A couple of days ago, I left the gym and headed to Lidl to pick up an emergency aubergine. As I walked down the stairs into the store, I locked eyes with an ex-boyfriend who’s broken my heart more times than you’d think possible, slipped, and landed – three steps later – on my bum. And that wasn’t nearly the most upsetting thing that happened to me that day.
No, the thing that upset me more than the fact that my life continues to be a budget Hallmark rom com without the ‘rom’ occured while I was scrolling through Instagram. In recent weeks, alongside the usual picture-perfect pasta dishes and bathroom selfies, there’s been a steady stream of posts either hailing Jeremy Corbyn as the saviour of the world or stating continued support for the Labour party* without any acknowledgment of the accusations of antisemitism against its leader. And as a British Jew who believes with all her heart that Jeremy Corbyn is an antisemite, every time I see one of these posts a wave of nausea washes over me, a tight ball of dread, anger and confusion building in the pit of my stomach.
It was back in 2014 that I first wrote about my concerns around the rise in antisemitsm, and even then, I never could have imagined the situation we now find ourselves in – where antisemitic tropes are regularly and casually rolled out by educated, left-leaning people as if they were facts, without fear of repurcussions. Where allegations of antisemitism against the leader of one of our main political parties are either completely ignored or brushed off as an inconvenience standing in the way of ‘the greater good’ by people who usually call out ‘racism in all its forms’. Where daily, I find myself gaslighted when I reveal my belief that Corbyn hates Jews; where I am apologetically told that, unfortunately, my community’s right to feel safe in the country of my birth isn’t nearly as important as a social cause or political ambition they feel Corbyn’s Labour can serve.
A note on the outcry against Corbyn: the evidence pointing towards his antisemitism is both complicated and damning. His acts of hostility towards the Jewish community include: showing support for a public mural featuring Nazi-style cartoons of evil Jews controlling the world; befriending people widely regarded as antisemites such as Raed Salah, who was convicted of preaching the blood libel (an ancient antisemitic slur that says Jews kill Christian children to drink their blood); being a member of several secret Facebook groups infested with open antisemitism including Holocaust denial.
It's often pointed out to me that Corbyn has offered a number of apologies to the Jewish community and always denied being an antisemite. Most recently, when pressed to apologise for the antisemitism that has been present in the Labour party on This Morning earlier this week, Corbyn said: ‘Our party and me do not accept antisemitism in any form. Obviously I’m very sorry for everything that’s happened but I want to make this clear: I am dealing with it, I have dealt with it.’ However I, like the majority of people in the community, feel like these apologies – and his pleas of innocence – are not reflected in his actions.
The fact that so many people in my life continue to support Jeremy Corbyn is both terrifying and completely mind-boggling to me. My understanding was that nowadays, when someone is accused of abuse, the accuser is believed. When a minority calls out hatred, we rally around to defend and protect them. So why do these rules not seem to apply when it comes to Jews?
The Jews I know want allies – to stand beside us and say they believe us. To say, publicly, that this is not OK.
You are, of course, able to find some Jews who will come out in support of Corbyn – shockingly, we don’t all agree on everything! – but the vast majority of British Jews and, crucially, our mainstream organisations and leadership – including the Board of Deputies (the main representative body of the British Jewish community, established in 1760), the Chief Rabbi (our equivalent of The Archbishop of Canterbury) and The Jewish Chronicle (a Jewish weekly newspaper based in London, and the oldest continuously published Jewish newspaper in the world) – all stand united in their belief that Corbyn is an antisemite.
The people I feel let down by fall into two categories: the ones who worship the ground Corbyn walks on; and the ones who have reservations but continue to stand by and watch the shitshow unfold.
Obviously, it's the first group who have hurt me the most – forced me to question my judgment, my future, and so many other things I've previously taken for granted, like, if the worst happens (as us Jews know it has many times throughout our history), who in my life would be there to protect us, and who would be our condemners? Knowing that these friends don’t believe me or the mainstream Anglo-Jewish community when we say that Corbyn hates us is a deeply unsettling feeling. The fact that maybe, like him, they see us as the enemy, is horrifying.
I feel more sympathy towards the second group. The British political landscape is, obviously, a complete mess right now, and I don’t want Boris Johnson in charge, either. But I believe Jeremy Corbyn isn’t just inept – the accusations against him are serious and real, and if he’s elected, my community will be living in fear under a man who has shown, during the course of his 40-odd year political career, absolutely no goodwill towards us.
Thankfully, I don’t feel let down and abandoned by everyone in my life. A couple of friends in particular have been a source of great strength and sanity, and I value their love and support more than they could imagine. But that said, I can count the number of mates who I know are 100% in our corner on one hand.
My circle of friends has always been overwhelmingly non-Jewish, and it’s never been an issue before, always a joy. And yet lately, when I wake up at 3am in a cold sweat, my mind running through possible worst-case scenarios, I wonder if this has been a massive mistake. If I should have wedded myself to my community, socialised solely with people whose ancestors also happened to be up a mountain 5000-odd years ago. But that’s not the reality of my life – and nor do I want it to be. I’m a Londoner; cultural diversity runs through my veins. I’ve always loved that my group of friends is broad and varied in every possible way, but that when we all come together, it’s always good vibes. The thought of letting that go, archiving those friendships, packing up all those memories and experiences and good times in a box labelled ‘The Past’ and putting it in the attic feels me with the deepest sadness. And yet I worry that some of those relationships are already damaged beyond repair. The hurt of their betrayal is too deep. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give some people my fullest, deepest love and trust again – at least not unless their views and actions change.
We all categorise the people in our lives – friend, colleague, confidant, vague acquaintance – but after the events of the last few years, I don’t really know where people fit any more. There are people who have been in my life for nearly two decades, who I now don’t fully trust. There are people I’ve never met, who I now feel awkwardly bonded to despite the fact that it usually takes at least three years to get anywhere near my inner friendship sanctum. And you know what, it’s a complete and utter mindfuck.
What’s shocked me most – and it’s a very long list – is how people who count themselves as allies for practically every other minority group seem to have no time, energy or empathy for me or my community. Do they think we don’t want their support? Don’t need it? Or, as I’ve come to suspect, do they hold such a deep-seated distrust and dislike of Jews that they think this is whole thing is either fake news or completely deserved?
Because let me tell you, I want allies. The Jews I know want allies – to stand beside us and say they believe us. To say, publicly, that this is not OK. That this is not the country you want to live in. We are scared. We are exhausted. And most of all, we are very, very sad.
*As always when I write anything about Jeremy Corbyn, I’m going to quickly insert my ‘I would never tell anyone how to vote/ this isn’t about politics or political allegiances' disclaimer. In this instance I’ll also add that I think this election is an absolute shitter. I feel completely disenfranchised, and for the first time in my adult life I’m seriously considering spoiling my ballot (possibly with a giant penis – which feels fitting given the leaders of the two main parties). But anyway, like I said, this article is about antisemitism, not politics.
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