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When fighting hate starts harming justice: A minority’s reflection on the ASECA plan - The Jewish Independent
When fighting hate starts harming justice: A minority’s reflection on the ASECA plan
When policy frameworks respond to criticism of a foreign government's actions as if they were attacks on an entire people, they risk encouraging the very conflation they aim to prevent.
“The plan appears to have been developed through limited consultation, with no visible input from Palestinian Australians, Arab or Muslim communities, or refugee voices.” (Image: TJI)
Published: 17 July 2025
Last updated: 17 July 2025
I was born into a small religious community in Iraq called the Mandaeans, in a country where being a minority could mean hiding your faith to survive. We were often invisible — by necessity.
As a child, I learned to walk cautiously in public spaces, to downplay who I was, and avoid drawing attention to our distinct language, rituals, and beliefs. Later in life, as I found refuge in Australia, I felt something unfamiliar but liberating here: safety.
It is because of that personal history that I take antisemitism seriously. I understand, in my bones, what it means to live with existential fear — not just of violence, but of being misunderstood, excluded or erased.
That is why I read the newly released ASECA Plan to Combat Antisemitism with deep attention and concern. Its purpose is noble: to protect Jewish Australians from rising hate. In that, it has my full support. But while the plan is framed as a national commitment to safety, it risks undermining the very justice it seeks to uphold.
A necessary fight, a concerning path
The plan outlines a sweeping approach: reforms to law, education, arts funding, migration, digital regulation, and institutional oversight. It promotes the IHRA definition of antisemitism, a framework that includes certain forms of criticism of Israel and Zionism as potential manifestations of hate.
Rather than inviting a broad and inclusive conversation, the plan appears to have been developed through limited consultation, with no visible input from Palestinian Australians, Arab or Muslim communities, or refugee voices— which is especially important given the fact that much of the recent surge in reported antisemitism is linked to discourse and protest around the Israel-Palestine conflict.
These communities are often directly impacted by that conflict, and by extension, implicated in the very public debates and policy measures the plan seeks to shape. When antisemitism is interpreted through the lens of conflict-related expression, these communities must be at the table.
Many Palestinians, Arabs, and allies raise their voices not out of antisemitism, but out of a commitment to justice, dignity, and international law.
For a strategy meant to strengthen social cohesion, this lack of diverse engagement is deeply problematic. Without those voices, the plan risks overlooking one of the underlying dynamics that drive tensions in Australia today. Consultation would have improved both the fairness and the effectiveness of the plan, by ensuring that measures to combat hate do not inadvertently silence those expressing political grief or legitimate dissent. Including these voices could also help identify policy blind spots and ensure that antisemitism is not mistakenly conflated with protest or advocacy.
When protection feels like silencing
One of the core issues is the conflation of antisemitism with political critique, particularly around Israel. The IHRA definition includes examples such as "claiming that the existence of a State of Israel is a racist endeavour" as potentially antisemitic. While intended to address genuine hate, this framing risks chilling legitimate political discourse — especially among people whose lives have been shaped by conflict.
A newly arrived Palestinian refugee who has lost family, home, or land may express pain, anger, or protest in language that reflects their lived experience. In some cases, that language can be politically inflammatory, though it is not born from ideological hate, but from a desperate effort to name the structures they feel have dehumanised them.
For many in the Arab and Muslim world, this language has evolved as a symbolic and rhetorical tool — a way of communicating resistance in a global discourse that often ignores their plight. If this tool is taken away or reclassified as hate speech, others will emerge, because the underlying pain remains. Suppressing language does not heal trauma; it just pushes it underground.
Of course, expressing political grief must be done in a way that respects others’ dignity. But policy cannot assume that all critique is hate. The challenge is distinguishing between dehumanisation and protest — and that cannot be done fairly without hearing from the people involved.
We must build a different kind of response — one grounded in shared humanity, not political alignment. One that recognises Jewish pain and also hears Palestinian pain.
Consider an artist who stages a work reflecting on occupation and dispossession. Or a university student who organises a panel on international human rights. These are not hypothetical cases. In today’s climate, both could be investigated or penalised under interpretations of the plan’s recommendations. The question is not whether hate exists — it does. The question is whether the tools we use to fight hate are precise enough not to harm those speaking from real experience.
When protection becomes confusion
This brings us to a deeper paradox. When the plan leans heavily on framing antisemitism through state-based lenses — particularly when critiques of Israel are treated as proxies for antisemitic belief — it risks blurring Jewish identity with political allegiance. This is not to say that Jewish identity and Israel have no relationship; clearly, they do. But when policy frameworks respond to criticism of a foreign government's actions as if they were attacks on an entire people, they risk encouraging the very conflation they aim to prevent.
That, in turn, can isolate Jewish Australians further. Rather than drawing a clear line between Jewish safety and political narratives, it muddies the water, making Jewish identity seem entangled with state power. That is a dangerous association for any minority to bear.
Many Jewish Australians are critical of Israeli policy. Some are non-Zionist or anti-Zionist. Their views deserve space, too. At the same time, many Palestinians, Arabs, and allies raise their voices not out of antisemitism, but out of a commitment to justice, dignity, and international law.
What real safety looks like
As a Mandaean who has lived as a minority both in the Middle East and here in Australia, I want something better — for all of us.
One experience stays with me. A close Jewish friend once confided in me, years into our friendship, that he had only begun to trust our bond when he saw that I respected his Jewish identity, not just tolerated it. What built that trust wasn’t agreement on politics, but our shared recognition of each other’s humanity.
It made me realise that real safety is not institutional alone. It grows from the daily, often quiet work of humanising one another. Our policies should reflect and encourage that spirit. They should not foreclose the possibility of empathy by turning speech into suspicion. Policy should build bridges where fear has dug trenches.
Toward a shared justice
I do not write this to criticise from the sidelines. I write this as someone who believes deeply in justice, and who believes that fighting antisemitism must be part of that mission — but not at the expense of others.
Antisemitism, like all racism, thrives on fear and silence. We must not combat it by creating more silence.
We must build a different kind of response — one grounded in shared humanity, not political alignment. One that recognises Jewish pain and also hears Palestinian pain. One that draws strength from Australia’s diversity, not just from institutional power.
Because if we lose the moral clarity that makes our fight against hate just, then we may win the battle — but lose the cause.
Nawfel Alfaris is an Australian of Iraqi refugee background with a focus on community development. He supports multicultural communities in organising cultural events and music festivals that promote inclusion and social cohesion.
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