Ages ago, in the 1970s Soviet Union, a Jewish stand-up comedian, Mikhail Zhvanetski, remarked in one of his skits that if you want to argue about the taste of coconuts (not available in the Soviet Union at that time), it’s better to talk to those who’ve actually tried them.
If you want to argue about antisemitism in academia, better ask those who have actually experienced it. Ask me.
I was 16 years old when I graduated from high school in Moscow in 1971. My ethnic heritage—Jewish—was written on my state ID by the authorities. I couldn’t change it. I applied to the “Moscow MIT”: Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. I passed the entrance tests with flying colors: 18 points out of 20, higher than 85 percent of those admitted. I was denied entry. I knew why. The unwritten but strict quota was that Jews could make up no more than 2 percent of freshmen.
I did get my education, at another university less closely observed by the party authority. But six years later, looking for a job, I could not find one. In part, this was because institute directors knew they could be disciplined if they hired Jews who then applied to emigrate to Israel. I later learned that I was hired only when my future boss and close friend gave his word of honor that I would never try to emigrate.
Two years later, I applied for Ph.D. study at the renowned Lebedev Physical Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences (home to seven Nobel laureates). It was common knowledge at that time that one of the officials at Lebedev who had to approve admissions was a notorious antisemite. My gentile adviser also knew that, made sure that the official would never see either my characteristically Jewish face or my state ID, and took over all paperwork communications himself under various pretexts. When I was officially admitted and walked into the official’s office, they looked like they were going to have a heart attack. This was antisemitism.
In 1994, 10 years after graduating, I moved to the United States, where, eventually, I devoted more than 20 years of service to the Naval Research Laboratory. Then, in 2019, I joined the faculty at George Mason University, one of the most ethnically diverse universities in the country. In my time here, I have never seen any sign of antisemitism, not a shred. I graduated a Muslim student, who—in his own words—felt honored to have me as his adviser (he even invited me to his sister’s wedding, which was restricted, due to the pandemic, to just 20 guests). I taught several more Muslim students and did research with some others. We openly discussed our religions, and I found these students to be good and compassionate listeners if I chose to share one or another story from my Jewish experience.
Now, however, the U.S. Department of Education is taking seriously a charge of “a pervasive hostile environment for Jewish students and faculty” at George Mason. This is as shocking to me (and to many of my Jewish colleagues at GMU) as hearing that I have broken two legs and never noticed it. In fact, during the trying months after Oct. 7 and amid growing pro-Palestinian protests on campuses, I often praised Mason president Gregory Washington’s handing of this sensitive issue. While paying full respect to respectful protests, freedom of speech and the First Amendment, he fully avoided disruption of the educational process and university business.
To this point, I can again dig into my experience under a totalitarian regime. When I came to America in 1994, I was fascinated by the famous case of Yates v. U.S., in which the Supreme Court issued a decision that offered a powerful contrast to Soviet rule. In that 1957 case, the court reversed the convictions of 14 Communist leaders in California who had been charged with advocating for the overthrow of the U.S. government by force. As Justice Black wrote, they “were tried upon the charge that they believe in and want to foist upon this country a different, and, to us, a despicable, form of authoritarian government in which voices criticizing the existing order are summarily silenced. I fear that the present type of prosecutions are more in line with the philosophy of authoritarian government than with that expressed by our First Amendment.”
To me, this case reflected a quintessential characteristic of American democracy: rephrasing Voltaire, “We may find your view despicable, but will defend to the death your right to say it.”
Though the details of the antisemitism complaint against George Mason have not been made public, it appears that Washington’s leadership is coming under attack based on just two cases involving three students; only one of those cases involved an alleged incident (vandalism) that occurred on campus. In both cases, the university administration, in collaboration with law enforcement, took immediate and harsh steps to resolve the situations: As Washington noted in a recent message to campus, the university was applauded by the Jewish Community Relations Council of Greater Washington for “deploying the full weight of the university’s security and disciplinary measures to prevent these students from perpetrating harm on campus.”
And these incidents are outliers. Just as three thieves who may be GMU students wouldn’t attest to “pervasive thievery” on campus, three students alleged to have violent anti-Israeli agendas do not constitute a “pervasive hostile environment for Jewish students and faculty.” On the contrary, I feel safer and more assured knowing that three miscreants out of a student body of 40,000 were immediately and efficiently dealt with.
What does make me feel uncomfortable—and what I do find antisemitic— is the implicit suggestion that I, an American Jew who does not have Israeli citizenship, must feel offended and defensive in the face of any criticism of any action of the Israeli government. I find such beliefs reprehensible, and they encroach on my freedom to have my own opinion about international affairs.
Gregory Washington is my president, and I am confident that he is doing an excellent job protecting all faculty and students, including Jews, from bigotry and harassment. It is false allegations of antisemitism on campus under the pretext of “defending” Jews like myself that really threatens my well-being as a GMU professor.
Igor Mazin is a professor of physics at George Mason University.
