Living with the J-word

A personal experience of antisemitism, by writer and broadcaster Michael Goldfarb.

"Jew!"

The contents of the pint glass were already airborne as we turned towards the shout. The beer hit my friend Doug directly in the face, soaking his glasses and forming a little drip from the end of his long, classically Jewish nose. He removed his spectacles and tried to find a dry spot on his shirt to wipe them. I looked back towards the shout and saw the backs of three youths, wearing tight, white T-shirts, the flesh on their wiry arms chapped raw by the chill July afternoon. Their bony shoulders shook with laughter as they disappeared into the throng sluicing down into the centre of Durham, in the north-east of England, where the annual Miners' Gala was in full swing.

Douglas and I turned away and trudged wordlessly up the hill towards St. Aidan's College. It was the summer of 1967, the summer of love, and we had been in England less than 24 hours. Despite that introduction, I have managed to live half my life here.

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