For centuries, Jews have been unfairly scapegoated for the ills of various societies. Before Hitler and the National Socialists blamed them for Germany’s economic collapse, there was already a millennia-long history of hatred and exclusion. The Nazis didn’t invent anti-Semitism. They inherited it.

Since the Middle Ages, Jews have been blamed for epidemics like the Black Death, financial crises, and even natural disasters. And long before that, in the heart of the ancient world, the Romans already saw them as a threat to the imperial order. Not because of their weapons or their armies, but because of their unwavering faith in one God.

For centuries, the Jewish people lived in the region of Judea, a territory considered sacred by many. At the end of the 2nd century B.C., Judea became a hotbed of geopolitical tensions—first under the rule of the Seleucid Empire and then with Rome’s eastward expansion under the direct control of the republic and later the Roman Empire.

From the beginning, relations between Jews and Rome were marked by profound tension based not only on political grounds but also on cultural and spiritual grounds. Judaism was a monotheistic religion that worshiped a single God exclusively. This contrasted sharply with Roman polytheism, which promoted the veneration of numerous gods and goddesses as well as the emperor as a divine figure.

The Romans were generally tolerant of local cults as long as they did not question the authority of the empire or interfere in its governance. But the Jewish case was different. It was not simply a religion but a worldview that organized the political, ethical, and social life of the entire community.

Tensions worsened when Rome made Judea a Roman province in 6 AD after the fall of the Hasmonean dynasty. The figure of Herod the Great, Rome’s client king, had already generated strong internal controversies. But after his death, direct occupation by a Roman prefect brought with it a series of provocations. The collection of taxes, the presence of Roman symbols in Jerusalem, including banners with imperial images, and the corruption of officials exacerbated local resentment.

In this context, several messianic movements began to emerge among the Jews. The concept of the Messiah, a liberating figure promised by Jewish tradition, became a symbol of resistance against Rome. One of the most notable cases was that of Jesus of Nazareth, whose execution by crucifixion, ordered by the prefect Pontius Pilate, was the result of both internal tensions within Judaism and Roman pressure to maintain order.

The resistance took a more violent turn beginning in 66 AD when the first Jewish-Roman war broke out. It was a massive revolt driven by popular anger at the abuses of the Roman procurators, but also by a growing religious conviction that it was possible to expel the invader. At first, the rebels managed to take Jerusalem, and for a time, it seemed that Rome would lose control.

But in 70 AD, General Titus, son of Emperor Vespasian, retook the city in a brutal military campaign that culminated in the destruction of the Second Temple. This event marked a turning point not only politically but spiritually. The temple in Jerusalem was the heart of Judaism. Its destruction was not only a material catastrophe but also a symbolic one. The center of the Jewish world was reduced to ruins. Many saw this as a definitive humiliation, and thousands were killed or sold into slavery.

Later, Roman coins celebrated the victory with the inscription Judea Capta—Judea conquered—accompanied by an image of a chained Jewish woman.

But the conflict did not end there. Decades later, between 132 and 135 AD, the second great revolt broke out: the Bar Kokhba rebellion. This time, the Jews were led by Simon Bar Kokhba, whom many considered the long-awaited Messiah. The revolt made significant progress in its early stages, and Jewish coins were even minted as a symbol of independence.

However, Roman military power once again asserted itself with extreme violence. Emperor Hadrian, fed up with the uprisings in Judea, decided to apply an unprecedented punishment. Jerusalem was completely rebuilt as a Roman city bearing the name Aelia Capitolina. Jews were forbidden to enter the city under penalty of death. Furthermore, the name of the province of Judea was changed to Syria Palaestina in a symbolic attempt to erase the region’s Jewish identity.

These revolts and their repression had devastating consequences. Tens of thousands of Jews were killed, expelled, or sold into slavery to all corners of the empire. The Jewish diaspora consolidated, dispersing communities throughout Asia Minor, North Africa, and Europe. From then on, Judaism ceased to be a religion with a fixed geographical center and became a dispersed faith sustained by texts, rituals, and community ties.

The relationship between Rome and the Jews from then on was marked by resentment, punishment, and suspicion. Although the Roman Empire kept other populations subservient for centuries, its attitude toward the Jews had a distinctive character. They were seen not only as a militarily defiant people but as a community that resisted integration into the dominant culture. In a world that valued assimilation and imperial worship, the persistence of Judaism—its language, its customs, its diet, its laws—was considered a threat.

This period between the first and second centuries left a profound mark that would influence later centuries. The image of the rebellious, separatist Jew, an enemy of the imperial order, was beginning to consolidate itself as an archetype within the Western imagination. Although Roman hostility was largely a response to specific political and religious challenges, over time it gave way to a broader cultural vision, no longer based solely on specific conflicts but on persistent prejudices.

Anti-Semitism, as it is known today, had not yet been born. But the foundations were laid. The idea that the Jewish people were different, difficult to govern, incapable of integrating into the imperial order, and deserving of suspicion or punishment began to crystallize in these years. It was the beginning of a narrative that, albeit in different forms, would span time to reach tragic proportions centuries later.

Following the destruction of the Second Temple and the mass expulsion of the Jewish people from Jerusalem, the Roman Empire entered a period of territorial consolidation. But internally, the spiritual landscape began to transform. As the first century progressed and the second century entered, a new faith born precisely on Jewish soil began to spread quietly: Christianity.

Early Christianity emerged as a messianic Jewish movement. Its first followers, including the apostles, were Jews who believed that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah promised in the Hebrew scriptures. During the first decades, the dividing line between Judaism and Christianity was blurred. They shared many customs, texts, and worldviews. In fact, in several synagogues across the empire, communities that were not yet clearly defined as separate coexisted.

However, as the years passed, this relationship began to fracture. One of the main triggers was the decision of many Christians to open the faith to Gentiles—that is, to non-Jews. This openness entailed renouncing fundamental practices of Judaism, such as circumcision, dietary laws, and strict observance of the Sabbath. For Orthodox Jews, this was an unacceptable deviation.

The Apostle Paul in particular was a central figure in this separation. Although he himself was a Jewish Pharisee, he actively preached among the Gentiles and defended the idea that salvation did not require following the Mosaic law, but simply having faith in Christ. This universalist vision of Christianity clashed head-on with Jewish identity based on the exclusive covenant with God and the fulfillment of the commandments.

What began as a doctrinal difference gradually took on a more hostile tone. In some New Testament texts written several decades after Jesus’s death, there are references that reflect this tension. In the Gospel of John, for example, the Jews often appear as opponents of Jesus, even as responsible for his death. This narrative, although born of an internal dispute between groups, would become centuries later one of the ideological foundations of Christian anti-Semitism.

Meanwhile, the Roman Empire viewed both Judaism and Christianity with growing distrust. Both religions were seen as exclusivist, poorly integrated into imperial culture, and dangerously defiant. But over time, Christianity gained followers, especially among the lower classes, slaves, and women. Its promise of universal redemption, its emphasis on eternal life and equality before God, resonated deeply in an unequal and decadent society.

The great transformation came in the 4th century with the rise of Constantine. After a supposed divine vision before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, Constantine converted to Christianity and in 313 signed the Edict of Milan, which guaranteed freedom of worship to Christians. Just a few decades later, Christianity would become the official religion of the Roman Empire, displacing traditional cults.

This shift completely reshaped the map of spiritual power in Europe. From being persecuted, Christians came to occupy privileged positions, and in this process, the young church—now supported by the state—began to define its identity vis-à-vis the others. The Jews, who until then had been religious adversaries on a horizontal level, became a minority group, singled out and vulnerable in a world that no longer understood them.

In this context, the idea of the Jewish people as deicidal—that is, guilty of the death of Jesus—began to take hold. Although historically it was Rome that executed him, this accusation was strongly upheld for centuries. It was a theological interpretation that interpreted the destruction of the Second Temple and the dispersion as divine punishments for failing to recognize the Messiah.

The Church Fathers—theologians such as Origen, John Chrysostom, and Augustine of Hippo—developed discourses that combined the need to tolerate Jewish existence as living proof of divine punishment with contempt for their beliefs and customs. In the words of John Chrysostom, one of the most influential preachers of the 4th century, “the Jews are unworthy of indulgence and forgiveness. They dwell, as it were, in a theater of infamy.”

Although these statements reflect the thinking of their time, their effects were lasting. The church, instead of protecting the Jews as an ancient and respectable community, relegated them to a position of marginality and suspicion. As Christianity spread throughout Europe, the dominant culture became imbued with these prejudices.

Jews were tolerated, but never fully accepted. They were allowed to live, but under conditions that set them apart from others. They were forced to pay special taxes, live in separate neighborhoods, and wear distinctive clothing. In many cases, they were not allowed to participate in public life or hold positions of power.

Despite all this, many Jewish communities managed to thrive, adapt, and resist. They preserved their language, their books, their festivals. Life in the diaspora was for centuries a combination of silent resistance and constant vulnerability. Jews lived knowing that the climate could change quickly—that a rumor, a false accusation, or a change of king could put their lives at risk.

Triumphant Christianity not only inherited some of the Roman resentment toward Jews but transformed it into a theological narrative. Instead of viewing them simply as a foreign people, they were presented as those who had betrayed the divine plan. This view, repeated from the pulpits for generations, sowed a hostility that did not respond to concrete facts but to a symbolic construction.

Thus the separation between Christians and Jews—which at first was an internal divergence within Judaism—became a deep fracture, and over time that fracture turned into persecution. Systematic violence against Jews had not yet begun in its most brutal form, but the seeds of prejudice were already sown.

When the Western Roman Empire fell in 476, the history of anti-Semitism was not interrupted. It merely changed form. Under the banner of Orthodox Christianity, new forms of discrimination and repression toward Jewish communities developed in the Byzantine Empire.

Emperors like Theodosius II prohibited Jews from building synagogues or holding public office. They were to be kept in humiliation, subordination, and disrepute. This logic legitimized systematic marginalization for centuries.

In the East, anti-Semitism was persistent, though more regulated. The idea was for Jews to survive—but as perpetual witnesses to the failure of their faith. This cruel logic would influence the legislation of later Christian Europe.

The Byzantine Empire left an ambivalent legacy: a sophisticated culture, brilliant art, a complex theology—and a legal structure that institutionalized contempt for Jews. This model would be replicated across medieval Europe.

The Jews, meanwhile, continued to disperse, seeking refuge in North Africa, Persia, and the Iberian Peninsula. But this journey was no guarantee of peace.

In each new destination, a different reality awaited them—but almost always under the same shadow: prejudice and exclusion. And so the wheel of hatred kept turning, driven by ignorance, fear, and the need to find someone to blame.

But the Jewish people held on—not thanks to power, but to memory, oral transmission, and adaptability. In a world that frequently changed masters, laws, and languages, they clutched their own traditions like an invisible thread tying them to their past.

That thread, however, did not protect them from hatred. In the centuries to come, hostility would only intensify—the Crusades, the epidemics, the expulsions, the pogroms, until reaching the extermination camps of the 20th century.

Yet even in the darkest times, Jewish life persisted. In every corner where a family lit Shabbat candles, where a rabbi hand-copied the Talmud, where a child learned to recite the Shema, the history of the Jewish people was rewritten once again.

The history of anti-Semitism is also the history of intolerance—of fear of those who are different, of the manipulation of hatred, of the devastating consequences of dehumanizing the other. But it is also the history of a people who, despite centuries of persecution, chose to continue existing, reading, teaching, remembering, and dreaming.

And perhaps that is the most powerful lesson of all: hatred can destroy bodies, but it cannot erase memory. What do you think—can humanity ever truly learn from the past, or are we destined to repeat it?