I Never Thought I Could Be Attacked as a Jew in New York City—Until It Happened.

As most of you know I'm Jewish. As soon as Bibi leveled Gaza City I told many friends this kind of stuff was coming. Anti-Sematism has always existed. Israel's government isn't helping protect the tribe right now, but putting them in harm's way. Sad for all concerned.

I Never Thought I Could Be Attacked as a Jew in New York City—Until It Happened.

An assault in Central Park helped me see that the age-old hatred of antisemitism is alive and well, even in places we assumed were safe.

Allan Ripp on the Bridle Path in Central Park, the site of the attack, on July 21.

By Allan Ripp, WSJ

July 25, 2024 12:00 pm ET

An out-of-town friend recently asked if I feel threatened these days as a Jew in New York, to which I scoffed and expressed disbelief. Of course I had seen obnoxious anti-Zionists ripping down hostage posters and had confronted a few. I’d stared down protesters marching near my apartment chanting strident “from the river to the sea” tropes. I felt outrage walking past a neighborhood kosher eatery that was forced to remove graffiti declaring “Free Gaza” and “Form line here to support genocide.”

Yet despite these disturbing scenes, and reports from the Anti-Defamation League and others showing a spike in reported antisemitic bias incidents in New York, I hadn’t felt personally targeted or at risk. It wasn’t just because I don’t wear any symbols or clothing that would identify me as Jewish, such as a head-covering kippah or a black hat and side curls. I simply didn’t believe that I could feel physical peril for being Jewish in the diverse, populous and generally civilized part of the city where I live, the Upper West Side.

Until it happened, and I realized that the age-old hatred of antisemitism can strike any time, even in what we believe are the safest places and comfort zones.

I was walking my daughter’s dog Biscotti on a sultry Saturday evening in Central Park, just below one of the cast-iron bridges leading to the reservoir. It is a shady, idyllic spot I’ve traversed thousands of times since moving to the neighborhood in 1976. A man on a CitiBike rode past and gave me a hard shove with his left elbow. I’m not one to call out cyclists for disregarding park rules, but the push was so intentional that I blurted, “Hey, you’re not allowed to ride your bike on the path.”

He immediately slammed on his brake, threw the bike aside and stormed toward me, his eyes bugging with rage. I tried to apologize, but he was already wound up. “You f—ing Jew pig. I am going to kill you and your animal,” he screamed. In seconds he was upon me, spitting at me and hurling “Jew! Jew! Jew!” while pummeling my face.

I managed to deflect the worst of his assault, but punches hit my neck and wrist, and another grazed my cheek as I jerked back. My instincts were all defensive. I was also worried about the dog, whom the man tried to kick. I managed to yank Biscotti away and dashed across the bridge to the reservoir running track, but not before he ripped my shirt.

“No dogs allowed up here,” a passing jogger scolded me as I tried to call 911. I looked up and unbelievably, there was my attacker again, back on his bike and coming at me on the cinder path, shouting “You can’t run, Jew. I’m going to kill you now.” I turned to run as fast as my 70-year-old legs and a bewildered Schnauzer would take me. Apparently he then peeled off and left the track, as I finally stopped to slow my pounding heart and make the emergency call.

The park police responded within minutes and were extremely kind and empathetic. I was angry at myself for not taking a photo of the man or canvassing for witnesses—multiple people had seen the attack, but they were a blur. I was driven to the police station in Central Park and interviewed by an on-the-ball detective, who pulled surveillance video of a man fitting the description I provided—orange baseball cap, salt-and-pepper beard, dark jeans, likely Middle Eastern appearance and accent. A park surveillance video camera showed him riding a CitiBike just yards from where the attack occurred at 6:13 p.m., exactly one minute after my 911 call. “I would say that’s your guy,” the detective said. The police were going to try to find additional footage from other parts of the park to track him and get a clearer image.

I met with two more detectives and a captain from the NYPD hate crimes unit for another detailed recounting of the incident. “I hope this isn’t offensive,” one of them asked, “but how did he know you were Jewish?” In truth, he didn’t. In this man’s twisted worldview, perhaps anyone who challenged him, or simply existed in this part of town, was a despicable Jew to be set upon and attacked.

My father had told me stories about confronting prejudice in the 1960s, and I’d had insults about money-grubbing tossed at me at my Pittsburgh high school. But this attack was different. It seemed like an act of war.

The cops admitted that the chances of capturing and prosecuting the suspect were low. They offered to drive me home in a squad car. Anxious as I was to get home and shower off the attacker’s spit, I insisted on walking back through the park, past the scene of the crime.

With my wife Sarah, who had come to meet me, I tried to guess the source of the man’s hostility. Nothing would excuse my attacker’s actions, but I wanted to understand a root cause other than bigoted psychopathy. I suspect there is a link between the recent flood of anti-Israel protests, graffiti and social media screeds and this person’s directed ambush. Could the man have relatives in Gaza? Was he fuming over news of the Israeli attack on Hamas military leader Mohammed Deif that reportedly killed 90 people outside Khan Younis? Or maybe he worked in the neighborhood and just had personal grievances with Jewish customers?

Sarah and I paused on the bridle path at the end of a midsummer’s evening, with strollers and shirtless runners crisscrossing. No one could have suspected what had happened to me two hours earlier. I vowed not to be intimidated by the assault, but I worried about who might be the next victim of the man’s hatred. After all, the attack wasn’t personal; it was about the evil that Jews represent in the eyes of many people. And the virus of antisemitism is ever-present.

Days later, my right hand was still sore and swollen from absorbing the assailant’s blow. An orthopedist friend examined it in the park and assured me it isn’t broken. “It is only a soft tissue injury,” he concluded. “It will heal.” I fear the damage is much deeper but pray his prognosis is right.

Allan Ripp, a former journalist, runs a press relations firm in New York.