Overt antisemitism among online influencers — the folks who often make a very comfortable living from podcasting, live streaming and clip farming — has started to break into the real world.

A notable recent example comes via Tyler Oliveira, a YouTuber who rose to fame with stunts like trying to absorb a swimming pool’s worth of water with paper towels before pivoting to “documentaries” that often purport to expose conservative bugaboos — and who has filmed two recent videos focused on Jews.

Or, as Oliveira put it to his nearly 9 million Youtube subscribers, “the New York town invaded by welfare-addicted Jews” and “New Jersey’s Jewish invasion.”

The two videos — about Kiryas Joel, a Hasidic enclave in New York, and Lakewood, a heavily Orthodox town in New Jersey — fit a mold gaining increasing traction in the second Trump era.

Harmeet Dhillon, civil rights director for the Department of Justice, has said she finds cases to prosecute by scrolling social media. The massive Immigration and Customs Enforcement operation in Minneapolis was prompted in part by a 23-year-old vlogger who made a video claiming to expose social services funding fraud by Somali residents of the city, and an immigrant arrest operation in Manhattan followed an influencer’s demand for a crackdown.

Oliveira tried to get in on the Minnesota action, posting “Inside Minneapolis’ Somali invasion” in December. But he has struck more novel territory with his recent content about the Orthodox Jewish enclaves in the greater New York City region.

The videos themselves total around two hours of footage and are a strange mix of man-on-the-street interviews with Jews and others who he insists on calling “goyim” in the towns he visits, along with more formal interviews with local activists and Oliveira’s own narration.

Oliveira repeatedly seeks to connect what are fundamentally local disputes over land use and the changing face of these suburban towns into something far more sinister, editing in ominous music behind basically stories about a concrete yard turned into a kosher grocery.

“How do you combat a group of people chosen by God, practicing rampant ethno-nationalism,” he asked Mike Caldarise, an independent journalist from a town near Lakewood. Caldarise primarily seemed concerned with the more obscure goal of reforming the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act to prevent synagogues without parking from being built in residential neighborhoods.

“You think moving capital and charging interest is something more valuable than what I do or what?” Oliveira asks a random Jewish man in Lakewood who had questioned his profession as a Youtuber.

Oliveira couldn’t seem to decide if the point of his videos was to make a point about welfare — he vacillates between claiming Orthodox Jews are engaged in fraud and acknowledging they legitimately qualify for programs like Medicaid and food stamps that he doesn’t think taxes should pay for, at least when it comes to large Jewish families — or to hold up the Jewish communities in Kiryas Joel and Lakewood as models for white Americans.

“When you live the same, you look the same, you pray the same, you can do cool shit like that,” he says after visiting volunteer emergency service teams in Kiryas Joel. “We got to do this for ourselves.”

At several points he complains of a double standard that allows Jews to live together but supposedly prevents white people from doing the same, posting screenshots of the Forward’s coverage of a white supremacist settlement in Arkansas that forbids Jews. “Why is it OK for Jewish people to live together in a homogenous Jew-only community but it’s illegal when white people try to build their own?” Oliveira asked.

But coherence doesn’t really matter here. Oliveira isn’t doing investigative journalism. And, although his politics clearly match the manosphere’s politics of white grievance, he’s not much of a pundit. His videos on various minority “invasions” and interspersed with ones about Scientology and scammers targeting European tourists. (The title of one promises a “fart spray gun 🔫 + 2 bodyguards.”)

What matters is that these videos help Oliveira confirm whatever stereotypes his viewers already have about Jews. When a man in Lakewood leaned on his horn, Oliveira commented “that honk was promised to him 3,000 years ago,” referencing a popular antisemitic meme that suggests Jewish attachment to Israel is the result of a broader sense of entitlement.

The notion that Jews are a people apart — and should be treated as such — has exploded since the Oct. 7 Hamas attack in Israel and resulting political turmoil in the U.S. Some of it has a clear connection to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but much of it is nothing more than the regurgitation of longstanding antisemitic conspiracy theories about Jewish control.

“The Great Noticing continues,” reads one of the top comments on Oliveira’s Lakewood video and similar “noticing” references are studded throughout the replies. It’s a coded antisemitic term, labeling the act of identifying the supposedly nefarious Jewish influence over society. The Blue Square Alliance found use of the meme increased more than 2,000% last year.

Orthodox towns like those Oliveira highlighted an easy target for this kind of “noticing” because, if one doesn’t think too hard about it, they appear to confirm various antisemitic stereotypes: they can be insular communities whose leaders often leverage political influence to advance what they perceive to be Jewish interests.

That’s very close to the classic claim that Jews are pulling the strings in society.

But the connection between the reality of towns like Kiryas Joel and broader antisemitic conspiracy theories fall apart upon even cursory inspection. Oliveira seems to suggest that the Jews of Kiryas Joel are somehow gaming the welfare system to fund their lifestyles, while simultaneously acknowledging the high poverty rates in the town that qualify residents for programs like Medicaid. Repeatedly, he implies that Jews should not have children if they need help affording them, as though the birth rates themselves are part of a fraudulent scheme.

And the disputes he covers in Lakewood revolve around where Jews should be allowed to build synagogues and the allocation of school district resources. Those are serious issues for local residents and have received lots of normal media coverage. But convincing the local municipality to install a new traffic light outside an informal synagogue, which Oliveira points to as an example of outsize Jewish influence, would be a pretty bush league priority for any kind of all-powerful cabal.

A flimsy premise also undergirded a much shorter video released this week by Essa Ejelat and Erik Warsaw, two online influencers who use concern for Palestinian rights as a thin veneer for antisemitism. The six-minute short shows the pair walking and driving through an affluent part of Riverdale in the Bronx while Essa talks about how feminine “Zionists” are and Warsaw does a dance meant to represent a scheming Jew. The point of the video is that somehow Rep. Ritchie Torres, a strong supporter of Israel, is responsible for the wealth disparity between Riverdale and poorer parts of the borough.

The claim is so thoroughly absurd — and frankly rather unclear — that it’s hard to fact check, though it’s worth noting that despite Ejelat repeatedly calling it a “Zionist neighborhood” Riverdale is only 20% Jewish.

These kinds of details rarely matter to antisemites, who alternate between accusing Jews of orchestrating capitalism and communism and of simultaneously belonging in Israel (“Why don’t you move back to Israel?” Oliveira asks a man in Lakewood) and needing to vacate the region.

The danger, though, is real.

Racist online content is making its way into the real world. Federal agencies are sharing white supremacist memes on social media at the same time that immigration agents have been documented arresting American citizens based on foreign accents.

Oliveira seems to be pushing to extend the same kind of racist dragnet that spurred the federal crackdown in Minneapolis to capture Jewish communities, even if he recognizes this approach may not catch on for the time being.

“If Americans are upset about Somalis in Minneapolis not assimilating and living according to ‘Sharia law’ while sucking the teat of welfare programs,” he wrote on X while promoting the Kiryas Joel video, “then what’s the excuse for this religious ethno-state feeding their massive families with your secular tax-dollars?”

The post After Minneapolis, a Youtuber comes for Jewish ‘welfare queens’ appeared first on The Forward.

I am Maddie, a millennial woman from Iran and an eyewitness to a bitter reality impossible to unsee.

I woke up on the morning of January 7, 2026, and checked my phone, scrolling through clips of my favorite shows. I walked into the living room with my phone still in my hand, when I realized that protests had broken out in the capital, Tehran.

At first, I ignored it. I had seen this before. In the 2019 “Bloody November” protests (Aban-i-Khoonin), the streets did not just protest; they bled. What started as fury over oil prices became a desperate fight for survival and freedom. The only thing more deafening than the gunfire was the chilling realization that this regime would rather rule a graveyard than lose its throne.

In 2022, the death of Mahsa Jina Amini in police custody sparked a new wave of demonstrations, and headscarves were burned. Streets filled again. Bullets tore through the chants; the shadow of the gallows grew longer every passing day. For every burned scarf, a life was taken.

Every time the streets stir, that old terror returns. The memory of what happens to empty hands never really fades. Our only weapon is our voices, but voices don’t stop bullets. You can’t save your loved one with chants; the memory of the consequences of rising against a totalitarian regime is etched in the pavements of this land in the form of stains.

This time, I knew the protests would be suppressed as they always are, and people would be forced back into silence. I put on my hoodie and left to buy eggs and dog food. I hadn’t been to the market for over a week. At the counter, I handed my card to the shopkeeper. The card machine beeped and showed an insufficient funds error. I knew I had money; I was certain of it. I asked the shopkeeper why the payment was being declined. He looked at me and said I didn’t have enough.

That was when I realized what had happened. Prices had tripled in less than two weeks. The US dollar had surged past 150,000 toman. At that moment, something broke inside me. I was not just shocked. I was angry, frustrated, and humiliated. Standing there, unable to pay for basic necessities, I understood that the crisis was no longer something happening on screens in Tehran. It had reached my hands, my wallet, and my life.

I spent the day reading, watching videos, and playing with my dogs. By the afternoon, I had to go to work. I went, finished my shift, and came back home. When I returned, I asked my uncle whether there had been any protests where we live. He said there were none.

“This is a small city,” he said. “Everyone knows everyone, you can’t just disappear in a crowd, so even if there are protests, you are not going anywhere.”

I nodded and went out to see my friends. We talked about ordinary things while the news played in the background, the way people do when fear has become a routine. Injustice lingered in the air like a toxin, impossible to escape. Near the main street, I noticed two men and a few young boys and girls standing together in silence. A police van parked in front of them, close enough to silence them without a word. Chanting wasn’t allowed. No banners, no organization — this alone was dangerous.

I went home with a pounding heart. I took off my shoes, then put on a black mask and wrapped a black shawl around my head and neck. In my rush, I forgot to change my red jacket. I found myself already moving before I had fully decided.

Uncle called out, “Where are you going?”

“I am just going to see, not going to do anything!”

“It is dangerous, they will find out, this is a small town,” he warned me about the consequences.

“Ten minutes? I will keep my distance,” I pleaded.

“Only ten minutes! Don’t do anything stupid.”

This is how we negotiate with fear, through time limits and promises that no one believes.

I put my shoes on in a hurry and stepped outside, overwhelmed by adrenaline, moving fast, almost without thinking.

Every step felt like calculating a potential death sentence. Every corner felt like a risk that couldn’t be undone. Here, opposition is not met with dialogue; it is met with batons, bullets, prison, and execution without trial. We grow up knowing the names of the dead even when their stories are erased. We know that a protest is never just a protest; it is a gamble with your future, your freedom, and your life.

As I turned the corner, I saw a few protesters standing apart from one another, careful not to form a crowd. I stopped at a distance. My legs were shaking. My hands would not stay still. I leaned against a wall, trying to steady my breathing. It was my first time standing this close to a protest. I noticed that everyone was wearing black jackets and black masks, as if color itself could be used against us.

I glanced down at my own red jacket and thought of the girl in the red coat in Schindler’s List, a symbol of how innocence and visibility offer no safety when violence is systematic. I stood there for less than a minute, fully aware that in this country, a minute is more than enough to change everything.

Before I could think any further, one of the girls stepped out from the group and walked towards me. I didn’t recognize her at first.

“Maddie, come,” she said.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. My feet moved even as my mind resisted. When I reached the group, I recognized a few of my friends not by their faces, but by their eyes. That was visible.

One of them whispered. “Why are you wearing red? Are you crazy?”

“I didn’t think about it,” I said. I’ll wear black tomorrow.”

We stood there without speaking. One by one, others joined us. Ten people in total. No chants. No movement. Only bodies assembling quietly under constant watch in a small town crowded with the Revolutionary Guard and Basij.

I came home.

Uncle asked. “How did it go?”

“It was fine, I won’t wear a red jacket tomorrow,”

“Tomorrow?” He was quiet. He didn’t say another word.

All night, I kept turning from side to side, consumed by the consequences of having joined a protest. In my family, repression is not an abstract idea. Many of our relatives were killed in the 1970s. We never supported what was called a revolution; what actually took place was a coup d’état. The memories came back uninvited.

During the “Bloody November 2019-2020,” one of my family members was arrested and tortured in a detention center. He spent months as a political prisoner before being released on bail. Those months were filled with a familiar terror: not knowing where your loved ones had been taken, waiting weeks and months without answers, imagining every possible outcome just to survive the silence.

To quiet my thoughts, I downloaded an audiobook from YouTube, The Song of Achilles, my favorite book of all time. In the middle of fear, it offered a strange kind of warmth.

The next evening, at 8 PM, I put on a black jacket and a black mask and returned to the protest with two of my friends, Zahra and Melena. This time it was larger. The ground itself seemed to tremble under the weight of so many feet. Men, women, and children stood together, all dressed in black. The children I was used to seeing run freely through the streets now looked serious, alert.

“Why didn’t you bring your dogs?” one of them asked. They recognized me.

“They might bite you,” I said, and they laughed.

I noticed Snow — a white stray dog — near the sidewalk, looking for me. He finds me wherever I go. I ran home, brought him food, and returned. Dogs are considered filthy and forbidden under Islamic Sharia rules. I have faced constant opposition and mockery simply for feeding and caring for them. That story alone could fill pages.

Snow ate his food and stayed close. When we began walking towards the avenue, he followed along the sidewalk, frightened by the crowd. As we moved, more people joined us.

Then the chants began.

“Death to Khamenei!”

“Death to the dictator!”

“This land will not be free until the clerics are dead.”

The silence was gone, replaced by the brave people who enveloped the town whole.

Those who could not walk with us showed up with their cars, driving slowly in front of and behind the crowd. Their continuous honking, clapping through open windows, and making their presence known gave me the courage to keep walking and chanting even as my heart pounded and I felt certain I could be shot at any moment.

At that moment, Zahra grabbed my arm and shouted at the top of her lungs, “You know what I feel, Maddie?”

“What?” I shouted back.

“I feel free, I feel free to scream, for once in my life I am feeling that my voice is liberated, I have the right to shout.”

I looked at her — the only thing I found was the glistening eyes behind that mask, which was supposed to be a barrier between us and death itself. I nodded, and we held each other’s hands firmly.

That night, I returned home to find the Internet completely cut off. The blackout had begun. I didn’t care; I threw my phone onto the bed, and slept. In the morning, I realized it wasn’t just the Internet. Phone calls didn’t go through. Messages wouldn’t send. I couldn’t reach friends in other cities. Desperate for information, I watched television, scanning for any mention of what was happening elsewhere.

Reports emerged that a hospital in Ilam had been attacked and besieged by police. In Marvdasht, in Fars province, residents had taken up weapons against security forces. The situation was escalating. Authorities brought in forces from other provinces to regain control.

On the third night, again at 8 PM, we went out again; this time the crowd was even larger. Soon after, security forces opened fire on protesters in a nearby town. The crackdown intensified. Families were harassed. Homes were raided. Tear gas, metal pellets, and live ammunition were used. People were shot in the head and in the back, killed or permanently paralyzed.

A 16-year-old boy I knew was murdered. His name was Mehdi. The IRGC and Basij abducted him and his friend from the protest, beat them with rifle butts, sexually assaulted them, and then shot them. One died on the spot, the other remains in a coma.

This is not an exception; this is the life we have been living for decades. The following day, Iranian Intelligence began calling families of the protesters one by one, threatening them, ordering them to turn themselves in, and to stop protesting. Homes were raided. My friends and family were targeted.

Families were told their lives would be destroyed. In some cases, relatives of those killed were forced to sign documents falsely stating their loved ones had been killed by the “Mossad agents and terrorists.”

My uncle received a call. “Tell your family to stay home, or there will be consequences.”

We did not stop, but I began to lose strength when I could no longer reach my friends in other cities.

Eleven days after the massacre began, I briefly regained Internet access. The first thing I did was message friends in larger cities. One of them, from eastern Tehran, I won’t mention his name, told me that the regime had shot everyone who came out; the streets were flooded with blood. Security forces executed wounded protesters by shooting them in the head while they were receiving medical care. Families were forced to pay a ransom to retrieve the bodies of their children.

There is credible evidence that Iraqi, Afghan, and Pakistani militia, many of whom fought in Syria for Bashar al-Assad, were deployed to suppress protesters.

Another friend from Tehran sent me videos he recorded himself. In it, bodies were tagged and placed into bags. These were not anonymous images pulled from social media; they were scenes witnessed firsthand by people I know. The dead were not statistics; they were protesters who had stepped into the streets just like me, and never returned. Every name was a story. A dream.

What Iranians are suffering is not unrest. It is a calculated campaign of terror. The Islamic regime has turned public spaces into a killing ground, medical centers into execution sites, and mourning families into targets of extortion and intimidation. Violence is applied methodically, meant not only to crush protests, but to teach an entire nation what dissent costs.

This is not a momentary crisis. It is the continuation of a system that has perfected repression over decades, one that survives by bloodshed, silence, and the deliberate erasure of human dignity.

Many Islamic countries remain silent. Their narrative is a lie painted over a massacre. While our streets ran red, the leaders of the Muslim countries looked the other way. Seeing them shake hands with the very men who ordered our slaughter is a sickening sight.

My request is direct and urgent.

World leaders, the UN, and international human rights organizations! The Islamic Republic does not recognize international law. It violates it openly and repeatedly. Human rights abuses are central to its survival. Repression is not a policy failure. It is the policy.

The regime promised it would not execute protesters. From early January up till now, it carried out multiple executions. These were acts of intimidation, intended to terrorize a population into submission. Many political prisoners are at risk of execution.

The world must stop treating this regime as a legitimate governing authority and begin treating it as what it is: a system sustained by violence, fear, and the systematic destruction of human life. Silence, neutrality, and delay are not neutral positions. They are choices with consequences measured in blood.

This is not a warning.

It is a record.

It is an appeal to action, before more victims are added to the documented toll of the Islamic regime’s state violence.

Long live Iran.

پاینده باد ایران

Maddie Ali is a teacher and philosophy student based in Iran. In addition to her academic work, she has been involved in civic activity in her hometown, including participating in and helping organize local protests alongside friends and family. Her name has been changed to protect her identity.