Adela Cojab: Instead of Fleeing Top Colleges, Stay and Fight

From 'Young Zionist Voices': Fight for Our Place in Elite American Institutions

David H.—Back in May of last year, at the height of antisemitic campus unrest in the United States, I posted the following tweet: “The Zionist in me says a thing and its opposite: that Jews in the Diaspora who consider Aliyah because of antisemitism should (a) definitely move to Israel because Jewish life is better here; and also (b) definitely stay and fight because Western civilization depends on Jews staying and fighting, and because there is little dignity in flight. Two different Zionists in me, I suppose!”

In the following essay, Adela Cojab takes the latter position when it comes to elite universities: Stay and fight. Adela speaks from experience: In 2019 she filed a seemingly-hopeless lawsuit against New York University under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act for failing to protect her fellow Jewish students. Her lawsuit caught the attention of then-president Trump, who invited her to the White House, and who then signed an executive order expanding Title VI to include antisemitism—opening the door to hundreds of similar lawsuits across America.

Adela Cojab is now a lawyer, activist, and media contributor. Her work—from political advocacy to interfaith peace rallies—has been recognized internationally, earning her designations as one of Hadassah’s 18 Zionist American Women of 2024, Jewish Week’s “36 Under 36,” and JNS’s Top 40 Latin-American Pro-Israel Advocates. She cohosts the interfaith podcast Americanish: Daughters of Diaspora and, as of 2024, hosts the OpenDor Media show TodayUnpacked on YouTube. She holds a J.D. from the Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law and a B.A. from NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, with a concentration in Middle Eastern Diaspora Structures.

The following is an exclusive reprint from the anthology Young Zionist Voices: A New Generation Speaks Out, edited by David Hazony. Copyright © 2024 Wicked Son. Reprinted with permission.

Instead of Fleeing Top Colleges, Stay and Fight

Don’t give ground to antisemites in the institutions we fought so hard to gain access to.

Adela Cojab

The concern for Jewish safety on college campuses did not begin on October 7, 2023. Back in 2019, I experienced firsthand the burgeoning wave of antisemitism at New York University (NYU).

It began with a statement from NYU’s Governance Council for Minority and Marginalized Students equating Zionism with Nazism. As a member of NYU’s Student Senate, I attempted to engage in dialogue with the council, only to be rebuffed and labeled a fascist for my Zionist identity. This was the first time my Zionism kept me from a space in which I was previously welcomed.

The Jewish community gathered in response to draft a statement—not driven by anger, but disappointed, hurt that our peers would not take the time to understand why their comparison was so offensive to our community. The night before the statement was to be made public, a mentor advised me against publishing, suggesting that drawing attention to the issue would only exacerbate it. Fearing that he might be right, I made the difficult decision not to go public. It is one of my greatest regrets as an activist.

Our silence did not quell the rising tide of antisemitism. Instead, it allowed it to flourish unchecked, setting off a series of exclusionary and hostile actions against Jewish students on campus. Over the next few months, NYU’s Jewish community saw multiple “Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions” (BDS) resolutions led both by student groups and members of NYU’s faculty. Jewish students were targeted both in class and on social media. Events hosted by the Jewish community were frequently met with protests from the Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) chapter, creating an environment of fear and intimidation.

I met with members of NYU’s administration week after week, begging for action, worried for Jewish student safety.

The situation reached a critical point during the 2019 Yom Ha’atzmaut celebration, when an anti-Israel student protestor approached a group of Jewish students, Israeli flag in hand, and set it on fire. The protest continued, chanting “No Zionists at NYU,” until another anti-Israel student approached the center during the singing of “Hatikva,” grabbed the microphone from a Jewish girl, injuring her in the process, and shouting “Free Palestine!” At that point, we looked up and saw they had torn our Israeli flags to shreds and hung them from trees and lampposts. NYPD stepped in and made arrests for property theft and damage, reckless endangerment, and assault and battery.

But while the police responded to these blatant acts of violence, the university turned a blind eye. Instead of taking action, they honored SJP with the President’s Service Award, the highest honor a group can receive on campus.

This prompted me to pursue legal action against NYU. At the time, Title VI of the Civil Rights Act did not include Judaism under its protections. My case at the time had no legal teeth, but it caught the attention of the White House. Months after filing my case, in December 2019, I was invited to speak alongside President Donald Trump, and three days later, he signed an executive order expanding the definition of Jewish identity from a purely faith-based religion to an ethnicity or race, thereby falling under Title VI protections for ethnic minorities.

The executive order accomplished two significant breakthroughs. First, it conveyed a clear message to university administrators that Jewish students are entitled to the same safe and supportive campus environment as all other students, compelling educational institutions to recognize and address antisemitism with the same rigor applied to other forms of discrimination. But, more importantly, the executive order empowered Jewish students by affirming that their voices were both valuable and impactful. It demonstrated that when Jewish students advocate for their rights, they can effect meaningful change and affirm their place within the broader societal fabric.

***

In the wake of the October 7 events, the most common question I receive is whether Jewish students should continue to attend these schools. My unequivocal answer is yes. Not only should we continue to send Jewish students to these institutions, but it is our responsibility to do so. To understand why, we need to view campuses as microcosms of society, and to see what we stand to lose should we choose to cower.

Reflecting on my time at NYU, I often think about the advice from my mentor, who suggested that drawing attention to antisemitism would only make it worse. This perspective, ingrained in the mentality of Jews of past generations, grounded in fear and caution, reflects a historical approach to Jewish identity.

Throughout history, being Jewish has rendered us distinct, and this distinction has often made us targets. In times of danger, Jewish communities were typically presented with only two options: conceal their identity or flee. This dichotomy of concealment or flight is a shared experience among Jewish communities, whether from Eastern or Western Europe or the Middle East.

However, the Jews of today are different, because we have a homeland of our own. While a homeland may seem to Jews in the Diaspora as a security blanket that encourages flight, we must understand our homeland differently: not as a contingency plan, but as an anchor for Jewish strength and identity. Israel symbolizes that Jews are no longer perpetual guests, but rightful citizens with the same rights and responsibilities as anyone else. The mere existence of the State of Israel reinforces our ability to assert our identity wherever we are.

It presents a third option: to stay and fight.

In popular culture, Jews are seldom depicted as fighters; instead, they are often portrayed as doctors, lawyers, entertainers, and bankers. Nevertheless, Jews have historically been at the forefront of the struggle for civil rights across the Diaspora, particularly in the United States. The historical commitment of Jewish activists to justice for all has helped to secure the rights of others in their respective societies, yet it raises a pressing question: Why, when our own rights are imperiled, are we so reluctant to stand our ground and fight to preserve those rights we have strived so hard to attain? Why is it that we, who have long championed the rights of others, are now so hesitant to advocate for ourselves?

This is the question we’re really asking when we wonder whether to continue sending Jewish students to prestigious academic institutions.

And my unequivocal, resounding answer is Yes.

The panic of pulling our children from secular colleges is akin to the fear-driven reaction of making Aliyah at the first sign of danger. This response, while understandable, is both misguided and weak. It represents an instinctive retreat in the face of adversity, a concession to those who seek to marginalize and silence us. If this is what’s happening in universities, where we have a hard-won seat at the table, what happens when we willingly step out of the room? Allowing others to dictate where Jews can and cannot feel comfortable is a surrender to antisemitism.

We should not deny ourselves the opportunities we deserve because our mere presence is disagreeable to others. We cannot allow institutions that preach societal inclusivity to be, in fact, inclusive of all except Jews. Jewish students should feel empowered to attend any university and pursue any field of study despite fear of discrimination. We must assert our right to not only survive, but to thrive. The territory we stand to lose is the hard-won progress in civil rights and societal integration we fought so hard to attain.

Next comes the issue of perpetuating the cycle of self-isolation. When parents decide to withdraw their children from academic institutions into which they have worked hard to gain admission, they inadvertently teach them that Jews do not belong where they are not welcomed. This instills fear in their children—the Jewish students of today who will become the Jewish parents of tomorrow. And, if Jewish students are not attending these institutions, the non-Jewish students who do attend—the leaders of tomorrow—will never meet their Jewish counterparts. This cycle of self-isolation, even self-ghettoization, begins with leaving colleges and continues with withdrawing from political and professional life. Denying ourselves participation prevents the normalization of Jewish presence, which is crucial for fostering understanding and inclusion.

If we do not allow ourselves to participate in these circles, how can we expect them, and the leaders they cultivate, to welcome us?

No, the answer to these questions—whether at universities, in professional circles, or in culture and the arts—is neither fright nor flight. Instead, stay and fight.

***

I sued NYU to ensure that no other NYU student would need to endure the discrimination that my friends and I faced. I had no idea my case would make national headlines, let alone contribute to a change in the application of Civil Rights protections and serve as a cornerstone for the proliferation of Title VI cases now being filed against Harvard, Columbia, the University of Pennsylvania, and others. A single voice makes a difference—but until we raise that voice, we cannot expect to be heard.

The Jewish Diaspora is far from dead; it is given life through the strength and resilience of those who refuse to bow to antisemitism. It thrives in students who stand against hatred and in the unwavering commitment to Jewish identity and pride, and they must do so, not only for their sake but for the sake of the Jewish future. The Diaspora will flourish as long as we remain steadfast in our resolve to fight for our rights and to assert our place in society. By standing up, we honor our heritage, secure our future, and demonstrate that the Jewish Diaspora is vibrant, resilient, and enduring.

The Diaspora is not dead, and if we fight for it, it will be here to stay.