The Loneliness of Being the Only Jew in the Room

Two days ago I attended the Thames Valley Leadership Summit. I was sat in a room full of  people talking

about trust, belonging, and the courage to really listen. About how change begins when we reduce the distance between us. And then, less than 24 hours later, we saw what happens when that distance is allowed to grow unchecked.

The antisemitic terror attack in Golders Green wasn’t random, nor was it an isolated incident. What happened was not a shock to Jewish communities, it’s been our lived reality for so long that now it feels the norm. But could this be the moment where our fears are finally acknowledged? Given that we have already seen the Hatzola ambulances set alight, a synagogue targeted with petrol bombs, Jewish schools vandalised, and visibly Jewish people harassed on public transport, that feels a fool’s dream.

As horrific as the attack yesterday was the pain doesn’t stop there. Whilst the event itself, and the newspaper headlines have been loud there has also been a deafening silence. As a community we experience antisemitism twice: once in the attack, and again in the silence that follows. Inside schools, workplaces, and local institutions. One of the things discussed during Tuesday’s conference was how fear and judgement stop people from intervening or showing solidarity, which makes me wonder… what kind of world are we living in where empathy has become conditional and people wait to see which way the wind blows before deciding if violence matters. 

Jewish pain gets treated as political; fear dismissed as an exaggeration. Not real, merely ‘perceived’. Our voices are asked to justify themselves before being believed with the Golders Green attack is yet another moment exposing the cost of that dynamic. The thing is: if you only listen to one narrative, you will always be surprised by the violence the other has been warning you about. And if you are an onlooker who isn’t surprised, and you have stayed silent, then maybe look in the mirror and ask yourself why.

I am tired of being the one who has to “explain” antisemitism to others, and longing for someone else to say something first. There’s a unique kind of loneliness of the loneliness of being the only Jew in a room, and I am tired of being brave.

Yesterday was yet another reminder. A reminder that trust is fragile, that belonging is not guaranteed, and that the stories we tell about each other matter. I left the interfaith conference believing that listening can change things. Today, I’m praying that Britain starts finally listening to its Jews.