There is an uncomfortable truth that has survived centuries and resisted every counterexample: we Jews are not liked. We were not yesterday. We are not today. And nothing suggests we will be tomorrow.
This reality has never depended on merit or conduct. In 20th-century Europe, as we were expelled from universities, stripped of civil rights, and confined to ghettos, the world watched. When extermination camps were built and operated with industrial precision, the world knew. Far more was known than is conveniently admitted today. Information circulated. Reports were written. Appeals for refuge were made—and denied. The Holocaust did not take place in darkness, but in an atmosphere of global indifference. We were not welcome anywhere.
It was never for lack of contribution. We represent roughly 0.2 percent of the world’s population and have received about 20 percent of Nobel Prizes. We have been central to decisive advances in medicine, physics, economics, literature, and technology. We helped develop vaccines, scientific theories, companies, languages, and artistic movements. And through Israel—the Jewish state—we are often among the first to provide humanitarian aid when other countries, including declared enemies, face natural disasters and civil emergencies. None of this has ever bought acceptance. Merit has never been an antidote to antisemitism.
During the Holocaust, the world was silent. After the terrorist attack of October 7, 2023, when 1,200 people were murdered and 251 kidnapped in Israel in a single day, the world was loud. It protested, shouted, and threatened—but against us. Even before the dead were buried and the hostages freed, Jews around the world were harassed, assaulted, and killed. Stars of David reappeared on doors. Synagogues required police protection. Jewish students were told they deserved to die.
The largest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust was minimized, rationalized, and in many quarters openly celebrated. We received little sympathy, not even from people we considered friends. Many chose silence; others insisted that the blame lay with us. How many times did we have to hear, shamelessly repeated, that Hitler should have “finished the job”?
This reveals something fundamental. We are not hated for what we do, but for what we are. In the past, we were accused of being weak, rootless, and parasitic. Today, we are accused of being powerful, colonial, and oppressive. Antisemitism is elastic. It adapts perfectly to the moral language of each era without ever losing its essence. Its contemporary forms are often more subtle—and therefore more dangerous.
On January 27, International Holocaust Remembrance Day, the BBC marked the occasion by stating that six million “people” were murdered, omitting that they were Jews—one-third of the global Jewish population in 1945. That loss has never been recovered. This is not a semantic oversight. The Holocaust was not a generic human tragedy; it was a targeted genocide. Erasing Jews from the narrative is a modern form of denial.
Throughout history, we have served as a mirror for the frustrations of others. In times of crisis, we become scapegoats. In times of stability, we are tolerated—but never fully accepted.
What do the past and the present tell us about the future? If industrial-scale extermination did not extinguish hatred; if extraordinary contributions do not guarantee belonging; if even mass victimhood does not ensure empathy—then one conclusion is unavoidable.
We cannot base our security on the approval of the world. History shows that such approval is conditional and fleeting. Yesterday, the world was silent. Today, it accuses. Tomorrow remains uncertain—but our vigilance is not optional.
*Nira Broner Worcman is a Brazilian journalist, CEO of Art Presse, and author of A Sisyphean Task (translated from the Brazilian hors commerce title Enxugando Gelo), on media coverage of the war between Israel and terrorist groups. She was a Knight Science Fellow at MIT and earned her master’s at NYU’s Science, Health, and Environmental Reporting Program.