Rachmaninoff is one of my favourite composers. His music has followed me from my early years, through my life in Russia, Israel and Britain. His symphonies and concertos accompanied my nostalgic and lonely moments, heightened my senses, awakened my sensuality and imagination, and moved audiences as I sang his songs. I even created a show about his life, exploring his soul in exile.
But this blog is not about that.
In 1912, Rachmaninoff famously resigned from his position as vice-president of the Imperial Russian Musical Society in direct protest against antisemitic policies, after learning that a Jewish musician in an administrative role had been unjustly dismissed solely because of his religion. Rachmaninoff was widely known for his strong moral compass and lack of ethnic or religious prejudice.
By stepping down from such a prestigious position — one that answered directly to the Russian royal family — he took a profound professional risk to defend his Jewish colleague and stand against institutional discrimination.
To me, this makes him more than a composer. It makes him a moral symbol. A reminder that artistic integrity and human integrity cannot be separated.
And it leaves me asking a painful question: who will be my Rachmaninoff? Where are the Rachmaninoff’s of our time?
I want to believe they exist in today’s Britain. But the truth is, I don’t know.
For almost 1,000 days now, I have felt isolated, rejected by my industry, cancelled, and discriminated against by institutions, venues, and companies. Even those in the music world who are compassionate towards my situation often feel powerless to change it. Some suggest I renounce Israel. Some advise me to stay quiet. Some tell me to move…
And these are just some of the experiences close friends have shared with me: going to hospital afraid to reveal their name for fear of being recognised as Jewish or Israeli and harmed instead of healed. A rapper unable to say he is Jewish because he fears no one would want to work with him. A conductor telling me, “If you stop posting about Israel, I might consider hiring you.”
People afraid to wear the Star of David in public for fear of being spat on, beaten, or harassed. Being refused entry into a restaurant because they hear you speaking Hebrew or Yiddish. Venues refusing to book performances with Jewish themes, or rejecting artists simply for being Jewish or Israeli. Recording studios pretending to double-book after cancelling last minute. Venues hiding behind the guise of “safety concerns” when approached by Jewish or Israeli artists.
What does this tell us about our society? About democracy, equality, and fair treatment?
It tells me we are living in an environment where too many people calculate silence as safer than solidarity. And when silence becomes the norm, something fundamental begins to erode. It is like an abusive relationship: as long as the abused tolerates the abuse, the abuse continues. It grows stronger, bolder, more shameless. But the moment the abused stands up to the bully — and surrounds themselves with strong allies who refuse to look away — the bully begins to lose power, and their voice no longer dominates.
This is true in personal life, and it is true in society.
Hatred thrives when it is accommodated. Intimidation grows when good people retreat. And prejudice becomes normalised when institutions choose comfort over courage.
It breaks my heart to hear these stories. They are signs of a society willing to tolerate hatred, bow to intimidation, renounce its own values, and in doing so participate in the gaslighting of its Jewish minority.
And yet, despite everything I see and experience, for some reason I feel stronger in spirit. More unapologetic. More resilient. More determined.
I continue to learn new repertoire with the best coach from the Met. I run my own music summer festival. I teach. I coach women and men in leadership positions. I sing every day. I work to support the Jewish community in the diaspora. I fight antisemitism, with Israel in my heart.
The Jewish people are fortunate: we have Israel now. And despite our differences, we are strongest when we stop focusing on what divides us and put our energy into what unites us — why we are here, and what we are protecting.
I know there are Rachmaninoff’s out there. I still hope they will step forward from the deafening silence and speak openly against the hatred Jewish people are experiencing.
But until they do, I will be my own Rachmaninoff.
I will protect my integrity, my truth, and my community.
