Why Didn’t I Call Him an Antisemite?

What would you do if someone made a derogatory comment about Jews to your face—unaware that you were Jewish? Would you confront them? Correct them? Or… would you pause and reflect?

I recently found myself in that situation. During a phone call with a potential client—someone I had never met—he casually shared his frustration about a deal gone wrong with a former partner. In his words, that man was a “cheating, lying Jew shark.”

It caught me off guard. I had options. I could have called out his antisemitism and ended the conversation then and there. I could have let anger guide my next words. But something in me said: wait. Think. What is the right response?

The Power of Collective Identity

We Jews are known for sticking together. It’s one of the reasons often cited for our outsized success despite our small numbers: a strong, interconnected community. There’s power in shared heritage. There’s strength in knowing you’re part of a people bound not just by ethnicity, but by story, struggle, and purpose.

Naturally, when one of our own is attacked—especially for being Jewish—it feels like a blow to us all. It triggers a visceral instinct to defend, to protect, to stand together.

So when I heard that slur, was it my duty to push back immediately, to draw the line in the sand? Maybe. But was that the only response? Or the most effective one?

Not Every Offense Is Pure Hatred

There’s an uncomfortable possibility we must be honest enough to consider: what if the man on the phone really was cheated? What if his anger, while expressed in ugly and unacceptable language, stemmed from real betrayal?

We all know that being Jewish does not make one immune to moral failure. We’ve seen headlines. We know we have work to do—not just in defending the Jewish people externally, but in elevating our own standards from within.

This doesn’t excuse the comment. But it reframes the response.

Why Labeling Isn’t Helpful

In today’s climate, the word “antisemitism” carries tremendous weight—as it should. But that’s precisely why we must use it with care. When we call someone an antisemite, we’re not just describing their words—we’re judging their heart.

But what if that judgment is hasty?

To be clear: what this man said was offensive. His language was ugly, prejudiced, and harmful. But was he truly an antisemite? Did he harbor hatred for Jews as a people—or was he, in his hurt and anger, unfairly scapegoating a specific individual who happened to be Jewish?

There’s a difference. And that difference matters—not just for him, but for us.

Because when we rush to label, we risk shutting the door on something essential: the possibility of dialogue, of clarity, of growth. We may miss the chance to turn a moment of division into one of connection—to shift from accusation to understanding.

And more immediately, we risk escalation. We risk trading insult for insult, hurt for hurt. We replace dialogue with defensiveness, and miss the chance to de-escalate through dignity.

Jewish tradition teaches that “its ways are ways of pleasantness” (Proverbs, 3:17). We are meant to be pursuers of peace, not just for ourselves, but in our interactions with the world. Sometimes peace requires strength. Sometimes it requires protest. But often, it simply requires grace.

A Lesson for Our Political Conversations

When we hear views that challenge our deepest convictions. our instinct is often to respond not with curiosity, but with combat.

This same principle applies far beyond one-on-one interactions. We see it in political discourse—about America, about Israel, about Jewish life at large. Whether online or around the Shabbat table, we often hear views that challenge our deepest convictions. And our instinct is to respond not with curiosity, but with combat.

But what if we paused to really listen?

Perhaps someone advocating for Palestinian children is not doing so out of malice toward Israel, but earnestly because they care about children. Perhaps a critic of Israeli policy is not motivated by hatred of Jews, but by a moral conscience reacting to suffering—just as we would hope others would react to our own.

Why must we always assume hostility? Why conflate every criticism with antisemitism?

Of course, true antisemitism exists. And it must be named and confronted. But reflexively accusing others of bigotry when they speak from pain or principle doesn’t defend our values—it undermines them. It shuts down dialogue and hardens hearts. It makes reconciliation impossible.

Jewish tradition doesn’t ask us to be naïve. But it does ask us to be discerning. To seek justice, but also to dan l’chaf zechut—judge others favorably. To stand for emet, truth—but also for shalom, peace.

In Place of Darkness, Be Light

In that moment on the phone, I realized that perhaps my best response wasn’t outrage. Maybe it was example.

Instead of correcting him with words, I would respond with action. I would show him what it means to do business with a Jew—someone honest, scrupulous, and fair. Someone who doesn’t just follow the law, but exceeds it. Someone who honors the ethical core of our tradition even when it costs something.

Because the truth is: every bad act done in the name of Judaism desecrates it. And every good act done in its name sanctifies it.

So when someone desecrates our faith, our people, our name—perhaps the most powerful response isn’t retaliation. It’s to double down on who we really are. To respond to darkness with light. To remind the world, through our own integrity, what being a Jew truly means.

What Did I Do?

I didn’t say anything in that moment—not because I was afraid, and not because I didn’t care. I stayed silent because I knew words wouldn’t change him—but behavior might.

Sometimes the most powerful rebuttal to a slur is not indignation—it’s decency.

From that point on, I went out of my way to treat this client with patience, honesty, and integrity. I didn’t just do the job—I exceeded expectations. I returned calls promptly, explained things clearly, and even went the extra mile to help him solve unrelated issues. I didn’t preach, and I didn’t posture. I simply conducted myself as I believe a Jew should—with truth and kindness.

I don’t know if he ever realized I was Jewish. But I do know that by the time we finished working together, the tone had completely shifted. He thanked me repeatedly. He trusted me. He spoke with respect.

In that transformation, I saw something profound: that sometimes the most powerful rebuttal to a slur is not indignation—it’s decency. Not silence, but sanctification.

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish Journal.