Elite Colleges Fail Jewish Students: Antisemitism Ignored, Campuses in Crisis

Paul Riverbank, 12/11/2025Elite colleges face a crisis as antisemitism rises, Jewish students’ safety and campus values falter.

It’s not just an uneasy feeling. There’s data to back it up. A report by StopAntisemitism, a civil rights group, paints a sobering picture: out of ninety universities evaluated in 2025, a full 16 percent—think icons of American prestige—flunked outright when it came to protecting Jewish students. Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and others failed to provide an environment where Jewish students felt safe. According to the report, one in every six campuses earned an F. But numbers, as they say, only scratch the surface.

Columbia’s own attempt at introspection—its antisemitism task force—unearthed disturbing stories. In one classroom, a Jewish student was branded a “murderer.” Another heard, “It’s such a shame your people survived in order to commit mass genocide.” A professor took a moment to rail against donors, pocketing academic pretense behind accusations about “blood money.” Some students found their class, taught by a visiting Israeli lecturer, overrun by activists making clear exactly who they opposed—and what for. Behind the tension, the university admitted a shortfall: a lack of full-time faculty with expertise in the Middle East who weren't already openly anti-Zionist.

When hate made it to the administration’s desk, the response often seemed soft—a promise to “review” or an email urging “community healing,” words that felt a mile wide and an inch deep. So who, Jewish students and their parents wondered, are the rules really meant to protect?

The threat is more than physical, and the chilling statistics bear that out: nearly four in ten Jewish college students now conceal their identity. They downplay faith, avoid Hebrew jewelry, learn to smile politely when conversation drifts too close to home. If honesty might spark a confrontation, it’s safer to retreat. This isn’t a sideline worry for one community—it’s something every parent notices. What kind of message does it send when university leaders look the other way, tolerate tent cities for causes, or allow the loudest to overrun the rest? If singling out Jews is, in practice, tolerated, will it stop there?

Campus protests after October 7 started as raw anger over Israel and Gaza. But it morphed. School flags were trampled; American symbols torn down and flung aside. The lines between protest and intimidation blurred. Some school leaders stayed silent, perhaps wary of worsening PR, maybe simply unsure. Their hesitation left a vacuum. Into it, ugliness sometimes rushed.

If this started as a campus crisis, it has a way of spilling out onto the streets. In Manhattan, a Jewish American found himself in the backseat of an Uber, listening to a driver confidently claim, “the devil has taken over the world,” spin out rhetoric about women and a global caliphate—views presented not as private musings, but as facts, unchallenged, on a weekday morning. That same traveler—noticing the contrasts—recalls watching Jewish and Arab kids, side-by-side on a playground in Jerusalem, laughter mixing with the calls of street vendors. On a Tel Aviv beach, he spotted an Arab-Israeli, openly gay, dozing in the sun. In Israel—despite real divides—the law insists on coexistence. In New York, a supposed melting pot, that sense of shared space is slipping.

People debate who’s to blame. Some point at politicians—specifically, leaders willing to give a pass to extreme rhetoric if it’s shouted for the “right” cause. When those at the top fudge moral lines, the message filters down: the usual guardrails might not apply.

But not every school is struggling. At Texas Southern, a historically Black university, interfaith programs still thrive. Former board chair Brandon Simmons, now tapped for broader education reform, says antisemitism simply hasn’t taken root. Students are the ones pushing for dialogue—demanding trips to Israel, joint programs. “They want to build bridges, not burn them,” Benjamin Proler, another board member, points out. For them, the world’s complexities are an invitation, not a reason to retreat.

At Dartmouth, when a student discovered a swastika marked on a wall, the response was straightforward. President Sian Leah Beilock wasted no time, naming the offense for what it was: “antisemitism, plain and simple.” Her reaction, swift and public, sent a message—and Dartmouth secured the Ivy League’s top rating on the StopAntisemitism survey.

There’s also the case of the University of Florida. Administrators there don’t blink at controversy; they enforce the rules as written. Encampments that once might have lingered break up within hours. Those who disrupt face credible consequences—suspension or expulsion. No one is above the student code, not even for a cause. It turns out that enforcing the basics—protecting the right to learn, actually applying the handbook—can be the difference between fear and a sense of belonging.

Beneath these report cards and headlines, something larger is at stake. Antisemitism isn’t just a policy issue; it’s a kind of intellectual virus, as one commentator called it—an easy answer for complex frustrations, a way to turn difference into blame, and blame into action. Students, open to new ideas, sometimes absorb the worst. Colleges should be the line of defense, not the point of infection.

Parents are watching, and so are students of every background. The question—where can my child be safe?—echoes in dining rooms and advisor’s offices. But this isn’t only a Jewish issue. If rules become optional—bent for the loud or the popular—the whole campus slips. If hate is normalized in one classroom, it’s only a matter of time before it infects others.

America’s best colleges weren’t built to be echo chambers. They were designed as forums to test ideas—sometimes even dangerous ones—without losing hold of mutual respect. That tradition is shaky, but not shattered. Students, parents, and university leaders still have a say, and the choices made this year will ripple out for generations. Whether tomorrow’s students can show up as their full selves—or feel forced to look over their shoulders—hangs in the balance.

On too many college greens these days, the sight greeting visitors looks less like an invitation, more like a warning. At Columbia, at Yale, at Harvard—names once synonymous with opportunity—new signs don’t boast about school pride. They caution Jewish students to tread carefully, to blend in if they want peace. The message is subtle but persistent: Stick your neck out and you might become a target.It’s not just an uneasy feeling. There’s data to back it up. A report by StopAntisemitism, a civil rights group, paints a sobering picture: out of ninety universities evaluated in 2025, a full 16 percent—think icons of American prestige—flunked outright when it came to protecting Jewish students. Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and others failed to provide an environment where Jewish students felt safe. According to the report, one in every six campuses earned an F. But numbers, as they say, only scratch the surface.Columbia’s own attempt at introspection—its antisemitism task force—unearthed disturbing stories. In one classroom, a Jewish student was branded a “murderer.” Another heard, “It’s such a shame your people survived in order to commit mass genocide.” A professor took a moment to rail against donors, pocketing academic pretense behind accusations about “blood money.” Some students found their class, taught by a visiting Israeli lecturer, overrun by activists making clear exactly who they opposed—and what for. Behind the tension, the university admitted a shortfall: a lack of full-time faculty with expertise in the Middle East who weren't already openly anti-Zionist.When hate made it to the administration’s desk, the response often seemed soft—a promise to “review” or an email urging “community healing,” words that felt a mile wide and an inch deep. So who, Jewish students and their parents wondered, are the rules really meant to protect?The threat is more than physical, and the chilling statistics bear that out: nearly four in ten Jewish college students now conceal their identity. They downplay faith, avoid Hebrew jewelry, learn to smile politely when conversation drifts too close to home. If honesty might spark a confrontation, it’s safer to retreat. This isn’t a sideline worry for one community—it’s something every parent notices. What kind of message does it send when university leaders look the other way, tolerate tent cities for causes, or allow the loudest to overrun the rest? If singling out Jews is, in practice, tolerated, will it stop there?Campus protests after October 7 started as raw anger over Israel and Gaza. But it morphed. School flags were trampled; American symbols torn down and flung aside. The lines between protest and intimidation blurred. Some school leaders stayed silent, perhaps wary of worsening PR, maybe simply unsure. Their hesitation left a vacuum. Into it, ugliness sometimes rushed.If this started as a campus crisis, it has a way of spilling out onto the streets. In Manhattan, a Jewish American found himself in the backseat of an Uber, listening to a driver confidently claim, “the devil has taken over the world,” spin out rhetoric about women and a global caliphate—views presented not as private musings, but as facts, unchallenged, on a weekday morning. That same traveler—noticing the contrasts—recalls watching Jewish and Arab kids, side-by-side on a playground in Jerusalem, laughter mixing with the calls of street vendors. On a Tel Aviv beach, he spotted an Arab-Israeli, openly gay, dozing in the sun. In Israel—despite real divides—the law insists on coexistence. In New York, a supposed melting pot, that sense of shared space is slipping.People debate who’s to blame. Some point at politicians—specifically, leaders willing to give a pass to extreme rhetoric if it’s shouted for the “right” cause. When those at the top fudge moral lines, the message filters down: the usual guardrails might not apply.But not every school is struggling. At Texas Southern, a historically Black university, interfaith programs still thrive. Former board chair Brandon Simmons, now tapped for broader education reform, says antisemitism simply hasn’t taken root. Students are the ones pushing for dialogue—demanding trips to Israel, joint programs. “They want to build bridges, not burn them,” Benjamin Proler, another board member, points out. For them, the world’s complexities are an invitation, not a reason to retreat.At Dartmouth, when a student discovered a swastika marked on a wall, the response was straightforward. President Sian Leah Beilock wasted no time, naming the offense for what it was: “antisemitism, plain and simple.” Her reaction, swift and public, sent a message—and Dartmouth secured the Ivy League’s top rating on the StopAntisemitism survey.There’s also the case of the University of Florida. Administrators there don’t blink at controversy; they enforce the rules as written. Encampments that once might have lingered break up within hours. Those who disrupt face credible consequences—suspension or expulsion. No one is above the student code, not even for a cause. It turns out that enforcing the basics—protecting the right to learn, actually applying the handbook—can be the difference between fear and a sense of belonging.Beneath these report cards and headlines, something larger is at stake. Antisemitism isn’t just a policy issue; it’s a kind of intellectual virus, as one commentator called it—an easy answer for complex frustrations, a way to turn difference into blame, and blame into action. Students, open to new ideas, sometimes absorb the worst. Colleges should be the line of defense, not the point of infection.Parents are watching, and so are students of every background. The question—where can my child be safe?—echoes in dining rooms and advisor’s offices. But this isn’t only a Jewish issue. If rules become optional—bent for the loud or the popular—the whole campus slips. If hate is normalized in one classroom, it’s only a matter of time before it infects others.America’s best colleges weren’t built to be echo chambers. They were designed as forums to test ideas—sometimes even dangerous ones—without losing hold of mutual respect. That tradition is shaky, but not shattered. Students, parents, and university leaders still have a say, and the choices made this year will ripple out for generations. Whether tomorrow’s students can show up as their full selves—or feel forced to look over their shoulders—hangs in the balance.