For much of the postwar era, antisemitism in the West was widely regarded as a shameful relic of the past – something defeated by history, education, and moral clarity. That assumption no longer holds. Antisemitism has returned not as a fringe pathology, but as a structuring force in public life. And for the Jewish people, its implications are not merely moral or political. They are existential.
Antisemitism has always occupied a paradoxical place in Jewish history. Across centuries, it has sought to diminish Jews, to exclude them, to erase them from society. Yet it has also, at times, strengthened Jewish identity, reinforcing communal bonds and a shared sense of destiny.
Jewish survival has often depended on that resilience. But resilience should not be confused with security. Endurance has never meant immunity.
Antisemitism polarizes Jewish communities
One of the most damaging effects of today’s antisemitism is the quiet polarization it creates within Jewish communities themselves. Faced with growing hostility, some Jews choose discretion: they shield their identity in public, avoid visible affiliation, and retreat into private life in the hope of regaining social acceptability. Others move in the opposite direction, deepening their attachment to Jewish identity, communal life, and Israel. Antisemitism does not simply target Jews from the outside; it reshapes Jewish life from within, fragmenting a people already dispersed across nations and cultures.
Recent months have shown a disturbing acceleration. Antisemitism has become more open, more normalized – and more violent. Deadly attacks like those in Manchester and Sydney, alongside sharp increases in antisemitic incidents across Europe and North America, point to a qualitative shift. After nearly seven decades in which antisemitism seemed constrained by historical memory, it has re-emerged with renewed vigor and confidence. What was once unsayable is now voiced without embarrassment. What once shocked has become normalized.
Yet the gravest danger is not only physical violence. The more serious threat lies in social marginalization. When Jews are portrayed as morally suspect, politically illegitimate, or economically toxic, the ground beneath them begins to quake. A society does not need pogroms to make Jewish life untenable; it merely needs to tar Jews as undesirable colleagues, partners, or neighbors.
This process is already visible in parts of the world. In South Africa and Belgium, Jewish participation in certain sectors of public, economic, and cultural life has become increasingly contested. The message is often shrouded rather than explicit: association carries a cost. Over time, such signals reshape behavior. People withdraw. Institutions distance themselves. A community that cannot participate fully cannot endure indefinitely.
If this pattern were to spread to other major Western nations, the consequences would be profound. The question would no longer be whether Jews can remain physically safe, but whether they can remain socially present. History offers a sobering lesson: when Jews are pushed to the margins of society, survival becomes precarious long before catastrophe strikes.
This is why antisemitism must be understood not simply as another form of hatred, but as a unique and recurring threat to Jewish existence. It not only kills, but it also isolates. It not only attacks bodies; it undermines belonging. It transforms neighbors into liabilities and citizens into outsiders.
Naming this reality is not an act of alarmism. It is an act of responsibility – to history, to democratic societies, and to the fragile conditions that make pluralism possible. The question is not whether antisemitism is back. The question is whether societies are willing to confront it and what risks it poses.
The writer is a senior fellow at JPPI (the Jewish People Policy Institute) and heads its activity in Europe. His latest book, Are We Witnessing the End of French Jewry?, was recently released in France and has sparked wide debate there and beyond.