Would You Hide Me? 

Black. Jewish. Unapologetic.  Inspired by the growing fear, trauma and silence surrounding antisemitism in Britain today, and the question many Jewish families are now quietly asking: “Would they hide me?”

Opening Poem — The Question We Should Never Have to Ask

Would you hide me if they came?
If hatred once again had name?
If windows smashed and children cried,
Would you stand here by my side?

Would you lock your door in fear,
Pretend you did not see me near?
Or risk your comfort, risk your place,
To shield a family from disgrace?

History whispers through the years,
Not through textbooks through our fears.
A people hunted, blamed and burned,
Whilst neighbours watched and slowly turned.

And still today the old hate grows,
In coded speech and marching rows,
In silence dressed as neutrality,
In performative morality.

I am Black and I am Jew,
So believe me when I tell you:
Hatred never stays confined,
It poisons first the human mind.

A joke. A slur. A sneer. A stare.
A silence saying, “I don’t care.”
Until one day a child must see
Their faith become insecurity.

And somewhere mothers still explain
Why trauma lives inside the name,
Why grandad flinches at the sound
Of crowds when anger gathers round.

So, before society descends,
Ask yourself not just your friends:
When justice calls and fear runs deep
Would you stand?
Or merely sleep?

When Jewish Pain Becomes Politically Convenient

There is something deeply disturbing happening in Britain right now.

Jewish families are frightened.
Jewish schools need security.
Jewish children are hiding symbols of identity.
Jewish communities are once again discussing safety, escape routes, and whether people around them would truly protect them if hatred escalated further.

That sentence alone should horrify us all.

Yet too often, antisemitism is minimised, explained away, intellectualised, politicised, or treated as somehow different from other forms of racism.

As a Black Jewish woman, I know what racism feels like. I know what prejudice sounds like. I know what it means to have your humanity questioned before you even speak.

And I also know this: antisemitism is not abstract. It is not historical. It is not “over there”.

It is here.

“Would They Hide Me?”

Recently, broadcaster Trevor Phillips wrote about Jewish families asking one haunting question around the dinner table:

“Would they hide me?”

Not metaphorically.
Not dramatically.
Seriously.

That question should stop every educator, governor, leader, policymaker, parent and equality practitioner in their tracks.

Because no community asks that question unless fear has already entered the room.

Jewish people are not imagining this fear. Across the UK there has been a significant rise in antisemitic incidents, abuse, threats, attacks, conspiracy theories, online hatred and intimidation.

And whilst politicians argue, communities absorb trauma.

Antisemitism Does Not Need a Uniform

One of the most dangerous things about antisemitism is its adaptability.

It evolves.
It changes language.
It disguises itself.

Sometimes it appears as open hatred.
Sometimes as conspiracy theories.
Sometimes as “banter”.
Sometimes as exclusion.
Sometimes as silence.

People often think antisemitism only looks like swastikas or neo-Nazi marches. But antisemitism also looks like:

• blaming all Jewish people for geopolitical events
• mocking Jewish fear
• dismissing Jewish trauma
• refusing to listen when Jewish communities say something is antisemitic
• making Jewish colleagues feel unsafe speaking openly
• treating Jewish pain as politically inconvenient

And yes, it also looks like pretending antisemitism is somehow less urgent than other forms of racism.

Equality cannot be selective.

Schools Cannot Stay Silent

As somebody who has spent years working in equality, governance and safeguarding, I worry deeply about what Jewish children are experiencing in schools and colleges today.

Children should never have to hide who they are to feel safe.

Yet some Jewish pupils are:

• avoiding wearing symbols of faith
• hearing antisemitic language normalised
• feeling isolated in classrooms
• watching adults fail to intervene confidently
• carrying anxiety that impacts wellbeing, attendance and belonging

Schools often speak about inclusion. But inclusion is tested during difficult moments — not easy ones.

A truly inclusive school:

• challenges antisemitism explicitly
• teaches Jewish history accurately
• understands intergenerational trauma
• recognises antisemitism as racism
• creates psychologically safe environments
• supports all communities consistently

This is why diverse governors, culturally competent leaders and courageous educators matter so much.

Representation changes conversations.
Representation challenges blind spots.
Representation protects children.

As a Black Jewish Woman

Some people struggle to understand that I can be both Black and Jewish.

But identity is not a contradiction.

My lived experience has taught me something powerful: hatred often follows similar patterns, even when the target changes.

Dehumanise.
Stereotype.
Blame.
Exclude.
Silence.

Then act surprised when harm escalates.

I refuse to participate in hierarchies of suffering. I refuse the idea that one community’s pain must cancel another’s.

Real equality work means standing against all racism — consistently.

Not only when it is popular.
Not only when it is comfortable.
Not only when it benefits us socially.

This Is a Test of Society

History rarely begins with catastrophe.

It begins with normalisation.

Normalising slurs.
Normalising fear.
Normalising silence.
Normalising the idea that some communities deserve less empathy than others.

And if we are not careful, we teach the next generation that hatred is negotiable.

That should frighten every single one of us.

So I am asking people directly:

When Jewish communities tell you they are frightened — believe them.
When antisemitism happens — challenge it.
When Jewish children feel unsafe — protect them.
When people spread conspiracy theories — confront them.
When silence becomes easier — speak anyway.

Because “Never Again” means nothing if it only lives in memorial speeches whilst communities suffer in real time.

Closing Poem — Never Again Is a Verb

Never again is not a phrase
Reserved for wreaths or sombre days,
Not something spoken once a year
Whilst people live surrounded by fear.

Never again is classroom truth,
Protecting every Jewish youth,
Calling hatred what it is,
Not debating if it exists.

Never again is voices loud
When silence hides within a crowd,
It’s choosing courage over ease,
And standing firm when others freeze.

It’s challenging the casual joke,
The coded slur half-hidden spoke,
The whispered myths, the online lies,
The hatred dressed in new disguise.

Because history does not repeat
With marching drums upon the street.
It starts when decent people wait,
Assuming someone else will state:

“This is wrong.”
“This must end.”
“I will stand beside my friend.”

So, hear me clearly hear me say:
Humanity is built this way:
Not by comfort.
Not by trend.
But by whose lives we choose to defend.

And if a child must hide their star
Then we have failed at who we are.