Above: a synagogue in Venice where the first Jewish ghetto was created. The word ghetto comes from Venetian dialect. Image via Wikipedia.

I’ve been on the fence over whether or not I should share these experiences here. But an article in the Times yesterday, “French Election Becomes ‘Nightmare’ for Nation’s Jews,” made me feel compelled to relate some unsettling encounters with people in the wine trade. The story is centered around a violent anti-Semitic attack on a 12-year-old girl. Our oldest daughter is 12.

I’ve encountered a lot of anti-Semitism in the wine trade over my decades-long career.

A Dutch importer’s abrasive comments, left unanswered because I didn’t want to jeopardize a friend’s business relationship.

The uncle of a client who indulged in worn stereotypes, again unrequited because I feared losing the client. In wine circles, I’ve heard the expression, ebreo del cazzo (f*&%ing Jew), more than once and more than once directed at me.

But generally, I’ve always felt safe in Italy. Thanks to the Italians’ often intellectual curiosity about and reverence for Jews (a trope that stretches back to Dante and Boccaccio), I’ve even felt more welcomed in Italy than I did in certain circles here at home.

This year, everything is different.

At Vinitaly in April, a now ex-friend — not a good friend but someone with whom I used to trade messages on social media — told me that the reason Biden is supporting Netanyahu’s war because he needs the backing of “Jewish bankers.”

“I’m a Jew,” I told him directly. “Please do not make anti-Semitic comments — ever.”

I walked away. Needless to say, we won’t be trading messages on Instagram anymore.

But it was on this last trip that an anti-Semitic episode left me reeling and wanting to strike back.

After a large trade tasting I attended, when beer and smoke were being shared in camaraderie, a passing comment about Jews inspired a young wine professional to declare: “If I ever encounter a Jew in this town, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him! I’ll kill him!” he insisted.

Again, as in many instances, I felt obliged to remain silent to protect my friends’ professional relationships. My instinct was to fight back — with words not fists. But I was quiet.

I’m not going to be quiet anymore — ever again, regardless of the professional consequences.

I hope you’ll join me in speaking out.

Thanks for being here and thanks for your solidarity.