The Inconvenient Truth about Jewish Pain

Since October 7, I’ve been trying to explain to some of my non-Jewish classmates from Harvard Business School, people I once believed were brilliant, thoughtful, and values-driven, what this moment has felt like. I’ve tried to describe the fear, the grief, and the sense of abandonment that has settled in — not just in response to the brutality of the attack itself, but to the cold silence that followed it.

This isn’t just about one incident or one school. It’s about a pattern I’ve seen unfold across campuses, boardrooms, and private conversations — a growing unwillingness to make space for Jewish pain.

But what’s harder than the fear is the gaslighting. The way I’m told that what I see isn’t really there. That the slogans aren’t literal. That the context is complicated. That I’m overreacting.

Most recently, I brought up the killing of two Israeli embassy staffers in Washington, D.C. — a Christian Israeli and a Jewish American — by an individual reportedly influenced by the rhetoric of a “global intifada” manifesto. It was a horrifying act of violence. But instead of moral clarity, I was met with lectures on free speech, as if calls for global uprising and glorification of violence somehow fall safely under the umbrella of “protected ideas,” so long as the target is Israel or Jews.

What shocks me most is not just the moral indifference. It’s the intellectual dissonance, often cloaked in a sense of righteousness. Many of them see themselves as principled — fighting for justice, equality, all the right causes. But when it comes to Jews, that framework breaks down. The same people who would instantly recognize and condemn calls for violence if aimed at almost any other group suddenly become defenders of “free speech” when the target is Israel or Jews. I’m told people like me are burning Harvard to the ground — blamed for the backlash, the donor exits, the reputational damage. The script is familiar. It’s always the Jews, always our fault. The principle of free expression is vital, yes — but so is consistency. When speech celebrates or calls for violence, especially when it results in it, we all know it’s not just speech. And yet, rather than pause to reflect, they deflect — turning the conversation to Trump, as if that explains away everything. No one stops to ask what actually went wrong, or why so many of us feel unsafe and unwelcome in spaces we once helped shape. Their righteousness, it turns out, has limits. And empathy isn’t one of them.

Here’s the inconvenient truth. I know exactly what would happen if this kind of hate speech were directed at them. They would be the first to call for it to be removed, banned, or de-platformed. I’m guessing many of these same voices had no objection when Harvard engaged in open cancellation campaigns and speech policing for years. Yet when it’s aimed at Jews, some can’t even bring themselves to condemn it. That’s the difference. What makes it even more absurd is that these years of selective outrage and ideological censorship directly contributed to Harvard being ranked dead last in the country by FIRE for protecting free expression. So let’s not pretend this is about principle. It’s about who’s being targeted.

Still, the romanticized idea of “college activism” continues to shield everything under the banner of youthful rebellion, progress, and speaking truth to power. But there is nothing innocent about calling for a global intifada. There is nothing principled about chanting for violent resistance while ignoring its real-world consequences. The myth of the harmless student protester ignores the reality that campus rhetoric does not stay on campus. It can radicalize and legitimize hatred in very public, very deadly ways. The activism they champion is conditional — embraced when it targets the “right” oppressors, rejected or ignored when it makes them uncomfortable.

Then there’s the part where they don’t even recognize antisemitism when it’s right in front of them. I’ve been asked, with a straight face, “How bad can antisemitism really be if Jews are rich and white?” — as if that somehow grants immunity from hate. Intellectual laziness is on full display. I’ve been told, “I have Jewish friends. How could I be antisemitic?” I’ve been questioned for calling out bias when every conversation about antisemitism quickly gets rerouted to Gaza or Netanyahu, as if no discussion of Jewish pain can stand on its own without being politically diluted. They don’t understand how exhausting it is to have to justify our grief. And they certainly don’t understand how that persistent deflection — how Israel is the only country that ever gets dragged into the conversation about domestic policies — is itself part of the double standard. That’s the part they never see. Or choose not to.

And this is what I can’t unsee. If this had happened to any other community, there would be panels, essays, vigils, statements, and marches. But because the victims were Israeli and Jewish, the tragedy becomes complicated. The grief becomes negotiable. The outrage disappears.

I was told this has “nothing to do with campus ideology.” But I’ve been watching that ideology shape itself for years — the way it flattens conflict into slogans, trains students not to think critically, and turns Israel into a symbol onto which people project their politics. In the process, the humanity and complexity of those who live there, or support it, is erased.

This isn’t about politics. It’s about the erosion of empathy. It’s about the ease with which people, even smart people, dismiss the pain of Jews while insisting they’re the ones fighting for justice. They speak in the language of morality, but it’s conditional — extended to some, withheld from others. And that kind of selective morality isn’t justice. It’s justification.

Today, I left my chat with my classmates. I reached a point where I realized that, to some of them, Jewish pain simply doesn’t matter. We are no longer seen as human beings, but as the reason Harvard is in crisis. I was told that Trump doesn’t really care about us, he’s just using us — which may be true — but no one seemed willing to admit that Harvard could have avoided this moment by simply not being antisemitic. Apparently, that’s a bridge too far.

I’m tired. I’m sorry I can’t keep fighting every battle. But if I change one mind — just one — I will have done something. Some classmates may never speak to me again. But I also now know who would hide me in their basement when they come to tear the mezuzah off my door. And for that, I am forever grateful.

To the friends who have stood by me, reached out, and helped me through the hardest moments these past months — you know who you are. And I know you are there for me. Thank you.