This Is Not a Messaging Problem

Why the Jewish community keeps misdiagnosing antisemitism… and why it matters

Most people think antisemitism should be obvious. They assume that if something crosses a line, any reasonable person should be able to see it. And if they can’t, the explanation must be straightforward: they are uninformed, or they are acting in bad faith. That assumption is wrong. Not completely wrong, but wrong enough to get us into trouble.

I have spent years in Jewish education and campus leadership trying to name antisemitism in real time. Sometimes in rooms where the stakes were low, often in rooms where they were not. What unsettled me, over time, was not that people disagreed. Disagreement is normal. What unsettled me was how often I would point to something that I thought was plainly, even boringly, antisemitic, and the person across from me genuinely could not see it. Not would not… could not. These were not fringe actors. They were thoughtful, engaged, often well-meaning people who prided themselves on their moral clarity. People who would recognise racism, sexism, or other forms of prejudice without much hesitation. And yet, here, there was a gap. Not a small gap, but a structural one.

It took me longer than I would like to admit to realise that the issue was not simply disagreement over facts. It was a difference in frameworks. We were not arguing about the same thing. We were interpreting the same phenomenon through entirely different lenses. Once you see that, a number of conversations begin to make more sense. At the same time, a number of strategies begin to look naïve.

Recognising antisemitism is not intuitive; it is learned. That claim carries consequences that are easy to resist. It suggests that good intentions are not sufficient, that moral clarity is not self-generating, and that it is entirely possible to be thoughtful, decent, and politically engaged while still misreading what is in front of you. To understand why antisemitism keeps resurfacing across different countries, political movements, and ideological languages, one must understand how conspiracy thinking operates, how societies under pressure reach for scapegoats, and how very old accusations against Jews (i.e. about hidden power, manipulation, and dual loyalty) are translated into the dominant vocabulary of a given moment. These patterns are well documented and historically grounded. They are not, however, widely taught.

The result is a kind of collision. Jews, drawing on historical memory and accumulated frameworks, point to something and identify it as antisemitism. The listener, operating without those frameworks, hears something else entirely. An accusation, an overreach, or perhaps, a category error. The response is predictable. People defend their intentions. They reach for the language they do have - intent, values, political identity - and attempt to reconcile what they are hearing with what they believe about themselves. “I don’t hate Jews.” “I’m just criticising Israel.” “I support human rights.” Without a framework for how antisemitism actually operates… how it attaches itself to existing grievances… how it repackages itself in morally compelling language… how it distributes blame collectively rather than individually. For these people, the claim sim ot land. It does not feel true. And when something does not feel true, people rarely sit with the discomfort the moment deserves. They dismiss it.

That moment of dismissal is not incidental; it is central. It is where the conversation breaks down, and it is also where many communal strategies quietly fail. I continue to see many community leaders treat this as a communication problem, as though the primary obstacle is a lack of clarity. If only we explained it better, found the right language, produced a sharper definition, or crafted a more compelling short-form video, understanding would follow. This diagnosis is appealing because it suggests that the solution is within reach. It is also incomplete.

“We continue to treat this as a communication problem.”

A distinction from Adaptive Leadership theory, developed by Ronald Heifetz at Harvard, helps clarify what is being missed. Heifetz distinguishes between technical challenges and adaptive challenges. A technical challenge is a problem where the solution is known: expertise can be applied, tools can be deployed, and the issue can be resolved through execution. An adaptive challenge is different. The problem is not simply a lack of information; it is a gap in how people understand the world, in the values and assumptions they bring to interpretation. The solution requires people themselves to change. To see differently. To hold more complexity. To revise their assumptions. This process is slower, less predictable, and often resisted.

Antisemitism sits squarely in this second category. At least, that is where most of the day-to-day misunderstanding lives. But it is not the whole story. The issue is not only that people lack the correct information, but that recognising antisemitism requires a shift in how they make sense of what they are seeing. It requires noticing patterns that are not immediately visible and questioning narratives that may feel both familiar and morally satisfying. Under these conditions, clearer explanations are necessary but insufficient. One can explain accurately and still not be understood, provide evidence and still be dismissed, define terms precisely and still fail to persuade. The difficulty lies not only in what people know, but in how they come to know it.

And yet, the Jewish community has repeatedly defaulted to technical responses. Statements are issued, campaigns are launched, content is produced, and messaging is refined. These efforts are not without value, but they reveal a broader pattern: a preference for interventions that are visible, measurable, and relatively quick. We are drawn to responses that look like progress, even when they do not alter underlying perception. There is a difference between activity and impact, and we do not always distinguish between the two.

This preference is not occurring in a vacuum. It is reinforced by a broader cultural environment that rewards simplicity over complexity. Short, emotionally compelling narratives travel further than historically grounded explanations not only because they are communicated well, but because they demand less from their audience. They do not require new frameworks. They do not ask the listener to relinquish anything. They confirm what is already intuitively appealing. Antisemitism has long operated effectively within this dynamic. It offers simple explanations for complicated problems, reducing structural complexity to intentional blame. It assigns responsibility cleanly and decisively, and in doing so, it provides a sense of coherence in situations where coherence is otherwise difficult to find. That is part of its durability.

There is also a less comfortable dimension to acknowledge. Not all failures of recognition can be attributed to ignorance. In some cases, individuals and communities are not merely lacking frameworks but are resistant to acquiring them. Antisemitic narratives can serve psychological and political functions: they organise frustration, reinforce identity, and provide a language through which hostility can be expressed with a sense of legitimacy. Ignorance and hostility are not separate categories; they interact and reinforce one another. The absence of frameworks makes distorted narratives easier to absorb, and once those narratives are absorbed, they reduce the appeal of more complex explanations.

And yet, even this framing has limits. Not every failure to recognise antisemitism is a failure of understanding. In some cases, it is a function of incentives. Institutions, media ecosystems, and political actors do not simply interpret reality; they shape it. What is named, what is ignored, what is amplified, and what is dismissed are not neutral processes.

In those contexts, the issue is not that people lack the frameworks to see antisemitism. It is that there are competing pressures (e.g. reputational, ideological, strategic) that make seeing it inconvenient. Education does not resolve that.

This is where I find my analysis becomes less comfortable. It means that alongside the slow, necessary work of helping people develop more accurate frameworks, there is also a need to think in terms of leverage, accountability, and consequence. Not every audience requires the same intervention. Some require education. Others require pressure. Others still require a recalibration of incentives.

The language of adaptive challenge is useful, but it can also become too comfortable. It can explain why change is difficult without forcing us to ask who, exactly, needs to change… and what might compel them to do so.

If antisemitism is an adaptive challenge, then it cannot be addressed through a single intervention. There is no singular explanation, no campaign, no piece of content that will resolve it. The response must be layered. Clear and accessible communication remains necessary, particularly as an entry point. But it must be paired with sustained educational efforts that build frameworks over time, with relationships that can hold tension long enough for understanding to develop, with coalitions that reinforce norms and establish consequences, and with institutional strategies that prioritise long-term shifts over short-term visibility.

This is slower work, and it is less satisfying. It does not produce immediate results, nor does it lend itself to neat narratives of success. But without it, we will continue to explain - often clearly, sometimes compellingly - and still find ourselves misunderstood. If the goal is not simply to respond to antisemitism but to make it recognisable, then the work is not only communicative. It is formative. It requires helping people develop the capacity to see what, at present, many cannot.

A shorter version of this argument appears in my Reel posted earlier this week.