We need a new antisemitism strategy.

We have to stop sounding the alarm about antisemitism as a political strategy to get our neighbors to care. It’s not working, and it may even be hurting us.

photo: Levi Meir Clancy/Unsplash

Please consider supporting our mission to help everyone better understand and become smarter about the Jewish world. A gift of any amount helps keep our platform free of advertising and accessible to all.

---

This is a guest essay written by Mijal Bitton, a spiritual leader, sociologist, and scholar.

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

---

I can’t stop thinking about one question: Where do Jews stand in Western politics right now — and what must we do to ensure our safety and our future?

Let’s start with the obvious: Things are getting harder for us. Blogger Noah Smith recently outlined some of the reasons, especially how social media has reshaped public discourse, and he’s right.

We are living in a more fractured, less stable West, and it’s becoming especially dangerous for minorities, Jews included.

On both the Far-Right and Far-Left, we’re seeing forces actively stoking hostility toward Jews. Sometimes that hostility is directed at Jews as Jews. Other times, it’s toward Jews who hold particular commitments — especially those with deep ties to our brothers and sisters in Israel.

I don’t write this from a place of fear or despair. We are an amazing and resilient people, and we have what it takes to face this moment, but only if we act with clarity.

That means rethinking our instincts, because some of what we’ve been doing isn’t helping; it’s hurting. Here's one critical shift we must make: We have to stop sounding the alarm about antisemitism as a political strategy to get our neighbors to care. It’s not working, and it may even be hurting us. We need to move from rage to strategy, from reaction to planning. We simply no longer have the luxury of acting from a place of emotion.

The Torah portion Hukkat gives us a painful lens into what happens when frustration overrides clarity. It’s one of the most heartbreaking moments in the Torah: Moses, who gave his life to the Israelites, who tied his destiny to theirs, finally breaks. He’s endured it all: complaints, betrayals, uprisings. He’s defended them to God, suffered with them, carried their burdens. But even the most devoted leaders can snap.

The Torah portion Korach, found in the Book of Numbers, tells the dramatic story of a rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Korach, a Levite and cousin of Moses, challenges their leadership, joined by Dathan, Abiram, and 250 respected community leaders. Their revolt isn’t just political; it’s a fundamental challenge to the divine structure Moses represents.

Earlier, in Numbers 11, Moses cries out in exasperation: “Did I conceive this people? Did I give birth to them, that You tell me to carry them like a nurse carries an infant?” It’s a raw moment of emotional exhaustion.

By the time Korach stages his rebellion, Moses is spent. When he hears their accusations, he falls on his face — overwhelmed, perhaps defeated. Then, as if on cue, the people complain once more, this time about the lack of water. God gives Moses a clear instruction: Speak to the rock and it will yield water.

But Moses, exhausted and furious, does something else. He lashes out — “Listen, you rebels!” — and strikes the rock. Twice. Water flows. But God is not pleased. Moses didn’t follow the command. And for that, he is told: You will not enter the Promised Land.

As a kid, I hated this story. How could someone who gave so much be punished so harshly? But now, I see something else. The Torah isn’t just telling us that Moses failed; it’s showing how even the greatest leaders can stumble. And it often happens in the moment when emotion overrides judgment. Moses hit the rock instead of speaking to it. And he lost his future in the land he yearned for.

That story feels painfully relevant today. Since October 7th, many Jews (myself included) have shifted from universalist frameworks to something more particularist. We began asking: Why don’t we advocate for ourselves the way other minorities do?

That instinct is understandable. But calling out antisemitism as a political strategy only works if our neighbors are moved by our fear. Increasingly, many are not. Why is that? Here are some of the reasons, as I see them:

• Because conspiracy theories and blood libels against Israel now sound plausible to a Gen Z generation raised on X and TikTok and educated in academic postmodernism.

• Because Jews are perceived as powerful, not vulnerable — and our fear is dismissed as born of privilege.

• Because Israel’s war in Gaza is, indeed, inescapably brutal (a response to Hamas’ cruel trap) and it’s being broadcast to millions through algorithms that erase all context and complexity, and a media ecosystem populated by ideological activists rather than responsible journalists.

• Because Israel has not done enough of the battle for moral persuasion in the West, ceding too much of the narrative battlefield to its enemies.

• Because a small but vocal group of anti-Zionist Jews stand ready to defend the antisemitic obsession with Israel as the root of all evil.

• Because age-old antisemitism never really left; it simply adapted.

We need to internalize a hard truth: For many Westerners, decent people who aren’t antisemitic, our cries of antisemitism won’t change their minds. And that sober realization demands a different political strategy.

The civil rights movement won legal and political protections for Black Americans in a deeply racist country. It didn’t succeed by primarily speaking with outrage about racism, assuming all white Americans would be moved. Instead, its leaders connected their community’s struggles to broader American values. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke to the nation with the clear understanding that many would not be moved by Black pain alone. So he spoke of the American dream.

We must hold two truths at once: Yes, we are motivated by rising antisemitism, but that cannot be our main message or strategy.

So, what does it mean to confront coalitions hostile to Jewish life, if simply accusing politicians of antisemitism doesn’t work?

It means we need to act strategically, such as build alliances around public safety, not antisemitism; working with people who don’t care about Israel, or feel uneasy about it; and stop assuming that highlighting antisemitic comments will turn the tide. (It won’t.)

This doesn't mean ignoring antisemitism. It means being driven by it, but not leading with it. It means using it to sharpen our organizing, not to define our public case.

I know this might sound like surrender to some. Like we’re abandoning the fight or conceding too much ground. But I’m not asking us to stop calling antisemitism antisemitism; I’m asking us to stop making it our primary political weapon, since that weapon has been compromised.

We should absolutely name antisemitism clearly — internally, among allies, when building cases with law enforcement, in Jewish spaces. But leading every public campaign with accusations of antisemitism when half the audience won’t be moved by it? That’s not truth-telling; that’s political malpractice.

Because when our political currency is mainly Jewish outrage, it backfires. It gives us the illusion of action while no real political infrastructure is being built. We don’t need to be louder. We need to be smarter.

Like Moses, we are tempted to surrender to outrage, but that’s a luxury we can no longer afford. We have everything we need to succeed: the networks, the talent, the resources, and the values to build broad coalitions. What we need now is the discipline to lead with strategy rather than emotion.

The path forward isn’t about abandoning our outrage; it’s about channeling it into something more powerful. Something that can actually win.

---