The Time for Hiding Is Over

Life has been good to me. Surgeon, teacher, researcher, entrepreneur, writer. I've travelled, built things, met extraordinary people.

But my good years were punctuated by something darker: antisemitism.

Not the caricatured kind from history books or neo-Nazi marches. The quieter sort, bubbling beneath civilized surfaces. At school gates, on public transport, in professional settings, and increasingly, on British streets.

I grew up in London in a secular Jewish household. My father served with distinction in the British Army during World War Two. He was immensely proud to be English, his East End roots, Tottenham Hotspur, Churchill, Dickens, and everything he believed Britain represented.

My father always told me to keep my head down, be invisible, never advertise my Jewishness. I did not understand why.

But beneath that pride sat permanent caution, always telling me to keep my head down, be invisible, never advertise my Jewishness. I did not understand why.

Around four years old, a child asked where I hid my horns and tail, genuinely believing Jews possessed both.

At primary school, my blazer bore a Star of David badge. Walking home often meant running the gauntlet of local boys who found this offensive enough to justify violence. I was repeatedly attacked by groups of five or six brave souls. Blaming football injuries for the bruises, I never told my parents the truth, both ashamed and because I sensed my father’s fear. Aged ten, one boy held a knife, cutting the badge from my blazer, threatening to cut me too.

At 12, travelling to a music lesson on the Underground, three boys approached, one knowing I was Jewish. They mocked me, asked where my violin was, smashed my guitar, and punched me repeatedly. Another “football injury,” my parents suggesting perhaps the sport was not for me, an ironic allegory for suppressing my Jewish identity.

At 16, after dropping a catch during cricket practice, I was greeted by shouts of “useless kike.”

As a young doctor, a distressed patient noticed my Star of David necklace and announced that he did not want a “filthy Jew” touching him.

At 17, on a London bus, I asked an elderly man to stop abusing the Southeast Asian conductor. He responded that I clearly was not “a Paki,” so perhaps I was a “filthy kike” instead.

As a young doctor, one night I attended a distressed patient. Noticing my Star of David necklace, he announced he did not want a “filthy Jew” touching him. Hearing I was the only duty doctor, he graciously accepted my help.

For decades I persuaded myself these were isolated experiences involving ignorant individuals rather than symptoms of something larger. Britain, after all, was tolerant, educated and democratic. I associated antisemitism with continental Europe, history and extremists. But history returns when societies grow complacent.

Since October 7 and the war in Gaza, antisemitism has become more visible, aggressive and socially acceptable than at any point in my lifetime. Synagogues require guards, Jewish schools operate behind barriers, cemeteries are desecrated with swastikas and slogans. Protesters chant inflammatory threats while police officers advise Jews not to be “visibly Jewish” or “provocative.” My late father, who helped defend Cable Street against fascists, would struggle to comprehend such passivity.

Meanwhile, ancient conspiracy theories have been casually rehabilitated.

Recently, I treated myself to a manicure, chatting to the Italian manicurist who had lived here for six years. I asked whether she enjoyed life here, she replied that London had “changed,” was “full of Jews” and that “it would be better if they killed all the Jews.” All stated calmly, and seemingly unabashed even when I informed her that I was Jewish.

It is not merely the hatred that is alarming, but the normalization of it.

It is not merely the hatred that is alarming, but the normalization of it. Old tropes have rapidly returned; Jews supposedly control finance, the media and orchestrate governments and global events. These myths are historically illiterate and factually absurd.

Worldwide there are around 15 million Jews, less than 0.2% of the population, and in the UK around 300,000 Jews, less than half of one percent. Yet this tiny minority purportedly controls banks, governments, media corporations and international politics. My, we are busy!

These myths have obvious origins. In medieval Europe, Jews were forbidden from owning land or entering many professions. Some entered moneylending because Christian doctrine restricted charging interest. A role forced upon Jews became evidence of supposed Jewish greed and manipulation.

Hitler denounced theoretical physics as “Jewish science” — perhaps history’s greatest intellectual own goal since this discipline ultimately led to the Manhattan Project. Why were many leading physicists Jewish? Simple: Jews had long been excluded from other fields. Meanwhile Werner Heisenberg, a Protestant Christian, was branded a Weißer Jude, a “white Jew” merely for defending modern physics.

The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, fabricated by Tsarist secret police around 1903, falsely claimed to expose a Jewish conspiracy for world domination. Thoroughly debunked over a century ago, its themes still echo across social media and political discourse.

Antisemitism is remarkable for its contradictions; Jews simultaneously characterized as communist revolutionaries and capitalist bankers, weak and all-powerful, rootless cosmopolitans and tribal separatists. Conspiracy theories are emotional rather than rational.

Yet Jewish civilization has contributed enormously to humanity. Albert Einstein transformed physics. Jonas Salk helped eradicate polio. Richard Feynman revolutionised science. Mendelssohn and Mahler shaped classical music. Kafka and Viktor Frankl reshaped literature and psychology. Spielberg, Dylan, Billy Joel, Amy Winehouse, Mel Brooks and countless others enriched modern culture.

These achievements do not make Jews superior. They reflect a longstanding cultural emphasis on education, intellectual curiosity, debate and service.

Tikkun olam, “repairing the world,” is deeply embedded within Jewish culture. We inherit an ethic to learn deeply, contribute meaningfully and leave things better than we found them. That principle shaped my life. As a surgeon and teacher, I tried to heal where possible, teach generously, innovate responsibly and contribute positively. Like many Jews of my generation, I rarely foregrounded my Jewish identity, preferring simply to think of myself as British.

But recent years have forced many of us to confront something uncomfortable: no matter how integrated or patriotic we may feel, antisemitism has a way of reminding Jews that others may still regard us as outsiders.

Antisemitism differs from ordinary political disagreement because it operates through conspiracy and collective blame, transforming individual Jews into symbols of imagined global evil.

None of this means Jews are uniquely virtuous or uniquely victimized. Every group contains good and bad people. Criticism of Israeli governments, like criticism of any democracy, is legitimate and necessary. But antisemitism differs from ordinary political disagreement because it operates through conspiracy and collective blame, transforming individual Jews into symbols of imagined global evil.

History repeatedly demonstrates where such thinking leads. From medieval expulsions to pogroms, from the Dreyfus Affair to the Holocaust, antisemitic myths consistently precede violence. And antisemitism never ultimately threatens Jews alone. Whenever societies become comfortable with conspiracy theories, tribal hatred and dehumanization, democratic culture itself begins to erode.

My father believed invisibility was the safest strategy for Jews. I understand why he thought so. But I have reached a different conclusion. I am proudly British. Proudly a Londoner, physician, teacher, innovator and citizen of a democratic society that should know better than to recycle ancient hatreds.

I am also proudly Jewish, and the time for hiding is over.