In the past few weeks, the federal government has taken dramatic steps to hold universities accountable for the explosion of antisemitism on their campuses. Columbia, Harvard, Brown, Princeton—each now finds itself in the crosshairs, with hundreds of millions, even billions, of federal dollars on the line. The justification is clear: these institutions, according to the Trump administration, have failed to protect Jewish students, turning a blind eye to intimidation, harassment, and, in some cases, open hatred. For years, Jewish students raised concerns. For years, university leadership issued statements of vague concern and moved on. Now, finally, someone is demanding consequences. But at what cost?
Because let’s be honest: not all of that money goes to DEI offices or student clubs. It goes to cancer research, climate modeling, vaccine development, quantum computing. It pays the stipends of low-income PhD students and underwrites the salaries of professors in fields that have nothing to do with Middle East politics. In Columbia’s case, the $400 million withheld touches everything from astrophysics to oncology. At Harvard, the government is reviewing nearly $9 billion worth of contracts and grants. That money doesn’t feed antisemitism—it funds breakthroughs. And when it disappears, people suffer. Labs close. Research halts. Careers stall.
And here is where I begin to worry—because we Jews have seen this movie before. When things go wrong, someone starts looking for someone to blame. And when money disappears from institutions of higher learning, when projects are shelved and futures delayed, the question will inevitably arise: Why? And someone will answer: Because of the Jews.
Not because of the protestors who glorified terrorism. Not because of the administrators who stood silently by. Not because of the legislators who chose a hammer when they could have chosen a scalpel. But because of the Jewish students who said, “This isn’t safe,” and the Jewish organizations who backed them. Because of the Jewish donors who pulled support. Because of the Jewish community who asked—finally, urgently—to be protected. When the long arm of consequence arrives, someone will say, “This is what happens when you make everything about the Jews.”
It is an old story. When Jews are quiet, we are ignored. When we speak up, we are accused of controlling the conversation. When we suffer, it is minimized. When we seek protection, it becomes power. When we ask to be treated as equals, it is seen as exceptionalism. And when that protection comes at a cost, we are blamed for the price.
That’s why this moment demands such care. There are many in the Jewish community celebrating these moves as long overdue. And maybe they are. Maybe it’s time universities were held accountable for the climate they have allowed to fester. Maybe federal law has to mean something. But I cannot shake the feeling that we are walking a narrow ridge—between rightful outrage and future resentment. The same institutions that refused to protect us may soon accuse us of punishing them. The same leaders who failed us may cast themselves as victims of a Jewish overreaction. Already, you can feel the rhetorical shift beginning.
Jewish tradition has a category for this dilemma. In the Talmud, we are taught that when you defend yourself, you must not become the aggressor. When you pursue justice, you must not abandon compassion. We are not to take revenge—even when our pain is real. Even when our suffering is ignored. The Torah warns us again and again: justice, yes—but not at the expense of your soul. Not at the expense of your integrity. And not at the expense of the truth.
And the truth is this: Jews are not trying to destroy universities. We are trying to save them—from themselves. We are trying to save the idea that every student deserves to be safe. That hate should have no home in the lecture hall or the library. That academic freedom does not mean freedom to dehumanize. And if it takes money to make that point heard—well, that’s a tragic but necessary cost.
But we also must be vigilant. Because when the funding disappears, when the research dries up, when the headlines change and the budget cuts arrive, it won’t be long before people start whispering that this is our fault. That the Jews went too far. That we turned campuses into battlegrounds. That we overplayed our hand. And if we are not prepared to counter that narrative with humility, truth, and deep Jewish moral clarity, we will find ourselves blamed not just for the disease—but for the cure.
In Exodus, Pharaoh accuses the Israelites of being too numerous, too powerful. He uses our strength as justification for our subjugation. The moment we began to grow, to thrive, we became a threat. That story has never ended. It just changes costumes. Today’s Pharaohs wear academic robes and protest signs. Today’s accusation is not that we are too many—but that we are too loud, too influential, too unwilling to be silent in the face of hatred.
So what do we do? We stay grounded. We speak truth, not vengeance. We name the problem without becoming the problem. We remind the world that Jews have always been at the heart of education—not its enemy. That our presence in the academy is not a threat, but a gift. That Jewish values—truth, debate, justice, compassion—are the very pillars of higher learning.
And when the backlash comes—and it will—we respond not with rage, but with resilience. Not with silence, but with wisdom. Because we are not the reason universities are failing. We are the reason they still might be saved.
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