Ivy League Betrayal: Elite Colleges Fail to Protect Jewish Students

Paul Riverbank, 12/11/2025Elite colleges fail to protect Jewish students—families demand action against rising campus antisemitism.

A recent audit by the group StopAntisemitism offers a window into what’s really happening. Out of 90 top-ranked colleges—from the Ivy-laden Northeast to the ambitious West Coast—16% flat-out failed when it came to addressing antisemitism. Harvard. Yale. Columbia. Not the names you’d expect to see in the basement of any scorecard, yet here they are, called out not for academic shortfalls, but for a lack of basic protection for their Jewish students.

Behind percentages, the stories arrive in bursts of shock and fatigue. At Columbia, for example, a student who’d served in Israel’s military returned not to debates in lecture halls, but to pointed accusations: “One of the murderers,” someone spat. In a different classroom, a teacher mused aloud whether major donors were cleaning bloody hands with their gifts. It’s tempting to think these are outliers, but a growing number of Jewish students—close to four in ten—now admit they sometimes conceal their identities to feel safer. Their parents aren’t simply concerned about day-to-day safety; they’re questioning whether these schools live up to the inclusive, open-minded banners advertised on their websites.

Scrutiny has forced some administrators to look inwards. Columbia’s own investigation revealed another dimension to the problem: a persistent shortage of faculty who can teach Middle Eastern affairs without a pointed ideological slant. When the academic environment tilts in one direction, it’s not only debate that suffers, but trust in the institution itself.

Yet it’s not all bad news or blanket condemnation. A handful of colleges, often outside the coastal spotlight, seem to grasp both the urgency and the nuance. Texas Southern University, a historically Black college, stands out for its proactive approach. There, faculty and students make a point to foster dialogue before fault lines turn into chasms. “They’re leaning into every opportunity to build bridges and strengthen interfaith understanding,” Benjamin Proler, a member of TSU’s Board of Regents, told me. Regular unity dinners and partnerships with Israeli universities aren’t just gestures—they’re insurance against future division. Brandon Simmons, another key voice at TSU, reflects that antisemitism simply hasn’t taken hold on their campus, adding, “We plan to keep it that way.”

Contrast that with the way some schools stumble under pressure. At Dartmouth, when a swastika surfaced on a dorm wall, President Sian Leah Beilock responded with immediacy rather than studied ambiguity. She declared the act “targeted harassment” and reminded the campus: such hatred is antithetical to the college’s values. Perhaps it’s no coincidence Dartmouth now leads the Ivy League on the StopAntisemitism report card; clarity, it turns out, can be as powerful as policy.

Enforcement is the other lever. The University of Florida ranks near the top not because it’s immune to tension, but because rules are applied with a kind of old-school directness. Disruptive protests? Harassment? The administration responds within minutes, not days. The message is unmistakable—free speech is not an excuse for intimidation. Standards like these seem basic, until you realize how rare they’ve become.

It’s naïve to imagine campus isolation from larger societal trends. In New York City not long ago, I heard of an Uber ride where the driver, unprompted, launched into a tirade: blaming women for violence, reminiscing about a caliphate, all within earshot in broad daylight. These are not secrets passed in alleyways; they’re spoken aloud in midtown traffic, a jarring reminder that extreme rhetoric, once fringe, now risks seeping into the ordinary.

Families wrestling with college decisions are no longer only calculating curriculum and future job prospects—they’re quietly asking, “Will my child be safe to be Jewish here?” One parent, her words raw with frustration and resolve, said she’d never allow silence to be her answer: “If I don’t speak up now, what exactly am I asking my children to accept?”

If there’s a thread tying all these episodes together, it’s that antisemitism isn’t just a campus issue; it’s a symptom of a deeper societal malaise. As one observer put it, it’s a “brain virus,” a pernicious way of interpreting setbacks and divisions by scapegoating others, spreading animosity rather than building hope.

So the challenge to academic leaders becomes both simple and steep: Call out hate when it appears. Enforce policies, not as afterthoughts but as principles. And above all, cultivate real dialogue—the kind that can weather sharp disagreement without tipping into accusation and fear. For students and families, the question is no longer just, “What will I learn?” It’s “Will I be safe being myself?”

The stakes, ultimately, stretch far beyond the classroom. If America’s universities can’t confront bigotry where it festers, trust in the entire system—among Jewish families, and all who value fairness—begins to erode. This moment will test not only our campus culture, but our willingness to stand up for genuine tolerance.

Walk the quad of nearly any elite American college campus these days, and it doesn’t take long to sense a change. The conversations are tense, posters are torn, and students eye each other warily—especially if you’re among the Jewish minority. It’s not just whisper or rumor now; the feeling is substantiated by hard numbers and stories that have left families anxious and the administration scrambling for answers.A recent audit by the group StopAntisemitism offers a window into what’s really happening. Out of 90 top-ranked colleges—from the Ivy-laden Northeast to the ambitious West Coast—16% flat-out failed when it came to addressing antisemitism. Harvard. Yale. Columbia. Not the names you’d expect to see in the basement of any scorecard, yet here they are, called out not for academic shortfalls, but for a lack of basic protection for their Jewish students.Behind percentages, the stories arrive in bursts of shock and fatigue. At Columbia, for example, a student who’d served in Israel’s military returned not to debates in lecture halls, but to pointed accusations: “One of the murderers,” someone spat. In a different classroom, a teacher mused aloud whether major donors were cleaning bloody hands with their gifts. It’s tempting to think these are outliers, but a growing number of Jewish students—close to four in ten—now admit they sometimes conceal their identities to feel safer. Their parents aren’t simply concerned about day-to-day safety; they’re questioning whether these schools live up to the inclusive, open-minded banners advertised on their websites.Scrutiny has forced some administrators to look inwards. Columbia’s own investigation revealed another dimension to the problem: a persistent shortage of faculty who can teach Middle Eastern affairs without a pointed ideological slant. When the academic environment tilts in one direction, it’s not only debate that suffers, but trust in the institution itself.Yet it’s not all bad news or blanket condemnation. A handful of colleges, often outside the coastal spotlight, seem to grasp both the urgency and the nuance. Texas Southern University, a historically Black college, stands out for its proactive approach. There, faculty and students make a point to foster dialogue before fault lines turn into chasms. “They’re leaning into every opportunity to build bridges and strengthen interfaith understanding,” Benjamin Proler, a member of TSU’s Board of Regents, told me. Regular unity dinners and partnerships with Israeli universities aren’t just gestures—they’re insurance against future division. Brandon Simmons, another key voice at TSU, reflects that antisemitism simply hasn’t taken hold on their campus, adding, “We plan to keep it that way.”Contrast that with the way some schools stumble under pressure. At Dartmouth, when a swastika surfaced on a dorm wall, President Sian Leah Beilock responded with immediacy rather than studied ambiguity. She declared the act “targeted harassment” and reminded the campus: such hatred is antithetical to the college’s values. Perhaps it’s no coincidence Dartmouth now leads the Ivy League on the StopAntisemitism report card; clarity, it turns out, can be as powerful as policy.Enforcement is the other lever. The University of Florida ranks near the top not because it’s immune to tension, but because rules are applied with a kind of old-school directness. Disruptive protests? Harassment? The administration responds within minutes, not days. The message is unmistakable—free speech is not an excuse for intimidation. Standards like these seem basic, until you realize how rare they’ve become.It’s naïve to imagine campus isolation from larger societal trends. In New York City not long ago, I heard of an Uber ride where the driver, unprompted, launched into a tirade: blaming women for violence, reminiscing about a caliphate, all within earshot in broad daylight. These are not secrets passed in alleyways; they’re spoken aloud in midtown traffic, a jarring reminder that extreme rhetoric, once fringe, now risks seeping into the ordinary.Families wrestling with college decisions are no longer only calculating curriculum and future job prospects—they’re quietly asking, “Will my child be safe to be Jewish here?” One parent, her words raw with frustration and resolve, said she’d never allow silence to be her answer: “If I don’t speak up now, what exactly am I asking my children to accept?”If there’s a thread tying all these episodes together, it’s that antisemitism isn’t just a campus issue; it’s a symptom of a deeper societal malaise. As one observer put it, it’s a “brain virus,” a pernicious way of interpreting setbacks and divisions by scapegoating others, spreading animosity rather than building hope.So the challenge to academic leaders becomes both simple and steep: Call out hate when it appears. Enforce policies, not as afterthoughts but as principles. And above all, cultivate real dialogue—the kind that can weather sharp disagreement without tipping into accusation and fear. For students and families, the question is no longer just, “What will I learn?” It’s “Will I be safe being myself?”The stakes, ultimately, stretch far beyond the classroom. If America’s universities can’t confront bigotry where it festers, trust in the entire system—among Jewish families, and all who value fairness—begins to erode. This moment will test not only our campus culture, but our willingness to stand up for genuine tolerance.