Two days after Hamas massacred 1,200 Israelis, I was sitting at my desk in the Sydney Central Business District. Zoe, my colleague, stood up from her desk with a worried look. Holding her phone, she told me that the New South Wales Board of Deputies had received a police warning: the safety of Jews in the city could not be guaranteed. The message she had just received was encouraging them to leave.

That message, combined with the knowledge of an upcoming pro-Palestinian protest in the city, made me feel something that I’d never felt before as an Australian citizen. I felt queasy as I remembered other times when Jews had felt safe in their own cities—then suddenly no longer.

It was during that moment of fear that I realised what antisemitism really was. Not being Jewish myself, I had never had a personal connection with the Holocaust. My knowledge of antisemitism was purely theoretical and abstract. It was a phenomenon I had read about in books, seen in films and documentaries, but it hit me that day like a slap to the face. I realised that antisemitism is two things: active, vicious hatred and cool institutional indifference towards that hate. And it was that institutional indifference that made me feel afraid.