The Wandering Jew: From Dancing in Jaffa to Threats in Amsterdam

A Latin Jewish mother reflects on belonging, betrayal, and rising antisemitism in Europe after October 7.

I’m Vivian: Born in Mexico and raised in Panama to Syrian-Jewish ancestors, lived under rocket sirens in Israel, and now a personal trainer in Amsterdam. I studied communications and political science in Tel Aviv during the 2012 and 2014 wars. And yet, despite my passion for justice and truth, I left politics behind. Why? Because I realized that the truth is often lost in the media’s need for spectacle. Good news doesn’t sell. Fear does. Conflict does.

When I studied journalism, I believed I could help shape peace. But the more I witnessed how media and politics operate, from CNN to Al Jazeera, from Fox to The New York Times, I realized how biased and fragmented the narrative can be. My idealism was crushed. I didn’t want to be a mouthpiece in a system where objectivity dies and polarization rises.

But something changed me. During the 2014 war, I was also a dance instructor on the side. One day, I had to cover a Zumba class in Jaffa, a city known for its large Muslim population. I was nervous. Just hours earlier, I’d been running to a bunker. And all I had heard was that Muslims wanted to kill us. I arrived shaken, unsure of what I would find. And what I found was magic. Muslim women in hijabs and Jewish women side by side, shaking their hips to reggaeton. Laughing. Smiling. Alive. That moment redefined my path. This is where I could make a difference.

Hi again. I’m Vivian, and I’m a personal trainer and group instructor. I chose this profession because I discovered something vital: I could change lives in the most direct way. One person at a time. If someone walked into my class in a bad mood and left red-faced, sweaty, and smiling, I had made a real impact. Fitness became, among other things, my peace project. My tool for connection. My resistance against despair.

But the world didn’t stop.

We left Israel because life as immigrants there was brutally hard. The economy was suffocating. Prices soared. Monopolies crushed opportunity. Raising a family without support became nearly impossible. My Dutch Jewish husband and I moved to the Netherlands in search of stability and community.

And yet, here in Amsterdam, I often feel more alone than ever.

I’m too Latin for the Dutch Jewish community. Too Jewish for most Latinos. I’m stuck in between. Belonging nowhere.

Then came October 7.

Friends, colleagues, and clients I’d laughed with, shared meals with, began to chant, “From the river to the sea.” Knowing my story. Knowing that phrase calls for the complete elimination of Israel. Of my people. I understand what it means now. What fear really feels like. And it cuts deeply.

Because being pro-Palestinian is not the same as calling for the destruction of Jews. It is not the same as justifying rape, massacre, and terror. True peace builders, like Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib or Hamza Howidy, understand that you can advocate for Palestinian rights without dehumanizing Israelis. You don’t make peace with your friends, you make peace with your enemies. And peace can only happen when both sides are recognized as human.

But these protesters aren’t asking real questions. They aren’t investigating where the UN aid is going. They aren’t questioning why Hamas withholds food. They’re not interested in peace. They’re interested in scapegoats. And now, I, this Latin Jewish mother who just wanted to teach a Zumba class, have become their target.

Since October 7, 2023, antisemitic incidents in Europe have surged by nearly 400%. In the Netherlands alone, 421 incidents were recorded in 2024; an 11% increase and the highest ever documented. Synagogues were vandalized with graffiti at the entrance. My own son’s school had to shut down at the beginning of the war due to death threats. Because it didn’t matter what I believed.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t vote for Bibi, that I criticize the Israeli government, or that I believe in peace. I was simply a Jew. And that was enough.

Even the idea of anti-Zionist Jews is misunderstood. Zionism doesn’t mean supporting a government. It means believing that Jews have a right to a homeland. An idea rooted in Torah, in history, in survival. Many who call themselves anti-Zionists still pray for the ‘Holy Land’ in their ancient language. But none of that matters to those who want us gone.

Where do I fit in now? When colleagues and neighbors post stories or slogans that call for the elimination of people like me, what do I do? When Israelis are thrown out of restaurants in Spain just for being Israeli and the comment section applauds, what do I tell my son?

Most people in Israel and Palestine just want peace. They want to live. To raise their families. But when the loudest voices are radical, and the rest of the world joins them blindly, we lose the chance to listen. We lose the ability to see nuance. And hate spreads fast.

Should we move again? When we were recently told we could apply for a mortgage, mixed with the joy of being a millennial finally able to own a home in this messed-up economy, was also fear and worry. Where do we go? Do we move to the Jewish neighborhood and risk being isolated from the other parts of multicultural Dutch Society? Just simply to protect my son while playing on the playground from bullying that might come just because of his identity?

My instinct says: run. Go back to Israel. Be surrounded by my people. But I don’t want my son to be forced to fight a war he didn’t choose. And Panama? The financial, political climate, and antisemitism there worry me, too.

So here I am. The wandering Jew. Belonging nowhere. Longing for peace. Craving connection.

I want to believe in humanity again. I want to laugh with my Muslim neighbors and share meals with my leftist friends. But today, many of them look at me with suspicion, or worse. Today, those friendships feel like a fantasy.

Interfaith dialogue in the Netherlands only works in times of peace. When war breaks out, everyone retreats into their trenches. And so here I am, still teaching fitness. Still showing up. Still trying. But also trembling inside.

Because in 2025, my identity is a threat to others. My existence is a provocation.

And I just wanted to make a difference.