By Matan Schneider, Staff Writer
Everywhere you look lately — campuses, protests, social media — someone is saying, “I’m not antisemitic, just anti-Zionist.” It sounds measured and reasonable, a way to criticize the State of Israel while making it clear that you don’t hate Jews. On paper, it makes sense. After all, we criticize governments all the time without it being prejudiced. But for many Jews, that line doesn’t feel so harmless. To us, it sounds more like, “I don’t think your people deserve a country of their own, but I still want to feel like a good person.” That disconnect between intention and impact is where the real moral confusion starts.
For Jews, Zionism isn’t some modern political idea. It’s tied to history, memory and survival. Many of us grew up with stories about grandparents or great-grandparents who survived pogroms or the Holocaust, people who saw Israel as the one place that would actually take them in when the rest of the world turned its back. Others have relatives living in Israel right now, dealing with rockets, sirens and terror threats. And even beyond politics, Jewish prayers and holiday rituals constantly mention Zion and Jerusalem not as vague symbols, but as real places we’ve longed for over thousands of years. You don’t have to support every Israeli policy to understand that for many Jews, the connection to Israel runs far deeper than a political movement.
That’s what makes “I’m anti-Zionist, but not antisemitic” so complicated. The person saying it might truly mean they’re against certain policies or even against the idea of an ethnic nation-state, but that’s rarely how it’s received. On college campuses, the phrase often shows up next to calls for Israel to disappear, maps that erase it entirely or student groups where Jews are only welcome if they publicly criticize Zionism. This creates a false divide between “good Jews” who reject Israel and “bad Jews” who admit to feeling connected to it. That’s not a political debate, it’s a loyalty test.
Criticizing those labeled as “anti-Zionist,” can often involve applying different standards. Many countries are engaged in abuses, occupations, corruption and discrimination. Criticizing them is fair, but most people don’t call for those countries to cease existing. Yet that’s exactly what “anti-Zionism” often means in practice. For a people who spent centuries stateless, and who paid an unimaginable price for statehood, hearing that hits in a painful way.
The slogan also changes how Jewish pain is treated. When Jews say, “This language scares me,” or “That chant feels threatening,” they’re often dismissed as overreacting or using antisemitism to “silence criticism.” “I’m not antisemitic, just anti-Zionist” becomes a shield, a way to sound moral while ignoring the fear and trauma that so many Jews still live with. The result is that Jewish feelings get pushed aside so others can preserve their own sense of virtue.
And for Jewish students on hostile campuses specifically, this plays out in real, personal ways. Being asked to separate your Jewish identity from Zionism doesn’t feel like a request to think critically; it feels like being told to carve off a part of yourself to stay welcome in progressive spaces. Jewishness isn’t only a religion, it’s a culture, a peoplehood and, yes, a historical connection to the Land of Israel. For many, rejecting Zionism outright feels like rejecting their family’s survival story.
None of this means Israel should be immune from criticism. Real moral engagement demands calling out injustices wherever they exist, including in Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. But honest criticism looks different from slogans. It’s specific, it’s consistent and it doesn’t erase an entire people’s right to self-determination. If the goal is justice, then Jewish trauma and fear have to be part of the conversation, not brushed aside.
A more thoughtful stance might sound like this: “I care deeply about Palestinian suffering, but I also recognize Jewish history and the need for Jewish safety. I want fairness for both peoples without denying either’s right to exist.” That version isn’t as catchy, but it’s compassionate. It challenges us to be morally consistent, to hold two truths at once even when it’s uncomfortable.
At the end of the day, “I’m not antisemitic, just anti-Zionist” asks Jews to do all of the emotional work, to translate, to interpret, to excuse. Real empathy means doing some of that work yourself. Because if the goal is justice, it has to start with fully seeing one another, not just the parts that fit neatly into your politics.
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