When antisemitism hides behind the issue of the Middle East
“I’m not an antisemite, but…” This phrase rarely reveals more explicitly what it is trying to hide. In the current context, with tensions in the Middle East affecting Europe, this introduction has become commonplace. It is mechanically followed by “yes, but look at what’s happening over there.” The tactic is clear: to shield oneself from the socially “infamous” accusation of antisemitism while simultaneously giving free rein to hostile rhetoric against Jews.
This avoidance mechanism before time shows a profound change. Traditional antisemitism—the kind that openly expressed hostility against the Jews as a people, religion, or community—does not find space in the new society anymore. The shadow of the Holocaust and democratic sentiments have rendered it an unthinkable crime. But has this seeming elimination eliminated hostility? NO. It has merely changed.
The convenient alibi, indeed, is the Israeli-Palestinian dispute. Israel’s perfectly legitimate criticism (when rooted in political or strategic reality) is employed in order to justify a more diffuse anti-Jewishness against “Jews” qua “Jews.” One no longer blames an entire community: one attributes to it the obligations of a state, as though membership of a religion entailed collective guilt. This is the new antisemitism: it makes no attempt to be racial hatred but moral outrage.
Sociologically, the spectacle is that of prejudice rationalization. No longer does one “I don’t like Jews”—instead, one “criticizes Israel,” with the confusion in place. The confusion distorts democratic discourse: the distinction between geopolitical criticism and stigmatization on an identity basis is lost. In some circles of activists, Israel-bashing is rallying cry, a show of one’s ideological membership, even if it means the omission or erasure of the antisemitic content that inevitably creeps in.
This change in the character of the stigma teaches us a few things about our cultures:
A paradoxical gain: open antisemitism is no longer acceptable. What was once whispered in secret or yelled on the street is now unspeakable without consequence. But this victory of morality is tenuous, for hate thrives by camouflaging itself.
A blurring of public discourse: in making a distinction between rejection of a people and critique of a state, we disempower the community to distinguish between political disagreement and discrimination. Such blurring accelerates identity-based tensions and induces mass suspicion.
The exportation of internal tensions: the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as a lens through which local divisions are reenacted in the suburbs of European cities, on American campuses, or among certain intellectual elites. A worry born afar becomes one domestically generated social fault line.
Democratic vigilance is not just a question of condemning outright hate. It is being attuned to its mutations, aware that beneath the cover of outrage there is sometimes an old, tired hatred. It is these insidious forms—more refined in guise, less easy to condemn—that most erode our social fabric.
Behind the phrase “I’m not an antisemite, but…” lies a double message. One attempting to clear the person of any kind of hatred, yet still subtly stigmatizing. This disguise, and not mere insult, challenges the moral fiber and maturity of our democracies.