For most of my life, I rarely thought about being Jewish in Canada. It wasn’t something that demanded attention because it never created discomfort. It simply existed alongside everything else, woven into the background of everyday life in a way that felt ordinary. My identity existed, but it did not feel like something that placed me at odds with the society around me.
Early in my childhood, I went to Sunday school to learn basic Hebrew, and I had a bat mitzvah. I went to synagogue on weekends and occasionally missed school for Jewish holidays.
At the time, none of my experiences as a young Jewish girl felt particularly distinct. Hebrew school was just another weekly activity, the same way other kids had dance, swimming, or sports. My bat mitzvah felt like one of many coming-of-age moments happening around me, each shaped by different cultures or family traditions but still part of the shared experience of growing up in Toronto.
It all blended easily into the wider fabric of my childhood. Attending Canadian schools, participating in extracurriculars, and enjoying neighborhood life and community events all overlapped naturally, without much separation. There was never a feeling of moving between different worlds so much as moving through one shared world with different routines layered into it.
Because that was simply my normal, I never stopped to examine what made that sense of stability possible. That, in itself, was the privilege: feeling fully at home and assuming the ground beneath me was secure.
That stability was not accidental. It reflected a broader national confidence in Canada as a functioning democracy with a shared civic understanding.
The New Political Landscape
Post-October 7th, under the Liberal leadership of Justin Trudeau, was when I truly began to confront the reality of antisemitism in Canada. What shocked me most was not that antisemitism existed but how quickly institutions I once trusted seemed unwilling to respond with moral clarity once Jews became the target.
According to police-reported statistics in Canada, despite Jewish Canadians being only 1% of the population, they made up 68% of reported religiously motivated hate crimes and 18.8% of overall reported hate crimes in 2024.
Antisemitism did not quietly resurface. It came crashing back into public life with force, persistence, and growing normalization. Over time, it began to feel as though it had permeated nearly every part of my daily life.
Walking between classes at the University of Toronto, I would see posters of the hostages’ faces only to see them again moments later, torn, ripped down, or scribbled over. The violence of October 7th felt painfully disrespected, as if even grief had to be argued with.
In the CASE survey, it was found that 95.7% of Jewish students experienced at least one antisemitic incident in 2025. 18% of incidents cited faculty members, 7% involved teaching assistants, and 7% involved administrators or staff. More telling, the survey recounted a student who was told, “Hitler should have finished you off.”
This is not an example of legitimate criticism of the Israeli government. It is what happens when Jewish students become “acceptable” targets.
The federal government spoke endlessly about “context,” “de-escalation,” and “both sides,” while many of us watched the largest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust become rationalized, minimized, and politically reframed almost in real time. Instead of drawing a clear moral line after Hamas slaughtered civilians, burned families alive, raped women, and kidnapped children, Canada’s leadership shifted quickly toward pressuring Israel diplomatically and legitimizing Palestinian statehood.
In July 2025, Prime Minister Mark Carney announced that Canada would recognize a Palestinian state at the United Nations, stating that “the level of human suffering in Gaza is intolerable.” To many Jewish Canadians, this felt less like balanced diplomacy and more like complete abandonment.
Crowds were permitted to chant slogans such as “Globalize the Intifada,” while demonstrations regularly moved through or near heavily Jewish neighborhoods, Jewish schools, synagogues, and businesses in ways that felt deliberate and intimidating. Places that once felt ordinary, cafés like Cafe Landwer, community spaces, schools, and synagogues suddenly felt exposed.
The government did not merely fail to protect Jews from a rising wave of antisemitism. In many ways, it failed to fully recognize, at least publicly, the scale and severity of what was happening. Jewish fear was treated as politically inconvenient. Jewish pain was contextualized. Jewish vulnerability was questioned and ignored.
A CIJA survey of 811 Canadian Jews found that 71% strongly agreed that the federal government should be doing more to combat antisemitism. The same survey found 82% were concerned about antisemitism in their community, and 82% agreed that Canada is less safe for Jews than it was before October 7.
The evidence has become too stark to dismiss, even for the prime minister himself. On June 1, 2026, Prime Minister Mark Carney said that “Canada’s civic compact is failing Jewish Canadians.”
The long-term consequence of this is deeper social fragmentation, widening distrust in institutions, and a growing feeling among Jewish Canadians that they are increasingly isolated and unprotected. When antisemitic rhetoric and intimidation are met with hesitation, inconsistency, or minimal consequence, it signals that hostility toward Jews exists within a tolerated grey zone rather than something clearly and unequivocally condemned. Canada was once widely seen as a country defined by institutional trust, stability, and a shared sense of civic responsibility. Watching that confidence weaken in real time has been deeply unsettling.
Canada’s political landscape in 2026 became increasingly shaped by identity politics and competing group interests rather than by the broader civic culture that once held the country together. The social fabric that once made Canada feel stable and cohesive is now increasingly fragmented.
That erosion of moral clarity has consequences far beyond the Jewish community. A country cannot sustain social trust when people begin to feel that democratic institutions apply principles selectively depending on political convenience.
Perhaps that is the real tragedy of this moment. Societies rarely collapse all at once. They erode gradually through political cowardice, weakened institutions, selective outrage, and the normalization of things that would have been unquestionably condemned once before. Now as tribalism continues to tear at the social fabric of my country from beneath me, I no longer recognize the country I grew up in, let alone feel like I belong to it. In the blink of an eye, I became a stranger in a strange land.
The question isn’t just where you live anymore. It’s whether the ground beneath you will still feel like yours in ten years.
Normalcy instead of defensiveness
All of this informed my decision to move to Israel and begin the process of making aliyah. Leaving my family and the life I understood was not easy. And still, it brought a kind of comfort I never found in Canada. Even with ongoing conflict and tension, my day-to-day life in Israel often feels more grounded, more natural, like I can relax my shoulders and breathe.
Since moving to Israel, I have also begun building a professional career rooted in the issues that have increasingly shaped my understanding of Jewish identity and Israel. I now work as a research intern at the Israel Defense and Security Forum (IDSF), where I research Israeli national security and the strategic challenges facing the country.
This isn’t to say life is perfect or that moving to Israel erases struggle. But when it comes to being openly Jewish, there is a kind of belonging that isn’t conditional and doesn’t have to be negotiated. It means living in a place where who you are isn’t an argument you have to make or a thesis you have to defend. Being part of the Jewish majority in Israel brings a special feeling of freedom that is just irreplaceable.
