As a young girl growing up in Leningrad, I often heard stories from my family and their friends about the Stalinist repressions. These stories were marked by fear, loss, and a sense of betrayal. I learned early that trust could be dangerous; in times of terror, neighbours, friends, and even colleagues could turn against you. A single accusation could lead to imprisonment or worse — you might never return.
One such story was that of my great-grandmother’s brother, a quiet, apolitical cobbler. One day, he was arrested on charges of treason and spying, despite having no political connections or ambitions. She was allowed to visit him a few times, and then, as was so often the case during Stalin’s abominable reign, he disappeared. No explanation. No closure. His fate remains a chilling reminder of the randomness of terror.
What I write here is not only a personal testimony but also a mirror reflecting the past and present, showing the terrifying continuity of fear, betrayal, and rising antisemitism. The parallels between Stalinist terror, Nazi persecution, and the current atmosphere facing Jews today are inescapable. In both past and present, one cannot trust neighbours, colleagues, or even institutions that once seemed safe.
Before leaving Russia, my great-grandmother said, “I have suffered enough. I want a better life for my grandchildren.” Her story is like many other Jewish stories around the world are intertwined and connected by what it means to survive — and to hope.
When I lived in Israel in the 1990s, I met a man who became a mentor and a grandfather figure to me: Manfred Vanson, the president of the B’nai B’rith Albert Einstein Lodge. In his early eighties when we first met, he was a lover of classical music and an extraordinarily intuitive pianist. His kindness, generosity, and wisdom were boundless, his belief in me unconditional. He became instrumental in my journey to becoming an opera singer in London and around the world. Born in Germany, he shared with me the painful memory of how, when the Nazis came to power, the people who once called him a friend turned their backs on him and his family. The coldness of betrayal was palpable. Friends, colleagues — people he and his family had trusted — suddenly became strangers. Manfred spoke of how people simply disappeared, with rumours circulating that they had boarded trains…
This is no longer a distant historical lesson; it is happening again, right now. I was in New York last autumn and visited the painfully simple, noble, moving memorial to the victims of the attacks on 9/11. Naturally the civilised world rallied round the USA at that time, offering support and solidarity. But the brutal massacre by Hamas on October 7th 2023 brought about a very different public response; essentially victim-blaming, showing no empathy for the Jews, celebrating the death of Israelis, ignoring and questioning the legitimacy of those raped and mutilated. Supporters of the terrorist groups were allowed to march on the streets of London shouting antisemitic slogans and calling for the elimination of Israel. Historic antisemitic tropes that we thought gone 80 years ago, such as blood libel, have re-emerged. Jews have been attacked and murdered on streets, in synagogues, and on beaches.
Today, Jewish communities are living in mortal fear. Have you ever seen a Christian or Muslim school, church or mosque protected by armed guards day and night? I have only ever seen that outside Jewish schools and synagogues. Since October 7th, Jewish gatherings, even cultural ones such as public concerts, are often organized in secret, by invitation only.
In the world of music, where I once felt a certain measure of safety, I now see Jewish and non-Jewish friends and colleagues who speak up against antisemitism and/or against Hamas exposed to aggressive verbal attacks at workplaces and online. Friends, colleagues, and peers are now cancelling them with cold disregard — often with a smile, looking them straight in the eye. This betrayal cuts deeply.
Another man whose name I proudly associate with my journey is Henri (Hans) Moerel, the son of a Holocaust victim and a Holocaust survivor himself. Henri’s father, Salomon Moerel, was a physician who, under Nazi occupation, was forced to close his practice to “Aryan” patients. During the war, Salomon served as treasurer for the Dutch-Israelite Community of Tilburg, and through his connections, his family was temporarily spared from deportation. However, when the last Jews of Tilburg were rounded up in 1943, Salomon and his wife went into hiding, only to be betrayed and arrested in 1944. They were deported to Auschwitz, where they were murdered. Somehow Henri survived. He would never have children or a family and so left his money to a Foundation that supports music and musicians. In 2014, I was fortunate enough to benefit from “his” support in my Signum Classics album project ‘Surrender – Voices of Persephone’. It was my personal journey from darkness into light, exploring the three stages of womanhood, from innocence to maturity through operatic heroines. The support felt much more than simply financial: I felt as though I was being welcomed into Moerel’s family. Yet, extraordinarily, in 2025 I received a request from the Foundation to remove from my website any association with them, with threats of legal action.
This brings me to one of the most pernicious aspects of current antisemitism, the so-called ‘human rights activists’ who form the organization called BDS. BDS stands for Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions. Inspired by the noble struggle against South-African apartheid, it draws facile and erroneous comparisons between that regime and the current Israeli government, and uses that supposed moral authority to threaten organizations with dire consequences if they don’t cut ties with Jewish/ Israeli clients – it’s notable that many of their targets have had no actual connection to Israel.
Since October 7th I have posted on social media to draw awareness to the humanitarian situation of the hostages, speaking out against Hamas for the sake of Palestinians, supporting Israel (though not necessarily its government) in its fight against terror, and condemning antisemitism wherever I see it. I feel an unshakeable right to speak my truth, to be proud of my complex heritage, and to condemn hate — wherever it comes from. Supporting Israel’s right to exist, opposing terrorism, and calling out antisemitism and supporting peace in the middle east is not controversial; it is a matter of moral clarity. I do not represent the Israeli government, I am not a politician, and yet I believe that my voice matters; in the sea of many voices against Israel and Jews, even my voice may make a difference. I believe in fighting for the light, in building from the ruins and being unapologetically vocal, proud and courageous.
This was, it seems, sufficient reason for BDS (or perhaps another similar organisation, I have no proof) to turn their searchlight on the Moerel Foundation, make the demand I mentioned above, and for them to cave in. Never would have I imagined that an organisation that uses the money left by a Holocaust survivor could try to airbrush a Jewish musician. It is deeply painful to realize that an organization built on Moerel’s legacy — a survivor who had lived through unimaginable horrors — would now contribute to the same culture of silencing Jewish voices. It is a betrayal on so many levels – of me as an artist, of Moerel as a benefactor, and of the inescapable fact of the Holocaust itself.
I am not alone in my fear. But I also know that I am not alone in my courage. Many around the world, Jewish and non-Jewish alike, are speaking up, resisting the normalization of antisemitism, and pushing back against the dangerous currents of hate masquerading as political discourse or “social justice.” Behind me stands the Jewish community, who, while maintaining a beautiful diversity of opinion and outlook, feel very strongly about the honour and the legacy of their Holocaust survivors and proud to protect their beloved Israel.
Manfred, the kind man who helped guide my career, never lost his belief in humanity. Despite the horrors he endured, he never stopped hoping for a better world. He used to say, “If only the Jews of the Holocaust could see what a magnificent country their children and grandchildren would build.” He meant – Israel. The only democratic, multi-faith society in the middle east. The only country where Jews can escape to when persecuted elsewhere in the world. I took great pride in knowing him and in being supported by his unwavering vision for a better future.
