Social work has a Jewish problem.

When it comes to Jews, longtime social work ethics have become voided as an integral part of our field.

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This is a guest essay by Andrea Tovah, a social worker and clinician.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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In the aftermath of October 7th, many of us gained a life-changing clarity: that through presumed safety over time and the very human desire to belong, or to avoid being targeted, many Jews in the West were subtly taught to assimilate into dominant culture by hiding or even erasing parts of ourselves.

The Jewish commitment to justice and service,particularly resonates for many in the value of Tikkun Olam (healing the world). This principle impacted me to become a social worker, and being of service remains a core part of who I am, deeply.

Yet many of us were taught, however unintentionally, not to make waves, and to focus our care and advocacy predominately on others who’ve been marginalized — while ignoring our own history, pain, and contemporary vulnerabilities.

October 7th, and especially the days and months that have followed, marked by rising antisemitism, shattered this notion of “Jewish privilege” that so often gets wielded. Many of us were reminded about who we are, where we come from, and the stories of those who came before, or what those of whom stand with us have endured.

It has also exposed a deep reality that many of us long denied: that speaking openly about rising antisemitism, sometimes under the guise of “anti-Zionism” (including in my field of social work, a profession that claims to center on inclusion and cultural humility) is met with suspicion, minimization, or accusations of “weaponizing antisemitism.”

For some, continued social acceptance in certain sociopolitical circles seems to require amputating a part of themselves, denying Jewish peoplehood, and most alarmingly, victim-blaming antisemitism on Jews. Is there any other group for which such a response to hate would be deemed an acceptable response?

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Jewish safety, especially in the West, has long been taken for granted by many. Today, one can’t help but wonder if identifying as a Jew, or, more specifically, with Israel and Israelis, endangers their place among compatriots in various communities.

Some Jews seem to believe that distancing themselves from Jewishness, specifically Zionism, will keep them emotionally, physically, or socially safe.

Let’s begin by agreeing on a working definition of Zionism. The very word itself has become a flashpoint. Zionism is simply the belief in Israel’s existence and Jewish self-determination. It does not define borders nor seek to take away peoplehood from any other peoples, including Palestinians. Zionism does not imply blanket agreement with every Israeli government member or policy.

To reject this essential belief can look like denying Jewish peoplehood, severing our connection to Israel and our Israeli family and friends, or even questioning Jewish identity through loud disavowals of Israel’s and Israelis’ right to exist, to live.

Consider the absurdity of Jews leading a Passover Seder that scrubs all references to Israel from the Haggadah (the text that guides the Passover Seder and tells the story of the Exodus from Egypt); or ignoring that Passover is the story of Jews liberating themselves from slavery in Egypt to the Land of Israel. Indeed, the Seder itself ends with the words: “Next year in Jerusalem.”

This is not a contemporary political endorsement of any government or ideology; it’s a retelling of the ancient story of refuge, return, and survival. It’s a story we tell every year, oftentimes recognizing other groups that have been persecuted as well.

But it’s more than okay to tell our story as our story without whitewashing it and denying our history. It predates the politics of today and should not be confused with agendas of any current Far-Right politicians or Far-Left ideologues for that matter.

Many have been manipulated to believe that even expressing cultural, personal, or ancestral connection to Israel is synonymous with Far-Right ideology. That false binary has created a trap, one that demands Jews to split off parts of their own identity to stay accepted in various sociopolitical spaces — and even attempts to shame those who refuse to do so.

And so that split occurs, or results in Jews being openly targeted, mocked, and murdered to chants of “Free Palestine!” This split can show up in graduate social work classes or in institutes, unchecked, where Jewish students and colleagues are labeled “colonizing oppressors.” The implicit pressure to assimilate can feel so intense that, unconsciously, amputating visible or vocal aspects of one’s Jewish identity, especially concerns about rising hate, can feel like a necessary survival strategy.

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Some Jews in the West live with a sense of comfort and security and may have created a disconnect from the lived experiences, generational memory, and current realities faced by Jews here, elsewhere, and in earlier generations.

In many families, there may have been a quiet decision or internal defense to repress generational memories, to cut off from our history of the Holocaust, pogroms, second-class citizenship, or persecution across the globe.

But that silence that became a form of protection or assimilation as a safety strategy for survival has also inadvertently taught many not to make waves as Jews in the Diaspora. As a result, some grew up in protected ignorance, either unaware of or distanced from any sense of threat that Jews have historically faced or currently do.

So many of us focus on Tikkun Olam, but only outward for other marginalized groups. Tikkun Olam is a beautiful element of being a Jew and a guide for so many of us. At the same time, the unspoken message for so long has been, “We’re okay” and “We’re privileged.” We were taught, implicitly, not to make waves for our own people. These beliefs seem to have overtaken a portion of Jews who deny antisemitism.

To add to the concern, in this current climate, many antisemites frequently use the voices of the small number of anti-Zionist Jews as cover for dehumanizing Jews and Israelis. These individuals are often introduced as proof that “even Jews agree with us,” while ignoring that they represent a tiny minority.

In fact, nearly 90 percent of Jews worldwide identify as Zionists in some form or another. Zionism is not a colonialist enterprise. It is a movement of Jewish liberation, rooted in indigeneity, survival, and the right to self-determination. It is simply the universal desire to exist and not be annihilated.

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Even those of us who don’t align with the current administration, either here at home, or abroad in Israel, are met with suspicion or anger for speaking out about what so many Jews and Israelis are experiencing. This is the grim reality globally, locally, and even in my field of social work, where it’s become endemic and tacitly endorsed.

We’re told that we’re “weaponizing antisemitism” simply for naming it. We’ve been told this not just from distant voices, but from people we once held close, and from those with potential platforms, who could make clear statements against antisemitism. They may even agree there is a problem but, instead, they have intentionally chosen to stay quiet.

Why? Perhaps it is because they don’t know anyone else who would take this on, what they perceive to be aligned with a “conservative cause.” This response reflects a troubling pattern that has emerged: the inability, or unwillingness to hold more than one truth at the same time.

Acts of antisemitism that would have once drawn immediate attention and condemnation are now met with silence or even shaming. It doesn’t even matter that we disagree on political affiliations, opinions, or even tactics. Even raising the topic of antisemitism now for many of our former close colleagues and friends on the Left is met with disdain and suspicion. Antisemitism isn’t a partisan issue. It’s flowing all too freely across the political spectrum. And it’s about Jewish lives, not which politician, party, or politics you align with.

What we’re left with in social work, as an example, are leaders who have gone quiet in the name of free speech, even if that speech is of hate in a field that professes to be about healing. The National Association of Social Workers, heads of institutes that have platformed antisemitic speakers, and professional email lists all remain unchecked or excused. Somehow the mere act of speaking up is considered too controversial, even though we’re just speaking up in the same way that, for example, Black people speak about Black Lives Matter.

The accusation that we’re “weaponizing antisemitism” is the weapon itself. This accusation is meant to silence and shame us into submission. It implies that to name our pain is criminal. But that’s a false equivalency. Many Jews who speak up about antisemitism, specifically that which flows through the leftist social work spaces so many of us used to call home, do so from a place of deeply rooted ethics, not politics.

And yet, somehow, we’re treated as if we’re Right-wing tools. So many of these same colleagues or leaders who rightfully speak about accountability for other social ills are shamefully silent when it comes to antisemitism. When it comes to Jews, our ethics have become voided as an integral part of our field.

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I want to be careful about how I frame this: Many Jews, particularly younger ones raised in the West, have often had the luxury of taking safety for granted in a way that may not have been as self-aware as those who came before.

Perhaps, as assimilated Jews, they have chosen to view the antisemitism that more visible Jews have had to endure as “ancient history.” The idea that Mizrahi, Sephardic, Ethiopian, and Soviet Jews often grow up with a more connected awareness of antisemitism, due to lived or closely held family experiences, is something I’ve been noticing and thinking about a lot.

Let’s remember, the Jewish People is not a monolith. As a child, I heard first-hand stories from family friends, some my own age, and others just one or two generations removed, about explicit and sometimes violent Jew-hatred. Whether raised in Iran, the former Soviet Union, or across the Middle East, many Jews experienced persecution, expulsion, and even death simply for being Jewish. This is a grim reality that spans thousands of years for most Jews.

My parents, too, shared stories, not only of the Holocaust or the pogroms of our ancestors, but also the history of being excluded from clubs and other organizations and communities growing up — “No Blacks or Jews Allowed” or, as a family member shared, his late father recalled seeing a sign in New York that said, “No dogs or Jews allowed.” It was not a rarity. They were reminders that, though many of us have assimilated, we are oftentimes marginalized and seen as the outsider.

Now we’re told that any antisemitism ought to be blamed on Jews ourselves, coupling us with the current Israel-Gaza war or with every Israeli politician and policy. Some may forget, but for many of us, the fragility of Jewish safety has always lived quietly in a soft part of ourselves, a faint but present whisper.

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