I’m sitting in a central London hospital, awaiting my final radiotherapy session for breast cancer. A radiographer, who is wearing a hijab, comes out to speak to one of my fellow patients. “Salaam alaykum,” she says to him.
I feel a spike of anxiety.
I know it is irrational. But after more than three years of surging antisemitism, including cases involving NHS staff, I have become more apprehensive than I care to admit. Some of these controversies have involved Muslim healthcare professionals, although prejudice is by no means confined to any one community and I know perfectly well that the overwhelming majority of Muslims have nothing to do with such hatred.
The radiographer has not said “Free Palestine”. Nor is she wearing any watermelon regalia. She looks perfectly cheerful and has given me no reason whatsoever to question her professionalism. But in ten minutes, I’ll be lying powerless under machinery to zap my body with high-energy photons – over which this technician will have control. And in my vulnerable position, even an innocent Muslim greeting is enough to stir anxieties I would rather not have and for which I feel guilty, paranoid, and a little bit stupid.
But the fact remains: I am a Jewish woman – with a Jewish name – in a diverse London NHS hospital. I’m about to have invasive treatment, and, well, I read the news.
Jews are increasingly wary of the NHS. A 2026 report by the Campaign Against Antisemitism revealed that two-thirds of respondents worried about receiving equal treatment in the health service because they were Jewish. Twenty per cent said they felt uncomfortable because of their identity and a quarter had gone as far as concealing it.
Their fears are not unfounded. There have been several high-profile cases of “antizionist” doctors in our NHS, and the government has repeatedly assured us it is aware of the antisemitism reported within the health service, and is appalled by it. It has just implemented a review by Lord Mann that called NHS antisemitism “a national emergency” and promised to roll out training to its staff.
This is all very well, but this stuff takes time (generations?) to take effect and change entrenched attitudes. The overwhelming majority of NHS professionals, whatever their religion or background, are dedicated to treating their patients with compassion and impartiality. But the conduct of even a small minority can undermine confidence in the entire service.
When I received my diagnosis after a routine mammogram earlier this summer, all this was one of the first things I thought about. Breast cancer, in particular, has a potentially Jewish twist: one in 40 of us carry the BRCA gene – an inherited mutation that increases your likelihood of certain cancers developing. If you’re Ashkenazi and have a family history of the disease, you should probably discuss genetic testing with your doctor.
Before my first appointment with the surgeon, I looked up his name. It was of indeterminate Middle Eastern origin and I found myself reluctant to mention that I was Jewish. When my husband, who had accompanied me to the appointment, made a quip about Jewish health anxiety, I poked him hard in the leg and glared at him.
But it soon became apparent that my surgeon was a darling. He did not lecture me on genocide and, better still, he told me, Baruch Hashem, that I had one of the “best”, least aggressive types of breast cancer one can get, and was utterly attentive and reassuring. I had a similar experience with my oncologist – who also had a name I associated with the Middle East – and so I started to relax.
And yet, months later, when I returned to a newer, busier hospital for the final stages of my treatment, the old apprehension returned. I knew perfectly well that I was making assumptions about people I did not know. Nothing in their behaviour suggested that they harboured any prejudice against Jews, let alone that they would allow such prejudice to interfere with their work. Indeed, my own experiences had consistently demonstrated the opposite.
And yet fear is not always rational, especially when you are frightened and vulnerable. The wider atmosphere of antisemitism had somehow found its way into the treatment room.
Again – and of course – my fears were unfounded. Everyone was really very nice, and the one nurse who was a bit moody probably had trouble parking her car, or something.
But the point remains. Should a Jewish cancer patient be worrying about all this in 2026?
The answer, surely, is no. Nor should any NHS professional find their commitment to their patients questioned because of their religion or background. Both deserve better.
NHS bosses, you need to quickly change the climate in your organisation – or, as Zack Polanski might say, the perception of a climate.
The sooner you get rid of rogue doctors, the better for all of us, patients and health care staff. You have surgery to do – and fast.
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