Three years later, I no longer remember what it was like before

Three years later, I no longer remember what it was like before. Thirty-six months have passed since the pogrom of October 7—since the phones started ringing and buzzing incessantly, since the stunned stares at televisions and computers and the inability to comprehend what was happening, since the desperate search for news of acquaintances, friends, and relatives, since the struggle to find a way to put it into words for ourselves and for our children; and, quite simply, I can hardly find a trace of what came before. It was Shabbat morning, it was Shemini Atzeret—in Rome, in any case, the anniversary of another festive morning that had turned into tragedy on October 9, 1982 (when a Palestinian attack as people were leaving the service killed two-year-old Stefano Gaj Taché and wounded dozens of others)—and immediately, even in those first interminable minutes, realizing I couldn’t make sense of the unfolding events—it was like a movie, impossible to process, the thought fixated in my mind for hours on end—I had the crystal-clear sensation that much of what we thought we knew would shatter into pieces.

The last vestige of my professional life in the world as it was before dated back, for me, to a conference in Jerusalem in early September 2023 that had brought together scholars from Israel, Europe, and the United States,

And so, in fact, it was. Immediately, a searing fear set in, with the dark ghosts of the past forcefully returning to life, and the certainty that it wouldn’t end there—and that, whatever Israel’s military response might be and whatever turn the war imposed by others might take, the problems and dangers would affect everyone, in Israel and beyond. An immediate “before” and “after”—from which, in the end, there was no escape, nor would there ever be.

For me, the last glimpse of professional life as it had been before dated back to a conference in Jerusalem in early September 2023 that had brought together scholars from Israel, Europe, and the United States—some of whom were visiting the country for the first time. It was a rich and intensely packed gathering, marked by research, discussions, ideas, and shared cups of coffee—as is always the case on such occasions—but it also featured an unexpected detour from the program. In early September 2023, Israel was gripped by protests against judicial reform; precisely during the days of our meeting among history specialists, these protests aimed to halt a parliamentary process that had reached a turning point. A large number of our university colleagues were actively participating in that movement, and our seminar had to change its schedule to allow some of our guests to join the large march planned in the capital right in the middle of our proceedings—a march that, somewhat by chance, began just a few meters from the venue where we had gathered to discuss. It was a curious experience: usually, international conferences—planned well in advance to accommodate the academic calendars of half the world, which are always too full and too crammed—do not undergo last-minute disruptions due to domestic political reasons. I remember a vibrant square—anxious yet proactive and full of hope—filled with thousands of participants, including hundreds of college students, far-left groups, secularists, religious people of every persuasion, and ordinary people of all ages, backgrounds, and origins. It was my second encounter with that movement, which I had been reading about in the press for months, without managing to grasp the technical crux at the heart of such a divisive debate. It had also been widely discussed in Italy, but it remained a slippery subject; and the only thing clear to me was the magnitude of an unprecedented internal division. So, on the Saturday evening before the seminar began, I went to check out the regular gathering that had been taking place for months—at the end of Shabbat, in front of the prime minister’s official residence in Jerusalem—where people were saying no to that proposal. And which, during the days of Elul, at night, included the public recitation of the selichot—the traditional penitential liturgical poems that accompany Jews toward the new year and the fast of Yom Kippur—and which, in that context, easily dismantled that simplistic narrative pitting the Israel of reactionary religious Jews against the Israel of progressive secularists.

In the world after (…) those were the days of the Bibas family’s funeral, and for the first time in months, I found myself in the midst of a public grief that was finally shared. Amid the roller coaster of emotions, I experienced firsthand the spirit of a country fighting its own battle for the return of all the hostages—whether alive or dead—and which, in doing so, was questioning so many things.

In the world after, I tried to explain to those clamoring for an academic boycott the unexpected changes to that conference’s programme; and to explain to those who think Orthodox Jews are the source of evil (and who knows what these Orthodox Jews really are) the meaning of those prayers on a night of protest against the government. And I know I failed. In the world after, I returned to Israel at the end of February 2025, once again for work. It was the time of the Bibas family’s funeral, and for the first time in months, I found myself in the midst of a public and finally shared grief, in a hallway at Ben Gurion Airport lined with photos of the hostages and victims, with a wall of stuffed animals in front of the photo of those two children. In the days that followed, amid a roller coaster of emotions, I experienced firsthand the spirit of a country fighting its own battle for the return of all the hostages—whether alive or dead—and which, in doing so, was grappling with so many questions. Banners bearing the stylized face of Hersh Goldberg-Polin marked every corner of Jerusalem: a boy who had become a symbol of that city—a boy who had not been saved, who had made headlines around the world thanks to two indomitable and courageous parents, and who openly recalled the failures and the tiny, unlivable corner in which we had found ourselves trapped and without options since the dawn of October 7. Or again, on another evening as Shabbat ended and after the weekly rally for the hostages, a gathering at the Great Synagogue of Jerusalem with the aunt of Gali and Ziv Berman, twins held captive in Gaza: that, too, was a regular gathering—to listen and offer a supportive shoulder to desperate families—which brought together so many, so very many souls from the city and allowed anyone who wanted to, regardless of their views, to avoid plunging alone into the dark abyss.

I don’t think I spoke of any of this once I returned to Italy. In the world after, the complex realities and interpretations—laden with doubts, ambiguities, and nuances—of Jewish life after October 7 almost never find anyone willing to listen. A constant search for certainties and absolutes, marked by relentless demands for a clear stance, has contributed on so many—far too many—occasions to making an already arduous situation even more unbearable. Three years of war, tragedies, horrors, and dead ends in the Middle East. And three years of unspoken pain, betrayals we have inflicted and endured, ruptures and fraying in the daily lives of Jews living elsewhere who, day after day, have watched the world we thought we had built crumble. While national and international reports on antisemitism document, everywhere, an exponential rise in increasingly serious incidents on social media and in real life—culminating in the deaths in Manchester and at Bondi Beach last year—there is no way to trace the normalization of isolation and exclusion, even though these are common and shared experiences. The tally of missed dinner invitations, of messages and phone calls that first grew sparse and then vanished, of mutual awkwardness among once-dear friends, and of the heavy silences during planned or chance encounters also marks, in our private lives, a before and after. An abyss of the unsaid and the unspeakable—a hallmark of our time in relations between Jews and “others”—that is impossible to overcome. A taut rubber band, a spring always ready to snap, in which hovers the demand to distance oneself, to say the right thing—the thing everyone wants to hear—to wear that mask of the “good” and “dissident” Jew, which doesn’t work and cannot work at this moment. It may be reassuring, but it certainly does not convey the magnitude and complexity of these three years of violence and devastation.

An abyss of the unsaid and the unspeakable—a hallmark of our time in relations between Jews and “others”—and one that is impossible to overcome. A taut rubber band, a spring always ready to snap, in which hovers the demand to distance oneself, to say the right thing that everyone wants to hear, to wear that mask of the “good” and “dissident” Jew—a mask that doesn’t work and cannot work at this moment.

A few weeks ago, in these pages, Manuela Consonni reflected on the “antisemitic moment” and on the ongoing reconfiguration of anti-Jewish categories and interpretations that had solidified since the end of World War II and had placed the figure of the Jew as victim at the center. Over the past three years, a framework has gradually taken shape and gained acceptance that interprets the world through the redefinition of an exclusionary and judgmental moral language—one that is, for this very reason, incapable of acknowledging trauma, fears, struggles, and nuances. The forced and inescapable politicization of Jewish identity in social spaces is an intended consequence of this: Jews are constantly asked to justify themselves and set themselves apart, to express certainties that are hard to come by, to take one side or the other, to draw the line between what is right and what is wrong, thereby renouncing a priori and out of a sense of duty any possibility of speaking about anything else or of addressing the “issue” in its Gordian knot of responsibility, wrongs, and rights. Three years in which individuals have found themselves accountable for moral obligations deemed inescapable—and during which, almost paradoxically, voices that might perhaps have tried to reason together have ended up silenced and cowed.

Jews are constantly asked to justify themselves and set themselves apart, to express certainties they rarely possess, to take one side or the other.

Inevitably, this tense and inquisitorial climate has rendered precisely those spaces for encounter and dialogue—which would be indispensable today—unworkable. In this world after, much (too much) becomes a challenge. The perennial question of what to say and what not to say—to whom and how—of what the inviolable boundaries are, and of when it might be appropriate to accept the risk of fierce debate or having every word turned to someone else’s purposes, accompanies many moments of daily life. In the most private choices, the “antisemitic moment” seeps into everyday life, day after day, during the hours spent outside the safe haven of our homes and communities. Conversations among friends and relatives touch on the most recent incidents, starting with schools and the—all too often—unbearable pressure to which young people are subjected. Thus, parents tell of children who try to hide who they are, who—once they leave Jewish schools—evade questions about their previous educational path upon entering the public school system, and of painful decisions in favor of private schools and universities considered less dangerous than public ones. These are informal accounts—ones that do not appear in reports on antisemitism—and they reflect a new reality marked by fears and hesitations that spare no one.

In September 2025, Jonathan Boyd proposed the concept of “environmental antisemitism” to illustrate the atmosphere of the present moment, accurately capturing the signs of the shift underway between a “before” and an “after.” On the other hand, the anguished reflection on the moment of change we are facing is itself part of the ongoing transformation and the necessary reconfiguration of Jewish life in society. The public debate surrounding definitions of what is acceptable and what is not—which also animates this period—barely touches upon the tensions of individual experiences.

Jonathan Boyd has proposed the notion of “environmental antisemitism” to illustrate the atmosphere of the present time, capturing the signs of the shift taking place between a “before” and an “after.”

There is no way to account for the strain of climbing the stairs at work, the unease felt while having coffee with colleagues, or the conscious decision to let jokes and remarks slide—ones that were once unacceptable but now, in the world after, fall into that unbroken stream of unspeakable words we have resigned ourselves to living with. University classrooms and hallways have served as the backdrop for many of these incidents, shared in group chats and in hushed tones by Jewish faculty members from many parts of the world. The chilly atmosphere, the interrupted conversations, the widespread fear of possible protests by students, the relocation of conferences and seminars on Jewish studies—especially those featuring Israeli guests—to venues away from the main university sites, and the concern that research projects and publications might be rejected for reasons having nothing to do with the scholarly merit of a research proposal—all of this defines the world after. Overall, the interplay between enormous obstacles—first and foremost the boycott and all that follows in its wake—and difficulties both large and small is disrupting the normal course of lives and academic careers: unwelcome topics and individuals, sources of unease, and even the possibility of public order issues (as has happened all too often) are driving deeply personal and subdued second thoughts about roles, positions, and important choices. This state of precariousness and vulnerability—which oscillates between concrete realities and concerns about what might be but is not yet—shapes professional relationships in many ways. If ever there was a time—precisely to address the many questions surrounding us—when a solid and growing scholarly community focused on topics and issues in Jewish history was needed, the discipline is now entering a period of uncertainty. First, it is becoming more difficult to attract young people to a field where, on the one hand, the threat of controversy looms, and on the other, it is essential to master the tools of the trade and engage with the most specialized and advanced research centers. To study Jewish history, at some point, one must learn enough Hebrew to be able to read original-language documents independently and engage with leading scholars in one’s field, who are sometimes based in Israel, where—for obvious reasons—these topics take on a central role and specific relevance. In an era of vociferously proclaimed and actively practiced boycotts, and with the unresolved war, travel to and from Israel—including doctoral or postdoctoral fellowships at those universities, periods in ulpan to learn the language, and periods of study and training there—begins to seem (and often already is) a liability. Stories are beginning to circulate of young people who have been formally or informally excluded from fellowships at European universities because of an “Israeli connection” on their résumés—and who, for the same reason, choose not even to apply—alongside cases of faculty members who have been disinvited from conferences and seminars or who are told it would be preferable for them to decline participation. There are no statistics, but the fact that things are taking this turn is, after all, not very surprising and raises questions about the present and future of these fields of knowledge and those who practice them.

Between the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the entry of Jewish history and Jewish studies into the Western academic system represented a gateway into high culture for the uncertain processes of emancipation.

Between the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the entry of Jewish history and Jewish studies into the Western academic system represented an outlet within high culture for the uncertain processes of emancipation.

For a long time, European universities had taught Biblical Hebrew and elements of Jewish culture, authors, and textual tradition to their students. The goal was twofold: on the one hand, Hebrew served to engage with the biblical text in its original language; on the other, it prepared preachers and missionaries—and those who did so were, to a large extent, Jews who had converted to Christianity. Knowledge of Jewish culture served to strengthen the Christian faith; after the Reformation, it also became central to the internal Christian debate between Catholics and Reformers of all denominations, and everyone hoped to use it to convert Jews and convince them of the errors and superstitions of their religion. The turning point of the nineteenth century—the program of the Wissenschaft des Judentums and a scholarly approach to Judaism, its vast literature, and the history of the Jewish people—paved the way for new methodologies, new disciplines, and, indeed, a new conception of dialogue and engagement with the broader field of the humanities. In the field of history, the establishment of chairs in Jewish history at major American universities and the authoritative works—produced from positions of prominence—by scholars of the caliber of Salo W. Baron and Yosef Haim Yerushalmi demonstrated the achievements and significance of a specific field of research, with its own rules and debates, and its complex relationship with general history.

Questions about what antisemitism is, what its trajectories are, and how it manifests today are also, of course, tied to a tradition of exclusion, marginalization, and persecution that is now, in the lived experience of many, forcefully returning to the forefront.

Baron’s programmatic call to rethink Jewish history beyond the “lachrymose conception” has shaped—and continues to shape—the way this discipline is practiced. The ever-difficult interaction with majority societies, Jewish persecution and resistance, social and economic life, gender perspectives, the history of culture (printing, books, censorship, the circulation of ideas within, outside, and amidst the Jewish world), mobility, diasporas, creativity, and politics are themes that have convincingly entered research and discussion, in an attempt to free this history—at least in part—from an interpretation built exclusively, and simplistically, around the notion of victimhood. Even studies on antisemitism—which have come to form a field of their own—have focused on Jews as active agents, on the development of defensive and responsive strategies, and on their refusal to remain passive in the face of the challenges and violence that have recurred over the centuries. Now, in the world after, one occasionally wonders whether we have ended up underestimating the scale and nature of the suffering described in that lachrymose history, almost as if to impose a narrative of possible positive outcomes—a narrative ultimately contradicted by events.

I believe, however, that even this interpretation ends up being problematic and, in part, self-exculpatory, and that it loses sight of the ways in which we, too, have betrayed others—and not merely been betrayed ourselves.

Questions about what antisemitism is, what its trajectories are, and how it manifests today are also, of course, tied to a tradition of exclusion, marginalization, and persecution that is now, in the lived experience of many, forcefully returning to the forefront. And while—as is obvious and evident—these past three years do not mark a return to the 1930s, there are no laws expelling and persecuting Jews simply for being Jewish, and certainly no racial censuses are underway, that widespread and shared sense of exclusion does exist and deserves to be taken seriously. A small or large wake-up call, signaling the inaccessibility of many public spaces, the strain and worry, the isolation, and, at times, ultimately, a betrayal and abandonment—including (and perhaps above all) an intellectual one.

I believe, however, that even this interpretation ultimately proves problematic and, in part, self-exculpatory, and that it loses sight of the ways in which we, too, have betrayed others—and not merely been betrayed ourselves. Over the past three years, each in our own way, we have unexpectedly found ourselves grappling with the enormous effort required to coexist as diverse individuals and with the nearly impossible challenge of explaining ourselves and trying to reason together. The voices that have prevailed are those of people across opposing camps who know where good lies and where evil lies, who unquestionably determine who is wrong and who is right, and who offer simple, straightforward explanations for events that are anything but simple. Yet there are those who observe in silence, silenced by the insurmountable barrier that has imposed itself, and with whom we can (and perhaps must) find the courage to rediscover what holds us together even at this stage, however painful it may be. An urgent attempt to free ourselves from the obligation to use our Jewish history and identity to legitimize positions of any kind, and to simply begin again to walk alongside those who are willing to do so and who have continued to defend the possibility of doing so over these past three years—even when we’ve disagreed about the horrors of increasingly bleak events. A narrow path that we must take, through difficult conversations, a willingness to listen to one another, and recognition of different yet equally legitimate sensitivities, traumas, concerns, and experiences—a path that, even in this world after, may allow us to move forward again.