Certain places in cities often become part of one's life, often unexpectedly. For me, there's one such place here in Dublin: the Herbert Park Hotel in Ballsbridge, very close to the US Embassy.
For many years, I was a frequent visitor: for business meetings, New Year's Eve celebrations, and especially for my mother's birthdays. Every year, until her 93rd birthday, her closest friends gathered there. There was always champagne on the table, usually more than one bottle. Over time, I came to associate this hotel with friendship, celebrations—and with my mother.
It is all the more surprising, then, that this very hotel occupies a completely different place in my memory many years later. When the World Jewish Congress began organizing the SECCA conference in Dublin, we commissioned an event manager to handle the preparations. One of her first tasks was to find suitable accommodation.
More than seventy people needed rooms. And this at a particularly busy time in Dublin, as Ireland currently holds the presidency of the Council of the European Union.
A shortlist was drawn up, and we decided on the Herbert Park Hotel. There were the usual discussions about prices and conditions, and then the hotel confirmed that the rooms were reserved. We still had to decide where the conference would take place, so our event manager and I arranged a meeting with the hotel manager to view the meeting rooms, even though we had already decided to stay at this hotel.
We sat down together over a cup of coffee. The hotel manager asked me what SECCA was. I explained that the organization brought together leading figures from Jewish communities worldwide, as well as government-appointed officials responsible for combating antisemitism. Most of these government officials are not Jewish, I told her. I also explained that the conference was connected to Ireland's EU presidency, that Irish government ministers would be attending, and that some of the participants would be meeting the Taoiseach (Prime Minister).
As I spoke, I noticed her demeanor change noticeably. Suddenly, there was a tension in the room. Then she asked me a question I was truly unprepared for: "Will the IDF be involved?" I looked at her questioningly. Had I heard correctly? The IDF?
This was about a conference on antisemitism, which was to be attended by representatives of Jewish communities, diplomats, civil servants, and government officials. And nothing I had said before had even the slightest connection to the Israeli army.
But somehow the conversation had gone in exactly that direction. Then something happened that worried me even more. She told us that she had to consult with the hotel owners to clarify whether we could even stay there. As I said, it involved more than 70 rooms that had already been booked and confirmed. About a day later, we received the answer: It's not possible.
What a contrast: The hotel where I had celebrated New Year's Eve, where I had toasted with friends with champagne, where I had celebrated my mother's birthdays, and which had always stood for warmth and hospitality, now informs a group of visitors for a conference on anti-Semitism that they are not allowed to stay there.
Isn't it a cruel irony to organize an international conference on antisemitism and, even before it has begun, stumble upon something that inevitably leads to the topic of the conference?
How much the word "Jewish" changes a conversation these days – and how quickly an event on the topic of antisemitism is associated with the Israeli army... People who were welcome when they were simply 70 hotel guests are suddenly no longer welcome because it is known that they are attending a Jewish conference?
Because I'm asking myself this very question, I'm telling this story tonight. Contemporary antisemitism doesn't always manifest itself with familiar vocabulary. It doesn't always announce itself with insults, threats, or a poster.
Sometimes it presents itself as a question. As a precaution. As a guideline. As a request for clarification. It treats Jewish identity as political loyalty. It turns Jewish people into representatives of a foreign state, Jewish gatherings into security risks, and ordinary gestures of hospitality into decisions requiring special permission.
Antisemitism today is dangerous not only because it excludes Jews, but also because it makes their exclusion seem reasonable. The question regarding the IDF was not a harmless misunderstanding. It showed how quickly Jewish identity is equated with Israel, how quickly Israel is equated with mistrust – and how quickly mistrust leads to discrimination.
Seventy rooms had been booked. Seventy people were to be welcomed as guests. But suddenly, no one else was welcome. They had been pigeonholed. This is not a minor administrative inconvenience. No, it is a warning: Antisemitism survives because it adapts its vocabulary but retains its internal logic: Jews are treated as different, as suspect, and as collectively responsible.
This editorial was originally published in German by Jüdische Allgemeine.
