliberate censorship. Discrimination.

I chose not to confront my editors, feeling the need to keep that knowledge in my back pocket for later. 

As a staff writer for the student-run publication, I covered both pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel demonstrations. What drew the most backlash wasn’t my balanced reporting—it was my coverage of pro-Israel events, especially vigils for October 7th victims, rallies calling for the hostages’ return, and Jewish community gatherings. Each time one of these articles was published, my Instagram DMs filled with hate messages from my fellow students. I was called an oppressor and a racist, and accused of being a KKK member. Some peers called my coverage a “moral stain on journalism” and “an embarrassment to humanity.” Some even posted my articles alongside my face and full name, turning me into a public target.

Regarding the pro-Palestinian perspectives I covered, I interviewed two professors who were hosting a “teach-in on Gaza.” One of them described the event as a “productive and healthy discussion.”

“During the teach-in, do you plan to address the use of hate speech in demonstrations?” I asked. Their response? They turned the question on me: “What do you consider hate speech?”

When I answered that chants like “Long live the intifada” and “From the river to the sea” were threats against Jews, they smirked. Then, they took turns “educating” me: Israel had built the Hamas’ terror tunnels in Gaza. There was “no proof” of people burned alive on October 7th. Israel orchestrated the massacre to delay the peace process.

These were not just fringe opinions—they were outright slanderous, the kind of insidious propaganda that perpetuates antisemitism and incites violence against Jews. I reported this to the dean of their department, and although I had the entire interview recorded, no action was taken.

By then, I had already begun applying to transfer in the upcoming fall. When the encampments appeared, my decision was sealed. 

Protestors hold up signs in the pro-Palestinian encampments at Emerson College in April 2024 (Photo by Margaux Jubin)

The night I was blocked from my dorm, I emailed my college’s president, demanding alternative housing. By the next evening, I—and several other Jewish students—were in a hotel, paid for by the school. My college had made one thing clear: they could not protect Jewish students.

After filing over ten reports of the harassment I experienced from other students with insurmountable proof including recordings and screenshots—the administration refused to act. 

Even in the face of hatred and relentless adversity, my experience at Emerson College not only tested me, but solidified my commitment to truth, justice, and advocacy. Leaving wasn’t about escape—it was about reclaiming my voice in a place where I could stand even stronger. 

I’ve since transferred to The George Washington University, where I carry these lessons forward. Though the anti-Israel rhetoric is pervasive, the Jewish community here is louder, stronger, and more driven than ever. 

Once I graduate, I hope to work for a pro-Israel nonprofit or lobbying group, using my writing and political communication skills to strengthen the U.S.-Israel relationship, combat antisemitism, and expose misinformation. 

If this past year has shown me anything, it’s that silence invites erasure and strength commands respect. The Jewish spirit is one of resilience, inherently justice-seeking—the ability to stand alone against an army and still prevail runs in Jewish blood, and it has since the days of our patriarchs and matriarchs.