The memo arrived early, stamped URGENT and written in a tone usually reserved for meteor strikes and biscuit shortages: Everything is antisemitic now. It wasn’t entirely clear who had issued it, but the effect was immediate. Office workers froze mid-email. Radio presenters clutched their headphones. Somewhere, a man quietly deleted a tweet about hummus.
By mid-morning, the new guidelines were being interpreted with the enthusiasm of people who had long suspected that nuance was overrated. A commentator appeared on television to explain that asking whether bombing civilians might be bad was “deeply troubling.” When pressed, he clarified: “Not the bombing, the asking.”
Panels were convened. Experts were summoned. One particularly animated guest insisted that even using the word “Israel” in a sentence was “walking a very fine line.” Another nodded gravely, adding that silence, too, could be problematic; “it depends on the tone of the silence.”
On social media, things escalated quickly. A woman posted a photo of a sunset over the Mediterranean with the caption “Peace would be nice.” Within minutes, replies flooded in accusing her of coded language, subtext, and most damningly punctuation choices that “raised questions.” A man who tried to clarify that he simply liked sunsets was informed that sunsets themselves might now require context.
Meanwhile, a helpful infographic circulated widely. Titled How to Avoid Saying Anything At All, it offered practical advice:
- Do not mention geopolitics.
- Do not mention human rights.
- Do not mention anything that could, in theory, be interpreted by someone, somewhere, as indirectly related to point 1 or 2.
- Consider taking up knitting.
Public figures adapted as best they could. One politician gave a speech consisting entirely of the word “things,” repeated at varying volumes. “We must consider the things,” he declared solemnly. “All the things. Carefully.” Analysts praised the address as “refreshingly non-specific,” though some warned that even “things” might eventually become controversial.
In universities, seminars grew increasingly abstract. A lecturer attempted to discuss international law using only geometric shapes. “If Triangle A occupies Square B,” she began before pausing nervously. “Actually, let’s just agree shapes are complicated.”
Publishers rushed out new dictionaries. Under “antisemitism,” definitions expanded to include not only hatred or prejudice against Jewish people (which remained, quietly, the actual meaning) but also “general vibes,” “facial expressions,” and “insufficient enthusiasm during press briefings.” Linguists protested, but their objections were deemed suspiciously articulate.
Of course, somewhere beneath the chaos, a serious issue flickered, like a light everyone could see but no one dared adjust. Genuine antisemitism, real and dangerous, risked being diluted by this frantic overuse, like a fire alarm that never stops ringing until everyone learns to ignore it. But raising that concern required threading a conversational needle so fine that most simply opted to say nothing at all.
And so the world carried on, increasingly cautious, increasingly quiet. Headlines became blank spaces. Debates turned into long, meaningful silences. A new etiquette emerged: nod thoughtfully, say “it’s complex,” and then change the subject to the weather, though even that was risky. Someone, somewhere, might find a cloud problematic.
In the end, the memo was revised. A second notice appeared, less urgent but no less confusing: Everything is still antisemitic now, but please be mindful when noticing it. No one was entirely sure what that meant, but it felt safer not to ask.
After all, asking questions, as everyone now understood, was a very serious matter indeed.
The Slightly More Serious Bit:
