I went to an anti-Israel dinner party. It did not go as planned.

A true classic textbook response to a group of antisemitic partygoers, written by Nachum Kaplan

They described it as “a safe space for difficult conversations.” What they really wanted was an Israeli who would sit quietly and confess.

I knew the evening was in trouble when the hostess described the table as “a safe space for difficult conversations.”

Nothing good has ever followed such words.

A safe space for difficult conversations is usually a space in which everyone is free to express precisely the same opinion, provided they do so using slightly different therapeutic vocabulary. Disagreement is welcome in the way vegetarians are welcome at a barbecue: theoretically, warmly, and without any intention of accommodating them.

The dinner was being held in an immaculate apartment overlooking the city. The furniture was Scandinavian, the lighting was flattering, and the books had been arranged not alphabetically but morally.

Palestinian-American academic and literary critic Edward Said sat beside French psychiatrist and political philosopher Frantz Fanon. American philosopher Judith Butler leaned against a large volume on decolonizing architecture. There were several books about Israel — none by Israelis, historians, military analysts, Arabic speakers, Hebrew speakers, or anyone who had recently burdened themselves with the region’s chronology.

The apartment belonged to Oliver and Beatrice, who had invited 12 people for what they called “an evening of food, friendship and necessary conversation.” I had been included, I later realized, as the necessary conversation; the one in need of “education.”

Beatrice greeted me at the door with the expression of a person welcoming a recently rehabilitated extremist. “We’re so glad you came,” she said, touching my arm. “We were worried you might feel uncomfortable.”

“I’ve been to family weddings,” I replied. “I’ll survive.”

The other guests had already assembled around a huge island bench. They held champagne flutes and spoke in low, solemn tones about suffering in places they would never visit.

There was Julian, an international lawyer who specialized in commercial leases but had recently developed strong views on the laws of armed conflict. Nadia worked in branding and referred to herself as a storyteller. Marcus was a documentary producer whose documentaries had never been produced. Eleanor taught postcolonial literature and had perfected the academic art of converting adjectives into accusations. Simon was in finance and considered himself politically courageous because he had once criticized capitalism at the World Economic Forum Annual Meeting in Davos, Switzerland.

There was also Theo, a surgeon, who knew nothing about Israel but knew it with clinical confidence.

I was introduced around the room. “This is our pro-Israel friend,” Beatrice announced. I gently corrected her that I was not “pro-Israel” but an actual Israeli, which caused a murmur. It was a curious introduction. Nobody else was introduced by the country they were expected to defend. There was no “This is our pro-France friend” or “Meet our controversial supporter of New Zealand.”

Apparently, Israel was no longer a country. It was a personality disorder, and not a borderline one.

“How brave of you to come,” Eleanor said.

“Well,” she replied, glancing around the room, “I suspect you may be in the minority.”

“Minorities are sacred,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be protected.”

The first course was served on plates that looked handmade because they had been expensively manufactured to resemble imperfection. It was some kind of compressed beetroot construction accompanied by a smear of something apologetic.

Oliver raised his glass: “To honest conversation.” Everyone echoed him. I should have left then.

For the first 10 minutes, the conversation was restrained. We discussed schools, property prices, artificial intelligence, and whether the city had lost its soul. Then Nadia placed her fork carefully beside her plate and sighed: “I just don’t understand how anyone can still defend Israel.”

There it was. Not raised, exactly. Released. The room grew quiet. Heads turned towards me with the benign anticipation of people waiting for a laboratory animal to perform a familiar trick.

“What is it that you don’t understand?” I asked.

“All of it,” she said.

This was at least honest.

“The occupation. The apartheid. The genocide. The colonialism.”

Four accusations, delivered with the rhythmic confidence of a wine list.

“Those are different claims,” I said.

“Yes. Words retain separate meanings even when discussing Israel.”

Julian smiled and said, “I think what Nadia means is that the entire structure is indefensible.”

“The structure of oppression.”

“Could you be more specific?”

He leaned back. He had expected moral submission, not follow-up questions.

“The occupation of Palestine.”

“Yes, you said that. Which territory?”

“The Palestinian territories.”

“Israel withdrew every soldier and civilian from Gaza in 2005.”

“That doesn’t mean the occupation ended.”

“What would have meant the occupation ended?”

It was an excellent answer because it had no content and therefore could not be disproved.

“Israel removed its military, dismantled settlements, expelled its own citizens from their homes, and left Gaza under Palestinian control. Shortly afterwards, Hamas took........

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