Introduction by leading foreign-affairs commentator Natalie Nougayrède

These are gruelling times for those in Europe who identify themselves as Jewish or have a Jewish background. For many, it is a time of fear and distress. Antisemitism is on the rise, fed by trends that threaten the fabric of European consciousness and values. Extreme right-wing movements are thriving – and they often carry elements of age-old European antisemitism. Europe has also been hit by the sectarianism and fanaticism that seeps out of the Middle East. Violent jihadism has struck in Paris, Copenhagen, Brussels and Toulouse. Violent radicalised youths only represent a tiny minority of Muslims, but they are dangerous and their numbers are growing in Europe. Their ideology of hatred finds fertile ground in pauperised suburbs and the racism that populist parties promote when they stigmatise immigrants.

It sometimes feels as if Europe is caught in a vicious circle where dismal economic figures and identity problems make communities ever more suspicious of one another. The lessons of Europe’s history should be drawn on constantly as an antidote to much of this. In 1989 I started travelling to Eastern Europe after the Berlin Wall fell, and some of the most moving experiences I had came from visiting the many places where Jews had disappeared because of the Nazi genocide: the ruins of villages in former shtetl lands; the empty, abandoned synagogues of Hungarian or Ukrainian cities; the neighbourhoods of Prague and Warsaw where Jewish artists, intellectuals and writers once brought a unique and essential ingredient to European culture.

There are 1.4 million Jews living in Europe today. They are an intimate part of the continent and what it should stand for, which is tolerance, and the acceptance that our continent has always been a mosaic of cultures and religions, each contributing to exchanges that make life more fulfilling. Some voices, among them Israel’s leader Benjamin Netanyahu, have called on Europe’s Jews to emigrate to Israel for security. Fear can be understandable, but that kind of message is not what is needed. It would mean the negation of Europe’s diversity and very identity. There has been no better time to treasure that diversity and listen attentively to the myriad individual experiences that compose it.

Jean-François Bensahel, 51, Paris, president of the Israelite Reform Union at the synagogue in Paris where in October 1980 a bomb exploded, killing four people

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘People are saying they have to leave because it’s too dangerous in France’: Jean-Francois Bensahel. Photograph: Jérôme Bonnet/Observer

The rise in antisemitism is a European phenomenon, but it was in France that the assassins’ bullets started. The strong republican state that imposes shared values cements our society, but over the past 40 years secularism and assimilation have given way to multiculturalism and ghettoisation, and we are suffering the consequences.

The Charlie Hebdo attacks in January showed that the “Jewish question” is also the “French question”. Now lots of people are saying they have to leave because it’s too dangerous in France, and they’re afraid of being attacked in the street for wearing a kippah or a Star of David. More and more people believe their identity can be summed up by their religion.

The French didn’t react to antisemitic killings in the past, and for the past 30 to 40 years they have made excuses about the radicalisation of Muslims, blaming their social and economic situation and seeing it as an extension of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

We pulled the emergency alarm cord many times in the past, but these events have crossed a line. People are not only angry but feel despair and resignation. There is a fear that we are not heard and will never be heard. People ask me what the next act of barbarity will be, and they worry about the spread of antisemitism. We have heavily armed soldiers in front of the synagogue, and while this is reassuring it’s also profoundly worrying. The French government is making a lot of effort, but our role is to convince those around us that it’s not just us in the attackers’ sights, it’s also you, the French, Europeans.

Dalia Golda, 33, Bucharest, founder of Gan Eden Kindergarten, a Jewish kindergarten and after-school centre in the Romanian capital, where Jews are a tiny minority of the population

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I received hundreds of phone calls in the middle of the night saying: “You Jew”’: Dalia Golda in her office at the Jewish kindergarten, Gan Eden, she founded in central Bucharest, Romania. Photograph: Davin Ellicson/Observer

There are very few Jews in the whole of Romania – officially 7,000. We were wiped out [during the Second World War]. It is important to have places like the Holocaust Memorial, which opened in 2009, in order to remember, but we also need to educate. When I used to work for the Jewish Cultural Centre I received hundreds of phone calls in the middle of the night saying: “You Jew!” It didn’t stop me.

My grandfather was a Holocaust survivor. After the war, Jews lived two different lives: one in normal society, the other with your family. Romanians were not allowed to have religion in communist times, though we had permission to have choir classes every Sunday where we learnt everything religious and traditional. It was an open secret. In my town we never had problems, but in larger cities there was more fear.

Part of the Jewish community left Romania when my mother was young, then more went in the early 90s for economic reasons and because they felt they couldn’t have a Jewish life here. Most of my family moved to Israel or the States – only my parents stayed. When I was born in Suceava, a small city in northern Romania, there were about 30 young Jewish people there. At my bat mitzvah, when I was 12, we were six. Now that community is almost dead.

There is increasing antisemitism across Europe, for sure, but not really in Romanian society. There’s not such a big difference between how Romanians and Jewish Romanians live. If the Jewish community had bigger houses, more money, it could be a problem. Jewish culture is part of the identity of Europe. If you lose it you lose a big part of Europe.

Amit Jacobi, 34, Berlin, Israeli-German actor and director who moved to Berlin 12 years ago. He made headlines in February after being secretly filmed walking through Berlin wearing a kippah, following similar experiments in New York and Paris

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘A young Caucasian man recently told me to go back to Israel. It took my breath away’: Israeli dancer, actor and director Amit Jocobi. Photograph: Malte Jaeger/laif

Being Jewish and a target is not something you can get away from – it’s part of your identity, even if you’re a modern hipster, arty, non-believer person in Berlin, like me! This is the city, after all, from which my grandfather escaped when he was around my age, and from where my great-grandparents were deported to Auschwitz and murdered.

I’m part of a wave of young Israelis who have come to Berlin. I can’t say I feel unsafe here, but I’m not part of a Jewish community – it’s not like we all gather in a café with Jewish symbols, which would be targeted. The most blatant antisemitic attack I’ve faced here was not so long ago. A young Caucasian man came up to me and an Israeli visitor with whom I was speaking Hebrew, and told us to “fucking go back to Israel”. It took my breath away.

Netanyahu, who has made Israel a very unsafe place for years, has a nerve to call on Jews to leave Europe because it’s unsafe – that’s pure manipulation. Once I was concerned about my parents because missiles were nearing Tel Aviv, and someone said: “Tell them to vote for another government”, assuming that because they and I are Israeli we’re responsible for its politics. I get this again and again.

When I made the kippah video, some people looked at me strangely, but I had no negative encounters or remarks. From what I can gauge, the situation is much better here in Berlin than in Paris. But antisemitism is part of European culture. It’s always been there – it didn’t originate with Hitler – and I guess it’s not going away. I don’t feel at all inclined to stop speaking Hebrew here or cover up a Hebrew book I’m reading. This is my city, and I’ll live my life freely.

Karen Şarhon, 56, Istanbul, linguist and academic who founded Turkey’s first Sephardic music group

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I’m not very optimistic about the future of this community’: Karen Gerson Sarhon. Photograph: Holly Pickett/Observer

The atmosphere for Jews in Turkey is very negative. Every day you see right-wing newspapers writing lots of bullshit. “The flies are flying sideways – it’s because of the Jews”, that sort of thing. People ask about my name – Karen is not a Turkish name – so I say I’m Jewish and they say: “Oh – you don’t look Jewish.” My husband, who’s in the business world, has experienced more antisemitism than me. After Gaza [last summer], he sold some beauty salon machines and the first question was: “Where do they come from? If they come from Israel we won’t buy them.”

Animosity on social media is growing as people are being fed lies all the time by the media – especially by fundamentalist writers and preachers, who say we are the cursed people. Most of the Jewish community’s budget is spent on security, because we have to have guards and metal detectors everywhere – at synagogues, the Jewish museum, the Jewish school. It didn’t used to be like that 20 years ago, but it’s becoming worse, with the prime minister, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, criticising Israel so openly. The government kindles the animosity. Erdogan is always talking about Israel and not distinguishing between the Jews in Israel and the Jews here. You always ask yourself: “What are they going to do?” It’s in our genes to ask: “Are we going to be kicked out?”

Unless the political situation changes, I’m not very optimistic about the future of this community. If things get worse, people will have no choice but to leave. I say if – at the moment we’re not there yet. It’s very difficult to leave a country you were born and raised in. We love this country. It’s a beautiful country and the people who have not been brainwashed are very nice, but the political situation is not very pleasant.

Roger Abravanel, 68, Milan, retired management consultant and author who grew up in Libya

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘After Gaddafi came to power, my family fled, losing everything. I’ve been lucky in Italy’: Roger Abravanel. Photograph: Mattia Balsamini/Luz

When I hear about antisemitic incidents, I get the same feeling that I had in Libya, where I grew up. My father, who started out a poor man, made a fortune. He was the only Jew invited to sit alongside the king. There had always been antisemitism in Libya, but it exploded with Israel’s independence and its wars. You can’t imagine how often I was discriminated against. As a kid going to school, I was beaten up. I’d never been to Israel, I had a Libyan passport, and here were these guys coming at me just because I was a Jew.

When I was 16, my father said: “This is no place for you”, and I went to study in Milan. After Gaddafi came to power, my family fled. My sister was smuggled to the airport in the boot of a car. We lost everything. In my book, Meritocrazia [Meritocracy], I thanked Gaddafi – because of him I had to achieve everything by myself. I’ve been lucky in Italy, others less so. A million Jews were kicked out of Arab countries – a little-mentioned exodus. I fear this may be happening again, but in Europe, where Muslim antisemitism has added to traditional European antisemitism.

I’m an Italian. I love this country. I owe it a lot, and I’ve always tried to give back – I did military service, which I could have avoided; I’ve paid a lot in Italian taxes, and I’m currently working pro bono for the government. I’m a great supporter of the national soccer team, and of Juventus. I have personally never encountered serious antisemitism among Italians. Well, maybe something like: “You guys” – meaning Jews – “are better at handling money.” But prejudices exist, mostly among less-educated people. One Italian in four says they wouldn’t like to dine with a Jew.

Rachel Silveira, 38, London, deputy director of Three Faiths Forum, which promotes understanding among people of all faiths and beliefs

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘There’s more fear being expressed, and some friends won’t go to events at a synagogue’: Rachel Silveira. Photograph: Suki Dhanda/Observer

The UK is one of the richest places in Europe in terms of the number of different Jewish organisations. In London there’s been a huge growth of alternative expressions of Judaism outside traditional synagogue communities. I’ve never experienced antisemitism directly, but I would imagine it is different for people who wear more visible signs of Judaism. When I worked for the Jewish Council for Racial Equality 15 years ago, I couldn’t understand negative reactions from within the Jewish community to refugees, when all our families were immigrants. Having done a lot of work since, I realise that these fears and concerns are very common. In the last few months, the tone on my Facebook feed has changed. There’s more fear being expressed, and some friends won’t go to events at a synagogue or Jewish community centre now because of the security aspect.

Three Faiths Forum works with about 10,000 young people a year. Over the past few months, their questions have become more pertinent and can lead to very challenging discussions. Questions we’ve had to Jewish speakers include: “You said Jews believe in charity – do you also believe in killing Palestinian babies?” and “Why do Jews keep money under their hats?” We had to explain that the man the student had seen was probably adjusting his kippah under his hat, and that Jews keep money in pockets like everyone else.

Martin Krasnik, 43, Copenhagen, journalist, TV host and author, whose refusal to be cowed during interviews has attracted abuse

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘The terror attack in Copenhagen underlined a feeling of not truly belonging’: Danish journalist Martin Krasnik. Photograph: Søren Solkær/Observer

The Jewish community in Denmark has been here for 350 years and is highly integrated, but the terror attack in Copenhagen underlined a feeling of not truly belonging. There was incredible sadness, but also an absence of shock after the young Jewish man was shot dead outside the synagogue, as everybody had expected something like this to happen.

From the prime minister’s reaction to the rabbi’s speech by the grave, it was as if the script had already been written. For years the Jewish community asked for better protection and Danish authorities reacted with naive leniency, almost indifference.

The big question is whether it is even possible to have Jewish schools and institutions here. To put guards in front of a synagogue is a huge thing in a country like Denmark. It’s a cultural issue more than a question of resources.

Last year during the Gaza conflict, I interviewed the Norwegian doctor Mads Gilbert on TV and challenged the view that Israel was systematically bombing schools and hospitals. The comments from viewers were extreme and abusive. People recycled deeply rooted antisemitic attitudes and told me I couldn’t do my job because of who I was. It prompted me to write the book Fucking Jøde! [Fucking Jew] and wrestle back the right to define myself. In Denmark there is an ostrich mentality when it comes to antisemitism – we can’t live with the idea that it exists here.

Martin Varsavsky, 54, Spain, telecom and new media entrepreneur based in Madrid

‘Madrid continues to feel like a safe haven compared to the antisemitism gripping other countries’: Martin Varsavsky.

When Spain’s Real Madrid lost to Maccabi Tel Aviv in Europe’s main basketball tournament last year, it wasn’t the game’s final score that made headlines around the world. Instead it was the thousands of antisemitic tweets unleashed on Twitter by Spanish fans, referencing gas chambers and the Holocaust.



Jewish organisations responded quickly, asking prosecutors to investigate nearly 18,000 tweets, while media around the world drew quick conclusions about antisemitism in Spain. But as a Jew who has lived in Spain for the past 20 years, I feel it must be said that the situation is very different on the ground.

While it’s true that many in Spain harbour prejudices against Jewish people, much of this sentiment is rooted in ignorance. The number of Jews who exist today in Spain is absolutely insignificant. I would estimate that about 6,000 Jews live in Madrid and maybe another 10,000 or so across Spain. Most Spaniards have never met a Jew. In 1492 we were 10% of the population in Spain. Today there’s just a ghost of the Jewish community in Spain.

The community has increased security as a precautionary measure, but Madrid continues to feel like a safe haven compared to the antisemitism gripping other countries. As an entrepreneur who has founded several telecom and new media companies, I would move to Israel more because it’s a mecca of technology rather than for safety.

As Spain struggles to recover from its double-dip recession, it has began its own campaign to lure Jews back again, promising legislation to fast-track citizenship for the descendants of Sephardic Jews. It’s great but not a game changer, with 50% youth unemployment and more than 20% unemployment overall in Spain.

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