Inside my car are two small Israeli flags, “flying” from poles made of drink straws that are stuck in a vent on the dashboard. They are visible from outside the car, but barely.

I believe in Israel’s right to exist, which makes me a Zionist. But many Americans disagree with me. And because they seem bent on proving that they’re right and I’m wrong through violent means, I am afraid. And so I fly my little flags, but discreetly.

I don’t think people in the pro-Palestinian movement understand what a Zionist is and what it means to me. I think — I’m not certain, but I think this is correct — they believe Zionism means getting rid of the Palestinians, preferably by genocide. To me, being a Zionist means I support having a Jewish state in the ancient Jewish homeland. But it does not mean that I support the Israeli government. An important distinction that is perhaps too subtle for people chanting slogans.

I don’t really know what the protesters believe. I watched the coverage of the protests this spring, listened to their chants, and read the signs. “Lesbians for a Free Gaza”? Do they know how lesbians and gays are treated in majority Arab countries? I wonder if they would feel safe in Gaza.

I worry that when they go back to college this fall they will go back to protesting. I worry that the critical thinking skills that they are supposed to be developing in college are not being applied, and they are simply accepting Hamas propaganda.

And I cynically wonder if they truly care about suffering, downtrodden people. Because if they did, they’d be shouting about suffering around the globe, and they wouldn’t be taking a summer vacation from their protests.

Most of all, I worry that these protests are a smokescreen for antisemitism, pure and simple.

According to a recent article in The New York Times, “Supporting Palestine has become a core feature of progressive politics on many campuses…Accompanying this shift, on campus and beyond, has been a rise in Israel-related antisemitism.”

Before October 7, I naïvely believed that America was a safe space for Jews. I still feel that way in my little city on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a tourist town, a jewel amidst a string of jewels that dot the coastline, with beautiful beaches, lots of restaurants, and an inviting downtown. It’s the kind of place where you can go into a fancy restaurant wearing shorts and flip-flops, because the tourists don’t always bring dressy clothes.

I love it here, and I do feel safe, and even cherished by the supportive non-Jewish community around me. But I still fly my little flags discreetly.