Dreyfus Day and the Jewish Future: From France’s Reckoning to New York’s Fears

Graffiti reading “Heil Hitler, death to Jews” defaces a monument in western France (July 2023) – a stark reminder that antisemitic hatred endures. In an unprecedented gesture of historical accountability, French President Emmanuel Macron has declared that July 12 will be “Alfred Dreyfus Day” – an annual commemoration of the French Jewish army captain falsely accused of treason in 1894. Macron framed this new day of remembrance as more than just a tribute to a past injustice; it is a wake-up call about France’s present. “From now on, every 12th July will host a ceremony for Dreyfus, celebrating the triumph of justice and truth over hatred and antisemitism,” Macron announced. By resurrecting the memory of the Dreyfus Affair – a scandal that exposed the “deep-seated antisemitism” of French society over a century ago – Macron is signaling that France must reckon with historic wrongs to confront today’s challenges.

Macron explicitly warned that France must remain vigilant against the “persistent scourge of antisemitism”, noting that the “enduring antisemitic demons” of the early 20th century “have never truly disappeared”. This is not mere rhetoric. Despite France’s commitment to “liberté, égalité, fraternité,” anti-Jewish incidents remain a fact of contemporary life. Between January and May 2025 alone, 504 antisemitic acts were recorded in France – a 24% drop from the year prior, yet still roughly double the number from a decade earlier. French officials labeled the recent spike a “historic” surge tied to world events, with hate crimes against Jews soaring after war broke out between Hamas and Israel in 2023. These figures underscore Macron’s point: the “ancient specter” of antisemitism still haunts France.

Declaring Alfred Dreyfus Day is therefore a powerful symbolic act. It acknowledges France’s historic complicity in antisemitism – from the Dreyfus Affair, when a Jewish officer was scapegoated amid a frenzy of Jew-hatred, to Vichy-era collaboration – while also recommitting the nation to combat the resurgence of anti-Jewish bigotry today. Macron’s move comes amid a broader French reckoning: this year the French Parliament even voted to posthumously promote Dreyfus to brigadier general, righting a century-old wrong. Such gestures send a clear message that France will not bury its shameful episodes but rather learn from them. The hope is that by formally honoring Dreyfus’s “victory of justice and truth against hatred”, France can galvanize its citizens – especially the younger generation – to reject the prejudice that once divided the Republic. The Dreyfus commemoration, set to begin on July 12, 2026 (the 120th anniversary of Dreyfus’s exoneration), stands as both a tribute to past heroes who fought antisemitism and a clarion call to confront the old demons still lurking in society.

New York’s Jewish Community Alarm: When a City Feels Unsafe

Zohran Mamdani, New York City mayoral candidate, has drawn criticism from Jewish leaders for his stances on Israel. Across the Atlantic, a very different drama is unfolding. In New York City – home to the largest Jewish urban population in the world – many Jewish residents are voicing unprecedented anxiety about their future in the city. The catalyst is the meteoric rise of Zohran Mamdani, a 33-year-old democratic socialist who, in a stunning upset, won the Democratic primary to become the city’s next mayor. Mamdani has been an outspoken critic of Israel, an endorser of the BDS movement to boycott Israel, and until recently refused to unequivocally condemn the slogan “Globalize the Intifada,” a phrase widely understood by Jews to glorify violent uprisings against Israelis. His ascent has thrown New York’s Jewish community into turmoil – raising the question: could the political climate in America’s most famously diverse city turn hostile enough to drive out its Jews?

The concern is not abstract. Prominent Jewish Democrats, including members of Congress from Mamdani’s own party, have sounded the alarm. Debbie Wasserman Schultz denounced Mamdani’s “callous disregard for antisemitism” in refusing to condemn “globalize the intifada,” calling his stance “terribly disturbing and potentially dangerous”. Another Jewish lawmaker warned that if Mamdani cannot see why that slogan – associated with bloody attacks in Israel – is antisemitic, he will “continue to add to the problem, not deflate it”. The CEO of the Jewish Democratic Council of America noted the irony and outrage of this situation: “At a moment of rising antisemitism, frankly it’s unacceptable for him to defend this phrase if he wants to be mayor of the largest Jewish population of any city in the world”. New York’s approximately 1.6 million Jews have reason to be uneasy when a would-be mayor appears ambivalent about rhetoric that so many perceive as a “call to violence” against their community.

Beyond rhetoric, there is a palpable fear on the street. New York has seen a surge of antisemitic hate crimes in recent years. In 2024, Jews were targets in 345 reported hate incidents in NYC – more than all other minority groups combined, accounting for 54% of all hate crimes in the city. That equates to an antisemitic incident roughly every 25 hours in New York City. From swastikas defacing synagogues, to Orthodox Jews being assaulted on the subway, to plots to attack Jewish gatherings, the city’s famed atmosphere of tolerance has been marred by waves of anti-Jewish hostility. Officials note that after the Hamas terror assault on Israel in October 2023, anti-Jewish incidents in New York spiked dramatically, mirroring trends seen in Europe. It is against this backdrop that Mamdani’s candidacy has rattled so many. To some Jewish New Yorkers, it symbolizes an ideological shift in the city’s leadership that might leave them isolated or unprotected just when they feel most vulnerable.

The fears are deeply personal. “We’re very afraid,” admits Ben Soffer, a lifelong New Yorker who says Mamdani’s rise forced him, for the first time, to contemplate leaving his beloved city. “I’ve never, ever thought that I would need to leave because I was afraid to be openly Jewish here,” Soffer explained, “but now I’m considering it”. Such words are startling in a city that has long been a haven of Jewish life. Yet they capture a growing sentiment that being a proudly Jewish New Yorker no longer feels as safe or as accepted as it once did. Community leaders worry that ideological hostility – such as efforts to turn “Zionist” into a slur – and a perceived lack of robust protection against antisemitic hate crimes could pressure Jews to retreat from public life or even leave the city. This anxiety isn’t limited to one segment of the community: from liberal Manhattan professionals to Orthodox families in Brooklyn, many feel caught in a pincer between far-right hate and far-left anti-Israel animus. As one local Jewish leader put it bluntly, “If our next mayor doesn’t forcefully stand up against anti-Jewish hate, I fear for our future here.” Even some who back Mamdani politically have urged him to reassure Jews. Congressman Dan Goldman – himself Jewish – said he told Mamdani he “must not only condemn anti-Jewish hate and calls for violence, but make clear that as mayor he would…protect all New Yorkers and make us secure”. In New York, as in France, the fight against antisemitism has become a defining test of a society’s values – and many are watching anxiously to see how that test is met.

Antisemitism Resurgent Across the West: Fear and Friction in Europe

New York and Paris are not isolated cases. Across Western Europe, Jewish communities are grappling with a tide of antisemitism and cultural pressure that many thought was unthinkable in the 21st century. From the streets of London and Berlin to the campuses of Brussels and Amsterdam, Jewish minorities are once again feeling under siege – albeit in different ways than generations past.

In the United Kingdom, home to about 280,000 Jews, antisemitic incidents have skyrocketed to record levels. The year 2023 was the worst year for antisemitism in Britain since tracking began in the 1980s. Over 4,100 anti-Jewish incidents were recorded nationwide, more than double the previous year’s total. Incredibly, fully two-thirds of all those incidents occurred after October 7, 2023 – the date Hamas terrorists attacked Israel. It was as if the pogroms half a world away triggered an explosion of hate on British streets. The Community Security Trust (CST), which monitors antisemitism in the UK, reported an average of 31 antisemitic incidents per day in the weeks following the Israel–Hamas war’s outbreak, including vandalism of Jewish businesses and schools, assaults on Jewish individuals, and torrents of online abuse. “British Jews are strong and resilient, but the explosion in hatred against our community is an absolute disgrace,” said CST chief executive Mark Gardner, noting how Jews have been “harassed, intimidated, threatened and attacked…in schools, universities, workplaces and streets” in an atmosphere of extreme hostility. Perhaps most galling to British Jews was what Gardner called the “stony silence” from segments of society who eagerly condemn other forms of racism yet seemed to look away when the victims were Jews. This double standard – where “Free Palestine” rallies in London saw placards openly glorifying Hamas or chanting for Jewish blood, met with tepid response from progressive allies – left many UK Jews feeling abandoned. The British government has responded with emergency funds for synagogue security and hundreds of arrests for hate crimes. Yet the fear is palpable: visible Jews in London’s streets report being cursed at or spat upon, and many now remove kippahs or tuck away Star of David necklaces in public. For a community that thought itself an integral part of British life, 2023 was a rude awakening that old prejudices can return with ferocity.

Germany has likewise seen unsettling developments. The country has invested enormous effort in Holocaust education and remembrance, and boasts strong legal protections against hate speech. Even so, Germany’s top official on antisemitism caused an uproar in 2019 when he warned that he “cannot advise Jews to wear the kippah everywhere, all the time, in Germany” for their own safety. To many, it was shocking: in modern Germany, Jews were being cautioned to hide signs of their faith – a chilling echo of an era thought long past. Israeli President Reuven Rivlin rebuked the advice as a “capitulation to antisemitism”, a sign that Jews are not safe on German soil if they must remove religious attire to avoid attack. The context was a rise in antisemitic incidents, often attributed to both the far-right and imported extremist ideologies. Germany recorded a 20% jump in antisemitic hate crimes in a recent year (with most perpetrators from the extreme right) and has endured violent incidents such as the 2019 Yom Kippur attempted massacre at a synagogue in Halle. Jewish leaders in Germany welcomed the government’s honesty about the problem – “It has been the case for some time that Jews in some cities endanger themselves if they are visible as Jews,” acknowledged Josef Schuster, head of the Central Council of Jews in Germany. But they demand more action to reverse this climate. It is a cruel twist of fate that in some Western European capitals today, Jews weigh whether it’s prudent to hide their identity – a yarmulke swapped for a baseball cap – just as their grandparents did in darker times.

Beyond outright violence, cultural pressures are mounting on Jewish life in Europe. In the name of secularism, animal rights, or children’s welfare, several European countries have proposed or enacted measures that strike at the core of Jewish religious practice. Belgium, for example, banned shechita – kosher slaughter of animals – in two of its three regions, a prohibition upheld by the European Court of Human Rights in 2020. To observant Jews, who require meat from animals slaughtered according to ritual law (without pre-stunning), this was a dire infringement on their way of life. Jewish (and Muslim) groups protested that the ban was born of prejudice and ignorance, noting that it effectively outlaws ancient traditions; nonetheless, the ban remains, forcing Belgium’s Jews to import kosher meat and raising fears that other countries might follow suit. Similarly, campaigns to ban circumcision of infant boys – the covenant of brit milah at eight days old – have gained traction in Northern Europe. In Denmark, a 2018 push to outlaw non-medical circumcision garnered over 50,000 signatures and prompted a parliamentary debate. Danish Jews, already shaken after a deadly 2015 terror attack on a synagogue, spoke out forcefully. One young Danish Jew, Hannah Bentow, decided she would leave the country for Israel upon turning 18, saying the circumcision ban debate “makes me feel like I don’t belong, like Denmark doesn’t want me to belong”. Her mother lamented that when their tiny community of 6,000-8,000 Jews is “already so pressed” by security concerns, such laws “suck the marrow out of wanting to be Jewish” in Denmark. Across Europe, Jews increasingly sense a pincer pressure: on one side, physical insecurity from hate crimes; on the other, legal or social constraints that chip away at Jewish cultural and religious expression. Whether it’s fights over religious slaughter, bans on kosher import in some places, school dress codes that bar religious symbols, or the relentless vitriol surrounding any connection to Israel, Europe’s Jews often feel their backs against the wall. The cumulative effect is an erosion of the sense of belonging. A 2018 EU survey found that 85% of European Jews viewed antisemitism as a serious problem in their country, and a large number had considered emigrating. Indeed, in countries like France, thousands of Jews have emigrated to Israel in the past decade, fleeing an environment they found increasingly hostile or hopeless. When an exhibit of Jewish life or a Holocaust memorial is vandalized with swastikas, or when mobs in London shout “Gas the Jews” with impunity, it feeds a tragic perception that perhaps Europe – even Western Europe – is becoming unlivable for Jews once again. This is precisely the nightmare Macron hopes to stave off in France by confronting antisemitism head-on. Yet the struggle is pan-European. As one Belgian Jewish activist put it, “We are citizens of these countries, we love them, but we need them to love us back – right now, that love feels very strained.”

Eastern Europe: Unexpected Safe Havens and Revivals?

Where, then, might it be safest and most viable for Jews to live today? It is a painful question, one that Jews have been forced to ask repeatedly through history. Many automatically assume the answer is Israel – the Jewish state – and indeed, Israel remains the ultimate refuge and homeland for Jews facing persecution. But Israel comes with its own set of grave risks (security threats, wars, terrorism) and internal struggles. Intriguingly, some observers are looking at a different part of the world: Eastern Europe. The very region that, in living memory, witnessed the Holocaust and decades of communist repression of Jewish identity is now, unexpectedly, cited as a relative safe harbor for Jewish life. Could it be that in places like Poland, Hungary, or Moldova, Jews today find a more hospitable climate than in Paris, London or New York?

The idea is not as far-fetched as it sounds. Eastern European countries often have tiny Jewish populations today – a tragic legacy of the Holocaust and post-war emigration – and thus lack the large-scale Islamist radicalism or heated Israel-focused politics that fuel much of Western Europe’s antisemitism. Far-right nationalism does exist in the East, sometimes virulently so, but in many cases Eastern European nationalists direct their resentments at other targets (immigrants, Roma, LGBTQ) rather than Jews, or even profess philosemitism and pro-Israel sentiments. For example, Poland’s populist government wraps itself in the mantle of traditional Catholic values and has engaged in problematic Holocaust memory laws – yet Poland is also a country where overt antisemitic violence is now relatively rare, and where leaders consistently tout strong relations with Israel. Hungary’s controversial leader Viktor Orbán has been accused of trafficking in antisemitic tropes (especially with his demonization of Jewish financier George Soros), but at the same time Orbán positions himself as a defender of Hungary’s Jewish community against Muslim immigration, and Budapest today hosts a vibrant Jewish cultural scene with ruin bar parties in the old ghetto and Europe’s largest synagogue functioning daily. The paradox of Eastern Europe is that memory and revival coexist with lingering prejudice. Many people still hold antisemitic stereotypes (often without ever having met a Jew), yet acts of violence are infrequent and Jewish heritage is being actively preserved, sometimes by governments eager to show a new face to the world.

Take Moldova, a small post-Soviet republic wedged between Romania and Ukraine. A century ago, the region (then called Bessarabia) had a flourishing Jewish population – nearly half the residents of its capital, Chișinău (Kishinev), were Jewish. It was the site of one of the most infamous pogroms in 1903, and then saw most of its remaining Jews annihilated in the Holocaust. Decades of communist rule further stifled Jewish life. By the 1990s, Jews were a tiny fragment of Moldova’s population, and many emigrated due to economic instability and war (Moldova even evacuated much of its Jewish community during a brief civil war in 1992). One might assume Jewish presence there is all but extinct. And yet, in recent years Moldova has witnessed a modest Jewish revival. Today, an estimated 7,500–15,000 Jews live in Moldova, mostly in Chișinău. The community has stabilized and even grown slightly, drawing together those with Jewish roots who, under Soviet oppression, had hidden their identity. “After two difficult decades, a Jewish renewal is at work in Moldova,” observes a Jewish heritage guide, noting that the revival is “structured spiritually by the Chabad community and culturally by the community center of Chişinău.” Historic synagogues have reopened, Jewish schools and clubs operate, and previously neglected heritage sites are finally getting attention. In 2018, the Moldovan government itself established a National Jewish Museum in the capital – initially focusing on preserving Chișinău’s vast Jewish cemetery of 23,000 graves, with plans for a full museum building and cultural center. This official support is hugely significant: it signals that modern Moldova wants its Jewish history and citizens to be recognized and valued, not erased. It’s “exciting and overdue,” said one American Jewish volunteer helping the museum, “especially happening at a moment when Moldova is dealing with war in neighboring Ukraine and many other challenges”. Even amid poverty and geopolitical tension, Moldova is choosing to invest in Jewish heritage projects – a stark contrast to some wealthier Western countries where Jewish institutions require armed guards and still suffer vandalism.

Crucially, Moldovan Jews today generally feel safe in their daily lives. Antisemitic hate crimes are rare. The threats that loom over Moldova’s Jews are mostly the same ones that affect all Moldovans: economic hardship (it’s one of Europe’s poorest countries) and political uncertainty, especially given the ominous presence of Russia’s influence. Indeed, one cannot discuss Eastern Europe’s viability without acknowledging risks: the region’s stability is fragile. Far-right nationalism is a double-edged sword – today it may court Jewish favor by being pro-Israel and anti-communist, but in a crisis it could easily revert to traditional antisemitic conspiracy (blaming “Jewish bankers” or “globalists” for troubles, as has happened at times in Hungary and Poland). Russian influence is another wild card. Vladimir Putin’s regime has cynically used accusations of Nazism to justify aggression (as in Ukraine), all while fomenting extreme nationalism in Europe. If Russia were to spread its destabilizing reach further into Eastern Europe – say, via its troops in Moldova’s breakaway Transnistria region – minorities like Jews could again find themselves caught in geopolitical crossfire or targeted by ultranationalist proxies. And of course, economic instability in countries like Moldova or Ukraine can spur emigration: many young Jews leave simply to seek better futures elsewhere, draining these reborn communities of the very people needed to sustain them.

Yet for all these challenges, there are surprising positive developments that give hope. Across Eastern Europe, Jewish cultural institutions are blossoming with a vibrancy unseen in generations. In Poland, a country once synonymous with Jewish tragedy, the annual Jewish Culture Festival in Kraków draws tens of thousands of visitors – Poles, Israelis, Americans – to celebrate Yiddish music, literature, and food in the heart of the old Jewish quarter. The POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw, opened in 2014 with government and international support, stands as a stunning testament to 1,000 years of Jewish life in Poland and has won global awards. Poland’s actual Jewish population is small (perhaps 10,000 to 20,000 by broader definitions), but the cultural impact is outsized: young Poles volunteer at Jewish festivals, scholars research Poland’s Jewish past with pride, and a new generation of Polish Jews is emerging from the shadows of history – some discovering family secrets of Jewish ancestry only after communism fell. In the Baltic states, historic synagogues that survived the war are being restored; Lithuania now has an annual public Holocaust commemoration and even reburied the remains of famed rabbi the Vilna Gaon with honor. In Romania, once a hotbed of fascist antisemitism, the government in recent years opened a National Holocaust Museum and appointed a special representative to fight antisemitism. Ukraine, before the current war, was experiencing a renaissance of Jewish life – Kyiv and Lviv had thriving community centers and Jewish start-up ventures, and notably Ukraine elected a Jewish president, Volodymyr Zelensky, who openly celebrated his heritage (an unthinkable milestone in Eastern Europe a generation ago). That a Jewish comedian-turned-statesman could win landslide support in a predominantly Christian, once Soviet country spoke volumes about how far attitudes had evolved. And although Russia’s brutal invasion has devastated Ukraine, it has also led Zelensky to embrace and highlight Ukraine’s Jewish story on the world stage, rebutting Putin’s false “denazification” pretext and showing that Ukrainian and Jewish identities are not at odds.

Even tiny Moldova has seen shoots of Jewish cultural growth. There are Jewish youth clubs in Chișinău now, and klezmer music concerts and heritage tours of former shtetl towns. “Moldova’s small Jewish community is experiencing a resurgence,” one Peace Corps volunteer observed, pointing to a recent Jewish youth event at a Chișinău shopping mall bustling with young participants. It may not compare in size to New York or Paris, but for the Jews who remain in Moldova, there is a newfound sense of visibility and pride. They are reclaiming a heritage long pushed to the margins. In fact, some Jews from abroad have begun engaging with Moldova – through genealogy trips, restoration projects of Jewish cemeteries, and even business ventures – drawn by the chance to be part of an intimate, tightly knit community on the upswing. The risks in Eastern Europe are real, but so is the potential for a richer Jewish life unencumbered by the intense ideological battles that roil the West. As one young Polish Jew quipped, “Here I have to explain to people what a Jew is – but at least I don’t get beaten for it. In France I wouldn’t have to explain, but I’d be afraid to wear my yarmulke.” It’s a bittersweet comparison, yet it captures why some see a future in places where Jewish life was once left for dead.

Conclusion: Choosing Hope Amid Uncertainty

Antisemitism is often called the “oldest hatred.” Today, from the elegant boulevards of Paris to the brownstones of Brooklyn to the rustic villages of Eastern Europe, this old hatred is testing societies in new ways. Emmanuel Macron’s bold institution of Alfred Dreyfus Day is one nation’s attempt to turn shame into lesson – to say “never again” not just in word but in national ritual, acknowledging that the fight against antisemitism is integral to France’s soul. In New York, a city built by immigrants and minority communities, Jews now wonder if the pluralistic promise of their home will hold firm, or if ideological fervor will erode the safety they have long taken for granted. Across Western Europe, Jews face an agonizing dilemma: do they stay and persist in the lands of their ancestors, or heed the warning signs and leave before things possibly worsen? Meanwhile, Eastern Europe offers a cautious glimmer of hope and renewal, reminding us that history does not move in a straight line – who could have imagined that in places once reduced to ashes, Jewish life would rise again, modest but determined?

The answer to where Jews can live safely and thrive today is not a simple one. No place is perfect: even Israel, the refuge state, lives under constant siege mentality; America, long seen as a “golden land” for Jewry, is witnessing record-high antisemitic incidents in multiple cities. And yet, there are degrees of hope. It may be found in the French citizens – Jewish and non-Jewish alike – who marched by the tens of thousands in Paris in 2023 to protest antisemitism, defiantly singing La Marseillaise and vowing that their nation remain a place of liberty for all. It’s in the New York neighbors who repaint a defaced menorah on a local synagogue and the interfaith coalitions calling on the new mayor (whoever it will be) to protect the city’s Jewish population as vigorously as any other. It’s in a London non-Jew who stands up to a hate-preacher on a bus, or a German football club that bans racist fans and dons Stars of David in solidarity. It’s in a Moldovan museum director painstakingly cataloguing Jewish tombstones, and in the Polish students enthusiastically learning Hebrew in Kraków’s JCC. In all these places, the forces of tolerance and memory are pushing back.

History has shown that Jewish thriving is like a canary in the coal mine: where Jews feel safe and welcomed, generally other minorities do too, and democracy flourishes; where Jews feel compelled to flee, it’s an indictment of a society falling ill. Macron’s France is choosing to face its illness head-on, in hopes of healing. New York’s Jewish angst is a warning that even pluralist societies can slip, if complacency allows bigotry to fester. And the tentative Jewish rebirth in Eastern Europe is a testament to human resilience – a reminder that even after the worst horrors, if given security and respect, an ancient people will rebuild their world with extraordinary loyalty and love for their homeland, whether that homeland is in Tel Aviv or Chișinău or New York City.

Ultimately, the fight against antisemitism – old and new – is not only about protecting Jews. It is about what kind of world we all want to live in. A France that honors Alfred Dreyfus is asserting that truth must defeat lies, and that a nation must own up to its sins to be worthy of its virtues. A New York that listens to its Jewish community’s fears is one that can begin to bridge divides and reaffirm the city’s founding promise of tolerance. And an Eastern Europe that embraces its tiny Jewish communities’ revival is choosing a future of inclusion and historical truth over the poisonous myths of the past.

The road ahead is uncertain, and the rise in antisemitism is undeniably frightening. But the response we choose – whether apathy or action, silence or solidarity – will echo far beyond the Jewish community. If France can reckon with both historic injustice and present hatred, if New York can ensure its Jewish citizens never feel the need to pack their bags, if even places like Moldova can nurture an environment where Judaism lives without fear – then we strike a blow not just against antisemitism, but against the entire edifice of hate that threatens open societies. In that struggle, every citizen has a stake. As Captain Alfred Dreyfus himself once declared at his degrading public trial in 1895: “I swear that I am innocent. I remain worthy of serving in the Army. Long live France!”. His name cleared at last, Dreyfus served France loyally in World War I. Today, his spirit of loyalty amid injustice challenges all of us to remain worthy of serving the ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity – to ensure that our countries are places where Jews, and all minorities, can live openly and safely. Long live that ideal – and may we have the courage to make it reality.