It’s a Friday afternoon, and as I often do before Shabbat, I’m meeting friends at an Israeli-owned coffee shop in downtown Northampton. But this Friday was different.

As one friend arrived, she encountered pro-Palestinian protesters standing directly outside the café holding a Palestinian flag and wearing keffiyehs. When she asked if they are standing in front of this specific business because of its ownership, noting that such targeted demonstrations make many local Jews feel unsafe, one man responded bluntly: “They should feel unsafe.”

Inside, as she recounted the encounter to us, a patron interrupted to accuse her of lying.

Sadly, false accusations in this community are familiar to me. Last September, I opposed Northampton’s Israel divestment resolution during a City Council meeting; as I spoke about Hamas’ atrocities and the resolution’s failure to condemn them, members of the audience repeatedly shouted “Liar!”

I refused to stay silent then, and I wouldn’t now. I asked the protester-patron why making Jews feel unsafe seemed acceptable. After a brief exchange, as she was leaving, she looked directly at me and said, “You are going down.”

Outside, others insisted it was not about Jews, but that “Zionists should not be safe.” As they walked away, they called us “baby killers.” This charge resonates with moral exclusion and scapegoating directed at Jews currently and throughout history.

Later that afternoon, I encountered the group again, debating with a visitor to our city about the future of Israel and Palestine. A protester argued that Hamas could govern a future Palestinian state. When I challenged her on Hamas’ documented use of sexual violence [https://www.screamsbeforesilence.com], she replied, “That didn’t happen. They weren’t raped.”

This denial of sexual violence echoed what I have experienced repeatedly since Oct. 7: not simply disagreement about political solutions, but dismissal of Jewish experiences and suffering, attempting to strip us of our humanity. A Jew is welcome here only if they hold an anti-Zionist ideology. And I carry with me a growing fear: what starts as intimidation, targeting Jewish people or businesses, may lead to deadly acts of violence.

These incidents are not isolated.

Earlier in 2026, a group of Northampton residents filed a legal challenge to the city’s September 2025 Israel Divestment Resolution. The residents’ lawsuit — a legitimate part of our democratic process — argues that this resolution passed without due process and conflicts with state and federal statutes as well as fiduciary responsibilities. In response, 30 residents, many identifying themselves as Jews, submitted a motion to join the city against their fellow residents.

Sadly, this motion represents a deepening fracture in Jewish identity and spaces. Differences over Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and the war in Gaza have severely tested community cohesion and solidarity, endangering community sustainability and security. Within the broader social context, the fabric of our local community is fraying. Complex human beings have been reduced to symbols to condemn. Assumptions have replaced conversation. Labels have displaced a spirit of curiosity.

Amid the hostility of that Friday afternoon, one striking irony stays with me. One of the protesters wore a shirt that read: “Disarm Hate.”

That slogan ought to mean something. To truly disarm hate we must understand what it means in practice. We cannot advocate for peace abroad while actively weaponizing division, shaming our neighbors, and cultivating fear and hostility where we live. This also means acknowledging suffering on all sides of the conflict. As a human being, I am outraged by the magnitude of Palestinian suffering, ongoing and historic. And, targeting Jews in Northampton, meeting us with denial and globalizing blame, will not strengthen our community, nor will it bring justice to Palestinians.

Forging peaceful co-existence for the people of Israel and Palestine is something I wholeheartedly dream of, along with many others actively working towards a shared society.

True peace is not an abstract concept to project onto others; it is a practice that begins with us. We must start by disarming hate on our own streets, right here at home. My hope is that neighbors, colleagues, and friends stop viewing one another as adversaries and remember that we are fellow community members. That means listening before assuming, debating with curiosity, and recognizing that challenging our neighbors’ safety is never a path toward peace. If we want to be champions of justice, we must build a local community that fosters dialogue and mutual humanity. Otherwise, how can we expect it of a deeply traumatized and complex Middle East?

Shanna Fishel lives in Leeds.