Jewish people have to hide their identity or suffer in silence
An institution founded on the promise of universal care is being forced to reckon with the ways that promise has been broken. Lord Mann's government-commissioned review has found antisemitism so embedded within the National Health Service that Jewish patients are avoiding treatment and Jewish staff are concealing their identities to survive in their own workplace. The NHS has responded with mandatory training for all trust leaders and restrictions on political symbols — measures that acknowledge, at last, that the problem is not incidental but structural.
- Jewish patients are delaying or forgoing medical care out of fear of discrimination — a direct collapse of the NHS's founding promise of universal, prejudice-free treatment.
- Two doctors have been permanently struck off the medical register for antisemitic conduct, a third faces criminal trial, and 779 complaints were filed against UK doctors in just over two years.
- Jewish NHS staff are the only religious group reporting that discrimination by colleagues is actively worsening, according to the service's own staff survey — a signal that silence has become the only available coping strategy.
- Mandatory antisemitism training has been ordered for all 205 NHS trust chairs and chief executives within six months, alongside new restrictions on political symbols worn on uniforms.
- Health Secretary Wes Streeting warns the NHS is bearing the brunt of a resurgence of 1970s and 1980s-style racism, as an arson attack on a Jewish ambulance station in London underscores how far societal hostility has penetrated institutional life.
The National Health Service, built on the principle that care belongs to everyone equally, is confronting evidence that it has failed one of its own communities. A review by Lord Mann, the government's antisemitism adviser, found anti-Jewish hatred so deeply embedded in NHS culture that some patients have avoided seeking treatment altogether, while staff have learned to hide who they are simply to get through the working day. Mann describes the pattern as "routine ostracism" — not isolated incidents, but something woven into the everyday life of the institution.
The review was commissioned after reports emerged of doctors making openly antisemitic remarks. Two physicians, Manoj Sen and Mohammed Asif Munaf, have since been permanently banned from practising medicine in the UK. A third, Rahmeh Aladwan, faces criminal trial in Bristol on charges including inviting support for a proscribed organisation and stirring up racial hatred. The General Medical Council received 779 complaints of alleged antisemitism by doctors between October 2023 and December 2025, investigating 86 cases — numbers that point to a systemic failure rather than a few rogue individuals.
The NHS has announced an urgent response: all 205 health trust chairs and chief executives in England must complete antisemitism training within six months, and staff will face new restrictions on displaying political symbols on uniforms. These steps sit within a broader anti-racism initiative addressing discrimination against Black, ethnic minority, and Muslim staff as well. Yet the data carries a particular sting — Jewish staff are the only religious group in the NHS workforce reporting that discrimination by colleagues is getting worse.
Mann's framing of the crisis is precise and unsparing. If Jewish people must conceal their identity as patients or endure harassment as staff, he argues, then the universality the NHS claims as its core value is not merely strained — it is broken. The coming months will reveal whether training and policy changes can begin to restore the trust of those who have learned, painfully, to fear the institution meant to care for them.
The National Health Service, an institution built on the principle that care should be universal and free from prejudice, is confronting a crisis of discrimination that has driven Jewish patients to avoid seeking treatment and pushed Jewish staff to consider leaving the profession entirely. A government-commissioned review by Lord Mann, the country's adviser on antisemitism, found that anti-Jewish hatred has become so embedded in NHS culture that it fundamentally undermines the service's ability to function as a truly inclusive institution.
The scale of the problem emerged through Mann's 60-page investigation, which documents what he describes as "routine ostracism" of Jewish people within the health service. Some patients have chosen not to seek care or have delayed necessary treatment because they fear discrimination. Staff members, meanwhile, report suffering in silence, unable to be open about their identity at work. The review identifies what Mann calls "shocking examples of intimidation and abuse" throughout the NHS, suggesting the problem is neither isolated nor accidental but rather woven into the everyday fabric of the service.
The investigation was commissioned by Wes Streeting when he served as health secretary, following reports that several doctors had made openly antisemitic comments. The problem has since become impossible to ignore. Two doctors—Manoj Sen and Mohammed Asif Munaf—have been struck off the medical register and permanently banned from practising medicine in the UK because of antisemitic conduct. A third doctor, Rahmeh Aladwan, faces trial at Bristol Crown Court on charges including inviting support for Hamas, a proscribed organisation, and stirring up racial hatred. She is alleged to have posted on social media that she wanted to "free the world from Jewish supremacy" and to have stated she did not condemn Hamas or its October 2023 attack on Israel, though she did "condemn the existence of Israel."
The General Medical Council, which regulates doctors across the UK, received 779 complaints of alleged antisemitism by doctors between October 2023 and December 2025, many concerning social media posts. The council investigated 86 cases, advised four doctors about their behaviour, warned three others, and sought undertakings from another. Thirty-one cases remain under examination. These numbers suggest a systemic problem rather than the actions of a handful of bad actors.
The NHS response, announced as an urgent priority, includes mandatory antisemitism training for the chairs and chief executives of all 205 health trusts in England within the next six months. The service will also restrict staff members' freedom to display political symbols on their uniforms. These measures are framed as part of a broader anti-racism initiative that will also address racism against Black and ethnic minority staff and Islamophobia. Yet the data reveals something striking: Jewish staff are the only religious group in the NHS workforce reporting that discrimination by colleagues is growing, according to the latest staff survey.
Mann's statement on the findings carries the weight of someone describing a fundamental breach of institutional purpose. "Jewish people have to be confident they will receive the same treatment as everyone else, at all times in all situations," he said. "If people feel, as they do, that some have to hide their identity as patients or suffer in silence as staff, then the universality of the NHS is fundamentally breached." The language is measured but unsparing: the problem is not marginal or fixable through gentle persuasion. It goes to the heart of what the NHS claims to be.
The timing of the review's publication comes as antisemitism in British society has intensified. In April, an arson attack targeted a Hatzola ambulance station in Golders Green, a predominantly Jewish area of London. Rebecca Gray, a director at the NHS Alliance, connected this violence directly to the health service's internal culture, suggesting that growing antisemitism in society has "reached our health services." Health Secretary Wes Streeting has described the NHS as bearing the brunt of a return to what he calls "ugly" 1970s and 1980s-style racism.
Professional bodies have acknowledged the broader crisis. Nicola Ranger, general secretary of the Royal College of Nursing, noted that racism in the NHS is rising alongside violence, aggression, and sexual harassment, and that these behaviours have become "normalised" in ways that are deeply alarming. The question now is whether mandatory training and symbolic restrictions on uniforms will be sufficient to change a culture that has allowed discrimination to flourish unchecked. The report will be published on Thursday, and the real test will come in the months and years ahead, as trusts attempt to rebuild the confidence of Jewish patients and staff who have learned to fear the institution that is supposed to care for them.
Citas Notables
Jewish people have to be confident they will receive the same treatment as everyone else, at all times in all situations. If people feel that some have to hide their identity as patients or suffer in silence as staff, then the universality of the NHS is fundamentally breached.— Lord Mann, government adviser on antisemitism
The NHS is bearing the brunt of Britain's return to ugly 1970s and 1980s-style racism.— Wes Streeting, Health Secretary
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why would Jewish staff and patients specifically hide their identity in a health service? What does that actually look like in practice?
It means a patient might not mention their religion to a doctor or nurse, worried that it will affect the care they receive. A staff member might avoid mentioning their family, their community, their observances—anything that signals who they are. In a place where you're supposed to be vulnerable and trust the people treating you, having to perform a false identity is its own kind of harm.
The report mentions "routine ostracism." That's a specific word. What does routine discrimination in an NHS setting actually entail?
It's not always dramatic. It can be comments overheard in corridors, being excluded from social events, having your concerns dismissed in meetings, or facing hostility when you speak up. But it's the consistency that matters—the sense that it happens so often that people stop reporting it.
Two doctors struck off, 779 complaints filed. Those are big numbers. But how did it get this bad without intervention?
The complaints only started being tracked formally after October 2023. Before that, there was no systematic way to measure it. And even now, many cases take years to investigate. By the time someone is struck off, the damage is done—to patients, to other staff, to the institution's credibility.
The NHS is supposed to be universal. Does that principle actually mean anything if people are afraid to use it?
That's the core of what Mann is saying. Universal healthcare only works if everyone actually trusts it. If a Jewish patient decides not to seek treatment because they fear discrimination, the NHS has failed at its most basic function. It's not universal anymore—it's only universal for people who feel safe.
What does mandatory training actually change?
That's the real question. Training can raise awareness, set standards, create accountability. But it only works if there's genuine commitment to enforcement and if the culture actually shifts. Without that, it's a box to tick.
Why is this happening now, in 2026?
The review was commissioned after specific incidents, but the broader context is that antisemitism in British society has intensified, especially since October 2023. That poison seeps into institutions. The NHS didn't create the problem, but it failed to contain it.