Racism, other Isms – and a Fly on the Wall

There I was, invited to observe, listen, participate in silence. As lecturers and discussion facilitators know, one can actively participate, in silence. So I did.

Data was presented by activist researchers – an Arab Israeli woman and a Jewish Israeli woman. Three other Palestinian citizens of Israel in the room with eight Jewish Israelis. The data from surveys and studies of local public opinion among different age cohorts over the past three years – before and after October 7, 2023. Attitudes and perceptions tracked relate interactions among members of two national groups – Jewish citizens of Israel and Palestinian citizens of Israel – and their feelings about each other, with those surveyed reflecting a wide range of subgroups within their respective societies.

Regardless of the breakdown, by age, residential location, political alignments and other distinguishing characteristics, the data was disturbing, though hardly unfamiliar to the people in the room. The bulk of data at once made the severity reverberate with the urgency of presenting methods for generating change.

As the fly on the wall, I indulged in associations spurred by the stark data. Questions surfaced in my mind, superseding my concern for change-generating methods.

I watched the Arab researcher presenting data, staggering degrees of distaste among Jewish Israelis for Arab citizens of Israel. Distaste – my choice of words for a term including hate, fear, disinterest in shared society, willingness to deny them the right to vote, and other such opinions. The presenter, professional, academic, reported. The corners of my eyes contained my tears, as suited my status – fly on the wall.

During the break, I asked the presenter how she feels presenting data, living in a society, as part of a minority, knowing the majority of the majority population holds such attitudes towards her. It’s her call to action, she comforted me. It’s why she conducts such research.

I recalled stories told to me as a child about antisemitism that my parents and grandparents experienced in the US. The exclusive club where the “no dogs and Jews allowed” rule was applied during my parents’ childhood. Vague teenage memories: should I accept antisemitic slurs as ethnic jokes? Did I lack a sense of humor or was it legit then – and now – to object to stereotyping and ethnic jokes? Is there a line to be drawn between offensive stereotyping and purposes like communicating shared ideas in social science research?

Is it ever just harmless humor – or is it always loaded, influencing perceptions and public opinion? Language shapes perceptions. A voice for feminism creeps into the associations. Girls may be girls, but when women are called girls, it’s a statement – and citing lack for sense of humor is a statement.

I remember a neighbor knocking on our door when I was in second grade, and antisemitic remarks and accusations when he complained to my mother – because I told his daughter, my classmate, that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.

Remembering my father in the twilight zone between lucidity and dementia. Grateful that we never totally lost him, nor he himself, to dementia. But it added to the poignancy of his long-term memory sparks. Visiting the US just six weeks before COVID lockdowns began there, I went with my sister and my parents, z”l, to find a new place for them to live. My dad needed a place with memory care. While looking for a place, my dad told us about Jimmy again, a kid in his childhood neighborhood. Jimmy never stopped playing with him, even though he was Jewish. Other kids did.

At one Westchester, NY nursing home, meeting with a social worker and the director, my father had a question – if other people might not like them because they’re Jewish. At a non-sectarian, NY facility, owned by Jews. Beyond my father at that point.

If he were the fly on the wall instead of me, he would have identified with the Arab presenter and empathized with the other Palestinian citizens of Israel in the room ostensibly taking the data in stride.

Harriet Gimpel – December 31, 2025