Since Oct. 7, 2023, the focus of fighting antisemitism on campus has tended to be centered on preventing and punishing specific events – people blocking campus access, trespassing and vandalizing campus property and holding up signs that call for the destruction of the Jewish State.

These are troubling incidents, but even if they go away tomorrow, the problem of antisemitism on campus would remain. How do we know? The students are telling us.

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Illustrative. A young woman walks alone on a college campus.

When Harvard University conducted its own survey of its students last fall, well after the worst of that campus’ most well-publicized antisemitic incidents, the university’s Jewish students reported that they still experience meaningful antisemitism and attacks on their Jewish identity.

In the survey, Harvard asked all of its students to answer yes or no to some basic questions: Can students express their opinions to others at Harvard without fear? Can students be authentic? Have students formed satisfying relationships with people who don’t share their viewpoints? 

On all three questions, the results indicate Jewish students are worse off compared with their non-Jewish peers. As reported first by “The Editors,” a Substack column, 38.1% of Jewish students say they are not comfortable expressing their “authentic selves” on campus – more than twice the number of the rest of the student body. A significant share of Jewish students said they’re afraid to tell people they’re Jewish, have family in Israel, a Zionist, or some combination of those things.

We were not surprised by the findings, as we have conducted our own research of Jewish students nationally, and Jewish students everywhere say much the same things.

Far from the tumult of campus encampments and building takeovers, there are more persistent and corrosive threats to the well-being of Jewish students. They report social ostracization, classroom demonization and casual indifference to the threats they face — many of which come from both their fellow students and even their professors. 

“I don’t have the privilege of being just a regular college student,” one told us from the corner of a shared apartment. “To a lot of people, I’m either Jewish or Israeli first — and then a student.”

Others echoed this. One sat beneath a string of Hanukkah lights while she described crossing out her affiliation with a Jewish club from her resume. Another looked over her shoulder while recounting a group chat meltdown where peers said they “don’t f*** with Zionists” and then proceeded to uninvite her from a club retreat. One spoke in a near-whisper from a study carrel in the library, recalling how a professor had dismissed a paper she wrote about inherited trauma, urging her to “pick something less politically loaded.”

Some interviews were interrupted by roommates walking in. One student refused to be taped despite promises of confidentiality for fear of being recognized. Another told us, “I started carrying pepper spray because of the threats I received. That’s not something I ever expected in college.”

Standing out or standing up for Jewish peoplehood was just as fraught as trying to avoid confrontation. Students reported hiding Jewish symbols, keeping Star of David necklaces tucked beneath their shirts. One student recalled coming home to find her mezuzah torn from the doorframe. “That was the moment I knew I couldn’t stay there,” she said. Another described walking into a class discussion about the Middle East only to find herself the subject of veiled accusations — without anyone saying her name.

What Jewish students want, overwhelmingly, isn’t special treatment or safe spaces. They just want what every other student gets: the right to their individual personhood, without apology. Many are just trying to finish a midterm, get through practice, or eat lunch without being challenged to condemn Zionism. 

Antisemitism on campus, it turns out, is just as casual and interpersonal as everything else. Whispers in class. Memes in group chats. Eye rolls. Silence. The sting of being left out and not knowing why. “You start to gaslight yourself,” one student told us. “You think: Maybe it’s not about me. Maybe I’m just paranoid. But then it happens again. And again.”

Many students report that university leaders at all levels are largely indifferent to their complaints. 

“I was couch hopping for a week because my roommates were incredibly antisemitic,” one student said. “My RA told me to ‘work it out’ with my roommates after I reported antisemitic comments, as if it was just a disagreement.” Someone drew a swastika on a student’s whiteboard and “nothing was done about it.” Another student reports: “When our student center was vandalized with antisemitic graffiti, it took the school two weeks to respond. If it had been another group, it would have been immediate.”

An administrator, speaking privately to one student, expressed sympathy and support — but declined to do so publicly. “They told me, ‘You know we support you, right?’ But when I asked if they could say something publicly, they said it was too controversial. It felt like we mattered, but only behind closed doors.”

Professors and other faculty came up often as a source of stress and discrimination; that they are the gatekeepers to the campus culture, and they have let this happen. “I’ve had professors say [that] morally they can’t give me an A,” one student said. Another shared: “My microbiology professor gave an assignment about ‘how the genocide in Gaza is affecting biology.’”

We asked where they felt most welcomed. Hillel and Chabad came up as positives. So did club sports teams, music ensembles and intramural leagues — spaces where their Jewish identity didn’t matter. “It’s the only place I don’t feel like I have to explain myself,” one student said, describing the calm of being on a soccer field. 

One student described how his fraternity brothers rallied around him after a tense week on campus. “These seniors who could have simply brushed me off, they came down to help and offer support. I had never seen that kind of solidarity before.” 

These students’ stories weren’t always dramatic. But they were deeply human.

Taken together, these interviews point to a few key points. 

First, you can’t generalize. Each campus is different, and even on a single campus there are multiple experiences. Second, you can build up Hillel and Chabad, but Jewish life doesn’t start and end there. The entire campus culture matters, and if casual antisemitism dominates in classrooms and dorms, it will make Jewish life impossible. Third, fighting antisemitism will take more than punishing a handful of troublemakers. It will take a constant effort to rebuild the campus culture and hold professors and administrators directly accountable, as well as a real campus-by-campus monitoring effort so that Jewish students know that they aren’t alone and their experiences matter. 

Pam Cohen is the founder of Read the Room Advisors. 

Noam Neusner is a partner with 30 Point Strategies.