Opinion: The antisemitism my grandparents warned me about has come home

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I grew up near Powderhorn Park in Minneapolis — a place that once symbolized everything beautiful about this city: community, diversity and a deep sense of belonging. As a little girl, I felt safe here. I felt seen. And now, decades later, I live on the very same street I was raised on. I came home because I believed this city — my city — was still that place.

But today, when I walk down that familiar street with my children, the air feels different. Tense. Heavy. We pass lawn signs accusing Jews like us of being colonizers and oppressors. I hear whispers of Hamas propaganda in cafes and on sidewalks — claims that Jews are “genocidal,” “white,” “wealthy.” My children, who carry the same intergenerational trauma my grandparents carried, are growing up in a neighborhood that no longer feels like home.

The streets where I once felt the most free have become places where we lower our voices, scan faces for safety and wonder — would our neighbors stand up for us? Or would they join the crowd?

My family’s story is rooted in survival. My grandparents fled the Soviet Union — what is now Ukraine — because of rising antisemitism before the Holocaust. My grandfather’s family escaped Romania when being Jewish became unbearable. These weren’t stories in a book — they were the backbone of my identity. I was raised with the knowledge that being Jewish often meant being hunted, hated and displaced. But I was also taught that here — in America, in Minneapolis — that nightmare was behind us.

I believed we were safe.

Until now.

Something has shifted. What once lived in whispers now shouts from rooftops — on signs, in classrooms, on social media, even in the yards of neighbors we thought were our friends. Since the terror attack on Oct. 7, 2023, antisemitism has pierced every corner of my life — at work, among friends, even in my own home. I’ve seen social media posts praising Hamas. I’ve seen blood libel tropes revived with shocking boldness, portraying Jews as murderers, monsters, oppressors. Some signs are intentionally placed facing Jewish homes. It’s not activism. It’s intimidation.

It’s terrifying.

In December, someone spray-painted a swastika in broad daylight on Temple Israel in Minneapolis. This is the synagogue my grandfather helped build as an immigrant. It’s where my father, my children and I all went to preschool. Where toddlers still gather each morning. That act of hate didn’t just deface a building — it desecrated generations of Jewish memory, faith and belonging in this city.

What cuts deepest, though, is the silence of those I once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with. People I’ve organized with, marched with, trusted — many have fallen for the same age-old lies and conspiracies that have fueled antisemitism for centuries. Only now, the language has changed. Jews are painted not as victims, but villains — puppet masters, foreign occupiers, obstacles to justice. The myths are old. The harm is real. And when hate wears the mask of virtue, it becomes even harder to fight.

As Jewish writer Dara Horn said, “The most effective forms of antisemitism are the ones that convince you they are not antisemitism, but virtue.” And that’s exactly what’s happening now.

I was raised to show up for my neighbors, to listen when someone says they’re being harmed. That simple principle — solidarity — is not being extended to Jews. We are speaking out. We are crying out. And too many are turning away.

Let me be clear: This is not about silencing criticism of Israeli policy. I know the difference. I believe in justice and human rights for both Palestinians and Jews. But when people excuse terrorism, when they equate every Jewish life with a political position, when they dismiss our fear as paranoia — that is not justice. That is dehumanization.

We are witnessing antisemitism flourish — unchecked and even celebrated — in spaces that pride themselves on inclusion and equity. That’s what makes this moment so heartbreaking. Not because the hate is new, but because the silence from people I love and believe in is deafening.

Minneapolis has always had a complicated relationship with its Jewish residents — from redlining and exclusion to decades of quiet complicity. I once believed that history was behind us. But now I finally understand what my grandparents meant when they said: “It was never really gone.”

They knew what happens when hate is tolerated. When it’s allowed to fester under the guise of justice. They believed America — that Minneapolis — could be different. And despite everything, I still want to believe that, too.

But belief alone isn’t enough.

This moment is bigger than me. Bigger than my children. This is about whether we, as a city — as a people — are willing to confront hate even when it’s uncomfortable. Because what starts with Jews never ends with Jews. If you call yourself anti-racist, you must learn Jewish history. You must know that our trauma is real, and that silence is never neutral.

To my neighbors: If you can walk past a sign targeting Jews and say nothing — we hear that silence. And it breaks our hearts.

This is a time for courage. For our elected leaders, our faith communities, our educators and activists to say clearly: Antisemitism has no place here. Not in violent acts, not in conspiracies, not in slogans disguised as solidarity.

I stayed in Minneapolis because I believed in this neighborhood. I still do. But belief doesn’t keep my children safe. Action does. Community does. Neighbors who are willing to stand with us — not just for us — do.

And so, I’m asking you: Don’t look away. Don’t excuse the inexcusable. Stand with us. Because this home is worth fighting for.

Rachael Joseph is a lifelong Minneapolis resident, a mother and a community organizer.