You betrayed us.
On the 7th of October 2023, H*mas invaded Israel, and within hours had carried out one of the cruellest massacres of recent history. Without hesitation, without mercy, they slaughtered, raped, and abducted anyone in their path: men, women, children, the elderly. And they didn’t do it quietly. No, they did it with pride, recording every brutal act, ready to share their horrors with the world. A world that split in two: those who celebrated, shamelessly, and those who chose to look away, waiting for the right moment to reveal their true face.
And then there’s us. We Jews, the friends of Israel. We’re acceptable for Schindler’s List, but that’s where it ends. We, who woke up with terror in our hearts, dreading the thought that our families, our friends, had been swallowed by that massacre. We, who watched our loved ones leave for war and had to grapple with the fear that they might not return. Every day we sent our children to school, while fear gnawed at us, night after sleepless night, wondering if we were doing the right thing.
Did you know that Jewish schools have always needed security? Not just now, always. Have you ever seen a Christian school with guards at the entrance? No, I didn’t think so. Because it’s never been necessary. But for us, it has. Because in our history, there has never been a time when a Jew didn’t have to watch their back. And after an event like the 7th of October, things only got worse. Security measures were tightened. Some schools even had to close for months. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You were too busy ignoring us—or worse, stirring up hatred.
Many told us to hide our identity. No visible symbols, nothing that might give us away. It’s like that horrible phrase: “I have nothing against gays, as long as they do it at home.” Offends you, doesn’t it? It offends me too. And it offends me just as much when the same sentiment is directed at Jews. Imagine telling your child, singing a joyful Shabbat song on the street, “Don’t sing that here, someone might take it the wrong way.”
I changed beauticians because my Star of David made her uncomfortable. I’ve hidden my symbols on the Tube to avoid stares and insults. I no longer go to city centre on Saturdays, knowing I’d end up in the middle of some confrontation. And at night, I cry silently in bed, wondering how we’ll ever make it through this. I feel so alone. The friends I once had are no longer there.
No, you don’t understand. And do you know why? Because on the 7th of October, you looked away. No one called, no one messaged to ask if we were alright, if we were safe. No one thought to check how we were doing. Since the 7th of October, it’s as though you’ve disappeared. Some of you have ignored me in the street. Others have simply stopped talking to me altogether, not even a birthday message. Some tried to teach me what it means to be Jewish. And then there are those who sent me posts from “enlightened” Jews, without any understanding of the different branches of Judaism, without even bothering to try.
The truth is, your stance on this war, as awful as it may be, doesn’t matter. We all agree that war is a pit of despair. But you betrayed us. By choosing a side, you forgot about us. You condemned us, simply because we’re Jews, and perhaps our view of the world differs from yours. And for that, we no longer deserve your compassion. We no longer deserve your respect. We no longer deserve your friendship.
You betrayed us, without so much as a goodbye. You left us alone with our fears, with our grief, and opened the door to a new wave of fierce hatred against us.
The first months were a nightmare. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. But every day, I thank the community that took me in, that made me feel less alone. And I thank the few friends who didn’t forget about me. Not all of them share my views, but that doesn’t matter. Friends—true friends—don’t run away. They care. They stay.
You betrayed us. And this time, we won’t forget.