Rabbi Andrea’s Sermon 2nd May / 15th Iyar 5786
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WHEN WORDS BECOME WEAPONS
In March, the ambulances were set on fire — but let us not make a fuss: the arsonists were caught.
Two weeks ago, there was the attempted arson of a synagogue. But again, let us not make a fuss: in the end, the Molotov cocktail did not work. Two Jews were stabbed in Golders Green, a place where Jews are supposed to feel safe. Well, you know: a mentally unstable person, somehow inflamed by news from the Middle East — which is a polite way of blaming Israel for antisemitism.
And one could go on.
There is never any shortage of people urging us to stay calm, trying to convince us that today’s Britain is a paradise for Jews — apart from the occasional building in flames.
What a dreadful idea of paradise these people must have. It will surprise no one, but I can tell you that I am often asked what the situation is like for us Jews in Brighton.
And I answer that I feel safe. Then I add: but my opinion does not count.
Let me explain.
First of all, I do feel safe in Brighton. I have been here for more than fifteen years. I walk around with a kippah on my head and visible tzitzit, at all hours. I visit hospitals, go to punk concerts, frequent the library, and the only antisemitic abuse I have received came from a drunk man who was offended because I had not given him the £5 he had asked for, and from another elderly gentleman who muttered something about Gaza.
Horrible things are said at demonstrations, but, on the whole, walking around the city while visibly Jewish is not especially risky.
But the problem is being framed in the wrong way. Antisemitism is not only insults shouted in the street. Nobody shouted insults in Stalinist Russia, antisemitic or otherwise — and yet it was an antisemitic country, I hope no one denies that.
Something far more frightening — and I am referring here to an experience of my own — is finding oneself on public transport next to two people casually dropping the word “genocide” into the conversation, together with remarks in English about the number of British Jews serving in the IDF and therefore supposedly complicit in genocide.
Had these two thugs decided to take their protest against Israel’s crimes to a higher level — let us say, from the level of public transport to the street level of Golders Green — the consequences would have been far more painful than a Y-word shouted by a drunken beggar.
And it would have been far more dangerous because those who stab Jews in these times do not act in a sudden fit of anger, but after some planning. And, as police reports — culpably ignored by those trying to convince you that we live in paradise — have indicated, such people may be connected to Harakat Ashab al-Yamin al-Islamiya, an antisemitic network reportedly linked to Iranian-backed structures and operating across the European continent.
After the pogrom of 7 October, the word “genocide” has become widespread, accompanied by alarming and apocalyptic tones, to describe in a misleading way what is a war. A brutal, horrible war — but still, precisely, a war.
Together with the word “genocide,” other ideas have begun to circulate, including the moral imperative that one must “do something” to stop the genocide.
Here the problems begin for us in Brighton: a very liberal, very left-wing city. A constant feature of liberal-left culture is precisely the need “to do something” — to become active, to mobilise. Sometimes “doing something” means holding a demonstration. And, how strange, those demonstrations do not stop at Brunswick Square. No: the organisers always feel the need to pass through Palmeira Square — quite coincidentally, of course, just as we Jews are leaving the synagogue.
I have never quite understood why the so-called genocide cannot be stopped by demonstrations held far away from synagogues. But, as you may have noticed, pro-Palestinian activists have this habit of demonstrating always, or almost always, where there are synagogues or organised forms of Jewish life.
Then comes the next step: the person who moves from the moral imperative to “do something to stop the genocide” into action. And “doing something” becomes stabbing Jews, setting ambulances on fire, throwing Molotov cocktails at synagogues — in short, punishing all those Jews who do not distance themselves from Israel. Because, in the mind of the activist consumed by the obsession with “doing something,” Jews are guilty of Zionism, and Zionism is, of course, a crime.
Therefore, while I may personally feel safe — for now — as I walk through the streets of Brighton, I also know that around me, thanks to the carelessness of the media and the hunger for sensationalism, the ancient ghosts of antisemitism have reawakened.
Legends about children murdered for ritual purposes: yesterday we were accused of killing children at Passover; today it is said that Zionism implies the massacre of Palestinian children.
Infamous slanders against our religious texts: yesterday we were accused of black magic; today we are accused of spreading racism against Muslims.
And this is why I say that my opinion is not relevant. Because I am a Rabbi. In my workplace, I do not experience the full consequences of the spread of antisemitic narratives. But this discrimination, and these microaggressions, are increasingly frequent.
Whether it is Jewish artists for whom it is becoming increasingly difficult to find commissions or a market for their work; or social workers and doctors who experience microaggressions in the workplace; or Jewish taxi drivers whose social media activity is scrutinised with perverse attention, in search of statements that might supposedly prove complicity in genocide.
https://www.thejc.com/opinion/how-antisemitism-fear-and-intolerance-grip-britains-art-world-fgue3ivr
All of this is far more serious than a drunk shouting in the street. And it goes hand in hand with attacks probably organised, or at least encouraged, by networks connected to the Iranian regime.
Yet the minimisers want you to go on the roof and shout to the world how lucky we are to be British citizens of the Jewish faith in the year 2026.
Those who tell us not to exaggerate should look at the figures. In 2002, when antisemitism was already a source of alarm, CST recorded 350 antisemitic incidents. In 2025, it recorded 3,700. That is not a fluctuation. That is a transformation.
It is heartening to receive expressions of solidarity and esteem after every attack. But I do not think I am the only one to notice that the quality and intensity of these expressions is diminishing. Alarm and concern are being replaced — both among us and in society more broadly — by a certain habituation, a growing sense of numbness.
In Parashat Emor, this week’s Torah portion, we read the disturbing episode [Lev 24:10-23] of the meqallel, the blasphemer. A man, the son of an Israelite woman and an Egyptian father, gets into a fight in the camp. In the course of the quarrel, he pronounces the Divine Name and curses. The community does not know how to respond, so he is placed in custody until God’s will is made clear. The answer is severe: the Torah treats this misuse of sacred speech as a grave offence.
Whatever difficulties we may have with the punishment, the moral lesson is clear. The Torah takes words seriously. Speech is not harmless noise. Words can bless, heal, teach, and build community; but they can also curse, wound, inflame, and prepare the ground for violence. The meqallel does not begin by striking someone. He begins with words — but words that desecrate, words that tear something sacred apart.
This is a lesson our society badly needs to relearn. Around us, language is often used carelessly: slogans are repeated without thought, accusations are thrown around, ancient hatreds are dressed up in fashionable moral vocabulary. The Torah reminds us that words have consequences. A community that loses respect for speech will soon lose respect for people too.
Respect for the truth has been broken and, as a result, we, the Jewish people, are in danger.
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