While Dershowitz framed the conversation around what he calls “the new antisemitism,” the heart of it was much deeper. It was about survival, moral clarity, and the urgent need to reclaim Jewish dignity in a world increasingly turning a blind eye to it.
By Dr. Tim Orr
There are moments in public life when a speaker does more than share information—he crystallizes a moral crossroads. That happened during Professor Alan Dershowitz’s powerful interview, moderated by Rabbi Moshe Scheiner at Palm Beach Synagogue. This wasn’t just a dialogue between a rabbi and a scholar—it was a sobering cultural and moral wake-up call. While Dershowitz framed the conversation around what he calls “the new antisemitism,” the heart of it was much deeper. It was about survival, moral clarity, and the urgent need to reclaim Jewish dignity in a world increasingly turning a blind eye to it.
Rabbi Scheiner, who had just returned from a humanitarian mission to Israel—where he helped distribute over half a million dollars to families of hostages—opened the evening with a heartfelt reminder: We’re living in a time of profound pain but also remarkable resilience. Just his presence brought a sense of gravity to the event. This wasn’t an academic discussion—it was a conversation born out of real-life trauma and deep hope.
Alan Dershowitz, one of America's most renowned legal minds, began not with courtroom logic but with a personal story. He recalled his childhood in Borough Park, where his neighbors included comedic legends like Jackie Mason and baseball legend Sandy Koufax. But in a moment of irony, he noted that the street was ultimately named after a local Hasidic rabbi—someone whose congregation didn’t even know who those celebrities were. It was more than just a funny anecdote—it was a snapshot of Jewish life, a reminder that even in diversity, Jewish communities are united by something deeper: heritage, faith, and often unnoticed perseverance.
But then the tone shifted. Dershowitz laid out what he considers one of the most cunning forms of antisemitism the world has ever seen. He even called it “brilliant”—not as a compliment, but to underscore how dangerously deceptive it has become. Today, antisemitism isn’t always about swastikas or overt hate speech. Instead, it shows up cloaked in moral-sounding language—intersectionality, decolonization, human rights, social equity. Words that sound good on the surface are being hijacked to target Jews and the Jewish state.
And that’s what makes it so dangerous. It’s not being shouted from the fringes anymore—it’s being taught in classrooms, written into university policies, and baked into DEI statements. “This is not about extremists,” Dershowitz said plainly. “It’s about your children’s professors. It’s about the canon.” In other words, this new antisemitism is embedded in mainstream institutions—and that should deeply concern all of us.
Dershowitz highlighted something deeply troubling: how Jewish identity has been flipped on its head. Historically, Jews were hated for being poor, powerless, and stateless. Today, they’re resented for being perceived as privileged, successful, and part of the so-called oppressor class. The very qualities that once drew sympathy—perseverance through suffering—are now being twisted into evidence of complicity in oppression.
This isn’t just a misunderstanding; it’s a calculated moral inversion. What used to evoke empathy is now framed as guilt. The Jewish people, who survived pogroms, expulsions, and genocide, are now being recast as villains simply because they’ve endured and flourished. Meritocracy, once seen as a fair and admirable system, is now suspect—especially when Jews excel in it. The existence of Israel, once celebrated as a haven for persecuted people, is now branded by some as a colonial project.
It’s a sobering reality. When the vocabulary of justice is used to perpetuate injustice, we’re in dangerous territory. If society continues to redefine moral virtue in ways that exclude the Jewish experience, we risk repeating the mistakes of history—not with the same tools, but with the same spirit.
Dershowitz drew a clear line in the sand: while October 7 was a day of tragedy, October 8 was a day of moral reckoning. For me, that wasn’t just an abstract idea—it was deeply personal. I landed in London on October 7, and the very next day, I witnessed the protests firsthand. What I saw was not merely political outrage—it was raw, unfiltered, genocidal hatred. That experience jolted me. It was my wake-up call, the moment that galvanized my focus on this issue in a way no book or lecture ever could. The world didn’t even wait for Israel to respond to the Hamas massacre. By October 8, NGOs, student organizations, and university departments had already begun casting blame—not on the terrorists, but on the victims. That day, the mask slipped. The true face of modern antisemitism was revealed—and it hasn’t been easy to forget.
He called it a “diagnosis” because it exposed something deeply broken in our moral systems. Sympathy had been replaced by ideology. Human suffering took a back seat to political messaging. Dershowitz explained that moral reflexes—once instinctive in the face of terror—have been overwritten by ideological scripts. When Israeli Jews are murdered, the world hesitates. When Palestinians suffer, outrage is immediate. It’s not empathy driving the conversation—it’s a selective compassion rooted in deeply flawed narratives.
October 8 didn’t create this problem; it revealed it. In doing so, it reminded us just how much work lies ahead in restoring moral sanity.
Perhaps the most painful part of the conversation came when Dershowitz turned his attention inward—toward Jewish institutions that, in his words, have betrayed their own people. He spoke with visible frustration about rabbis and leaders more concerned with being culturally palatable than morally principled. Synagogues that silence pro-Israel voices while platforming anti-Zionist speakers aren’t promoting balance—they’re sowing confusion and division.
Dershowitz reminded us that this isn’t new. Jewish history is filled with moments when internal division weakened the community just when unity was most needed. But this moment feels particularly dangerous. The pressure to conform to progressive orthodoxy is leading some Jewish leaders to make dangerous compromises, undermining the very foundations of Jewish identity in order to stay socially relevant.
When our institutions can no longer distinguish between dialogue and betrayal, our children grow up unsure of what it means to be Jewish. That’s not just a leadership failure—it’s a cultural crisis.
But here’s where Dershowitz struck a hopeful chord. He didn’t just outline the dangers—we’ve all heard plenty of those. He called for something deeper, something more resilient: chutzpah. Not arrogance, but boldness. The kind of moral courage that refuses to be intimidated. The kind of grit that doesn’t apologize for Jewish identity, success, or survival. He shared that he and his wife had redirected their entire family foundation to support Jewish causes and Israel. It was a powerful gesture—not about turning inward but getting our priorities straight.
And that’s the heart of the matter. In a world increasingly hostile to truth, Jewish communities don’t need to be louder—they need to be braver. Chutzpah means speaking the truth when it’s costly. It means raising strong kids who know their heritage and won’t be shamed into silence. It means supporting institutions that hold the line—not ones that buckle under social pressure. Dershowitz made it clear: the future of the Jewish people depends not on appeasement but on principled courage.
One of the most moving parts of the evening came when Rabbi Scheiner described the testimonies of hostages recently released from Gaza—how they deepened their faith in captivity, fasted on holy days, sang prayers in tunnels, and clung to their identity in the face of dehumanization. These stories, Dershowitz responded, reminded him of his legal defense of Natan Sharansky during his imprisonment in the Soviet Union. He recalled how Sharansky and his fellow prisoners fashioned a Passover Seder with wax for candles and flour on a rock for matzah. When they couldn’t find maror—the bitter herb—a fellow prisoner said, “We don’t need a symbol of suffering. We have the real thing.” That sentence—humble, almost humorous—carries the weight of Jewish resilience. It’s the spirit of a people who, against all odds, still celebrate freedom in the darkness.
The stories of the hostages who held fast to their faith in the tunnels of Gaza are more than touching—they are prophetic. In a time when so much Jewish identity in the West is being reduced to cultural nostalgia or political activism, these captives remind us of a deeper core: covenantal identity. When young women fast on Yom Kippur in darkness and men whisper Kiddush in fear of death, they are not performing rituals—they are declaring allegiance to something eternal. That kind of faith is not born in comfort but in crisis. And it is precisely this resilient, embodied Judaism that the world needs to see. Dershowitz’s recollection of Sharansky’s prison Seder reinforces this truth: wherever Jews carry their faith, they carry freedom—even in chains. It is this spiritual stubbornness, not academic credentials or political alliances, that has sustained the Jewish people through every generation.
What Dershowitz ultimately issued was not only a critique of antisemitism but a prophetic summons to moral clarity in a world increasingly defined by intellectual fog and ethical inversion. His message cut through the euphemisms and half-truths that dominate cultural discourse today. In a world where it is fashionable to blur distinctions between victim and perpetrator, resistance and terrorism, identity and ideology—his voice served as a reminder that some truths are not relative. Jewish dignity is not negotiable. Israel’s right to exist is not up for debate. Historical suffering does not require contemporary shame. The world does not need more appeasers—it needs moral anchors. The fight for truth must begin in our homes, schools, synagogues, and conversations. If we fail to draw moral boundaries now, the next generation will inherit confusion and calamity.
Dershowitz made it clear that we live in an era where Jewish identity is being redefined—not by those who cherish it, but by those who seek to erase it. This is why the battle is not just against external enemies but against the corrosive forces of apathy and self-doubt within Jewish communities. When organizations refuse to take a stand, when universities silence pro-Israel voices, when synagogues hesitate to challenge progressive orthodoxy for fear of losing social acceptance—this is how a people loses itself. Dershowitz’s call is not simply about fighting antisemitism; it is about reclaiming the unapologetic Jewish identity that has been at the heart of Jewish survival for millennia.
Dr. Tim Orr serves full-time with Crescent Project as the assistant director of the internship program and area coordinator, where he is also deeply involved in outreach across the UK. A scholar of Islam, Evangelical minister, conference speaker, and interfaith consultant, Tim brings over 30 years of experience in cross-cultural ministry. He holds six academic degrees, including a Doctor of Ministry from Liberty University and a Master’s in Islamic Studies from the Islamic College in London.
In addition to his ministry work, Tim is a research associate with the Congregations and Polarization Project at the Center for the Study of Religion and American Culture at Indiana University Indianapolis. His research interests include Islamic antisemitism, American Evangelicalism, and Islamic feminism. He has spoken at leading universities and mosques throughout the UK—including Oxford University, Imperial College London, and the University of Tehran—and has published in peer-reviewed Islamic academic journals. Tim is also the author of four books, including his latest one, Gospel-Centered Christianity and Other Religions: Unpacking the Depths of the Gospel—Its Foundations, Power, and Uniqueness.