I started attending public school in 7th grade in 2014 after being at a private Jewish day school. I loved my first day of public middle school; the teachers were funny, and everyone was nice. My last class of the day was science, and I hit it off with my partner. He must have felt the same way because he invited me to a service at his church. I appreciated his offer, but I told him I couldn’t go—I’m Jewish. He told me, “You’re really nice, but you’re going to hell, and I can save you.”
Before then, antisemitism was an abstract concept, but at 12 years old, sitting in my middle school science class, it became very real. In physical education class, a classmate told me that I should have burned in the ovens, and in another student’s yearbook, a swastika had been drawn on my forehead.
I thought by high school, the students would have been more educated, but I was greeted in my history class by swastikas drawn on desks and in textbooks. A student told me I’d been given the position of Model United Nations club president because I, like the advisor, am Jewish—as if we had some kind of Jewish supremacy over MUN.
The antisemitism I faced reached a fever pitch my senior year when I was harassed for months in my Spanish class by a fellow student who would make what he called “jokes” but were actually horrific comments making light of the Holocaust and blatantly telling me that I should have suffered the same fate as the 6 million Jews who were systematically murdered.
In order to stop this harassment, I had to involve my teacher, administration and ultimately the Anti-Defamation League. This student was spoken to, removed from my classes, written up and took a course on tolerance. And that was it. His life continued like nothing had happened.
Imagine being 12 years old and hearing that you should burn in an oven, and then again at 13, 14, 15, 16, 17 and 18. In 2020, I graduated from the Irvine public schools and then went to the University of California, San Diego.
Each year, for over a week, I and other Jewish students had to walk through swarms of people who would refer to themselves as “pro-Palestine.” We also had to walk past a 7-foot-high wall filled with antisemitic propaganda and cartoons that looked like they belonged in Nazi Germany—just to get to class. The images were stomach-turning, depicting Jews and Israelis as racist, money-hungry, baby killers who control the world. I felt like my breath was taken away from me, my heart was in my throat.
At the time, I was supposed to be focused on finals, but I was scared out of my mind. Pro-terrorist mobs were screaming about how evil Zionists are. Would they somehow discover I was Jewish and turn their vitriol directly against me?
I watched the student body get indoctrinated in real-time. When I tried to alert the Office for Prevention of Harassment and Discrimination, I found out that it was closed, which seemed really convenient for the university considering they knew well in advance that the Students for Justice in Palestine and the Muslim Student Association would be engaging in such blatant antisemitism on the main part of campus.
The administration did nothing to keep Jewish students safe at the school we paid to go to. If anything, they condoned the actions of the antisemitic students with their silence and made it clear that they do not care for their Jewish students—and this was pre-October 7, so obviously things have only gotten significantly worse.
When I was participating in the UCSD Honors program with seven other students, one woman in my group did her project on “Palestinian resistance.” She was applauded for her bravery. She did not know that I was Jewish, so she treated me as a friend.
One day, while I was walking to class, she stopped me to tell me about some Chabadniks who didn’t speak to her, which she claimed was because they were Islamophobic. She then called them Jewish pigs. I truly cannot imagine what she—a woman who defends terrorism—would have done if she knew I was Jewish.
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Pro-Palestinian demonstration in Los Angeles, California, June 2024
(Photo: REUTERS/Kyle Grillot)
When I attempted to report her antisemitic comment, I was told that they would only accept my report if I disclosed who I was to her. I often feel guilty about the fact that I chose to protect myself and not report her.
I graduated from UCSD and assumed that would be the end of my antisemitic experiences. Unfortunately, it is not. After October 7, while Jews worldwide were grieving the atrocities against our people, I also found out through Instagram that many of the people I thought were my close friends were actually closeted antisemites who treated the massacre and kidnapping of Jews as their opportunity to expose an abhorrent side of themselves. After explaining to them what their comments meant to me, they chose to dive deeper into antisemitism, which I would say is back in fashion, but it never really went out.
In Los Angeles, I had to flee a restaurant when a mob of people coming from a pro-Palestine protest came inside wearing full terrorist cosplay. I had to flee because I was afraid they would attack me if they saw my Star of David necklace.
When the Orange County Chapter of the Israeli American Council rallies for Israel, we are cursed and screamed at, and we are physically threatened. We have to hire our own private security for fear that we will be attacked.
In the spring of 2024, I was going to move in with a coworker and her two roommates. A couple of weeks before signing the rental agreement, I came to the realization that I needed to ask my coworker if it was okay that I’m Jewish. What a disgusting thing to have to seek approval from someone; as if it’s a dirty little secret, like it’s some kind of awful disease. She then told me that she would love to go to Israel and that most of her friends are Jewish. One of her roommates doesn’t pay attention to anything, but the other one...
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Israel supporters attacked by pro-Palestinian mob on the streets of Los Angeles
(Photo: DAVID SWANSON / AFP)
The other one had been posting what my coworker described as pro-Palestinian content on Instagram. My coworker told me not to worry, though, because her clearly antisemitic roommate’s brother has a Jewish fiancée, so all was well. I explained to my coworker that it’s so nice that this woman knows a Jew, but that doesn’t make her a safe person for me to live with.
What was going to happen when she inevitably found out about my family in Israel? My cousin, who is currently training as an IDF commander? My trips to Tel Aviv? The fact that I am a proud Zionist? Then what? No other ethnic minority has to beg for people to accept them in such an allegedly liberal area. That would never be acceptable for any other minority group. And yet, we are rejected, subjected to violence, and discriminated against. Mobs of Jew haters are trying to force us into the shadows once again.
I often wonder if there’s a future for me here. My family has been in California for three generations, and I never considered moving out of state, let alone out of the country. I love California, and I used to love my life here.
Now, I’m worried. Now, I think about moving to Israel all the time. I think about what kind of “hard” or what kind of “bad” I am willing to accept. How many generations have to exist like this? When do we get to just live? I ask myself that a lot. I just want to live. I just want to go to work and go home, spend time with the people I love. I don’t want the next generation to wonder if there’s a future for them or if they should keep a bag packed for the next time we all have to run again.
I am afraid, but I’m not broken—we are not broken. I’m proud to be a Jew, and I’m proud to be a Zionist. I grew up in a Jewish family and community that made sure I knew early on who I am and where I come from, and I love who we are more than anything. We’re Jews, so we’ll survive. We’ll thrive. It’s just what we do.
- Disclaimer: The author's name has been withheld for privacy and security purposes.