Peaceful predators: How abusers in Israel's coexistence community hide in plain sight - comment

“There’s no smoke without fire.”

Whether it be billowing, or a candle that has just been blown out, I learned the hard way that abuse is not usually an isolated incident. People show you their colors, and we are sometimes told to brush it aside, be professional, or move on. For years, sexual abuse scandals have followed a familiar pattern.

Predators seek institutions that grant access, legitimacy, and silence. Religious organizations, elite schools, and humanitarian NGOs have all been implicated. The revelations raise an uncomfortable and largely unexplored question: Are peace and coexistence organizations also vulnerable to exploitation by those seeking cover?

This is not a theoretical question. It emerges from lived experience, documented cases, and a recurring pattern of proximity between individuals accused or convicted of abuse and spaces defined by moral authority and access to young people.

In the years following the #MeToo movement, there was an expectation that accountability would become the norm. Reputations built on justice and human rights would, it was hoped, no longer protect abusive behavior. In practice, consequences remain uneven. They often depend not on harm but on exposure.

Predatory behavior rarely appears in isolation. Once again, the smoke and the fire. That lesson took years to internalize.

During my IDF service, I met a British House of Lords representative. He was deeply involved in coexistence initiatives and peace advocacy. I was an active member of The Jerusalem Youth Chorus, a coexistence music and dialogue program which I would later work at for multiple years. My glasses were rose-tinted, and I wanted to make change, meet people, and have an impact.

Flattered by his interest in my work and encouraged by his apparent mentorship, I stayed in contact with the lord. He later invited my mother and me to visit him at the House of Lords. The invitation felt legitimate precisely because it included my family. My mother couldn’t join me, so I invited my cousin.

During that visit, boundaries blurred quickly. A “hello” kiss landed at the edge of my mouth. Comments about my appearance followed. There were references to power, influence, and how easily people listen when you hold both. Each incident, taken alone, could be rationalized. Together, they created unease.

Months later, he visited my military base at my invitation, which was given before our first encounter. I was afraid to cancel and make a scene. There, the behavior escalated: physical proximity, unwanted touching, and remarks that framed attention as admiration. Even after all these years, I can still smell his cologne.

At the time, I said nothing. I felt confused, embarrassed, and unsure whether I was overreacting. That uncertainty is itself a common outcome of such encounters.

I got into the habit of searching his name online, to see if anyone else had come forward. I was afraid to be the only one. One night, I found an article detailing his suspension over sexual harassment. Multiple women had come forward. The allegations mirrored my own experience. When I filed a complaint, it was upheld. In his response, he acknowledged the factual accuracy of my account while dismissing my interpretation of his intentions as imagined.

That distinction – facts accepted, harm denied – is one many survivors recognize. What felt to me like a safe person to trust within the space quickly became dangerous and unsettling.

The pattern repeated in a different setting.

In 2019, while performing in New York with the choir, the group collaborated onstage with musician and peace activist Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary. Throughout the evening, Yarrow made comments about the girls onstage, remarks that sexualized us as young women under the guise of humor.

The discovery raised immediate questions. Why were we allowed to be performing alongside a convicted sex offender without disclosure? Why was his history treated as irrelevant to his role as a mentor and educator?

When concerns were raised internally, the response was not investigation but moral instruction. We were encouraged to find forgiveness, to contextualize his actions, and to remember his contributions to peace.

More troubling was the revelation that plans were underway to bring Yarrow to Israel to work directly with the high school students. I expressed deep concern, and the visit never took place.

Yarrow died in 2025. Additional allegations surfaced after his conviction, though no further legal action followed. His foundation, Operation Respect, which focused on education and youth engagement, gave him continued access to children and caregivers long after his conviction.

This was not an isolated lapse. It was a structural failure.

The Epstein files add a wider dimension to this concern.

Emails from 2016 and 2017 show Epstein and Chopra discussing meetings and logistics, and repeatedly referencing “cute girls,” including one message in which Epstein asked Chopra whether he had found him a “cute Israeli.”

Chopra has denied any involvement in criminal activity. He has stated that he was unaware of Epstein’s continued abuse and that no wrongdoing occurred.

But the issue extends beyond criminal liability. It is about judgment, proximity, and responsibility.

Epstein had previously been convicted of sex crimes. Why maintain close contact? Why engage in language that mirrors the commodification of young women? Who were the “girls” being referenced, and why was access being discussed at all?

These are questions that merit public clarity, not quiet dismissal.

The concern deepens when philanthropy enters the picture. Court documents from 2007 confirm that Epstein donated to Seeds of Peace, an organization working directly with Israeli and Palestinian youth. The donation itself does not imply wrongdoing by the organization, but it raises unavoidable questions about screening, oversight, and donor influence.

When peacebuilding institutions rely on moral credibility, even a single failure of safeguarding carries serious consequences.

Peace and coexistence organizations often operate with extraordinary trust. They are seen as inherently good, morally protected spaces. That perception can create blind spots, where authority goes unchallenged and discomfort is reframed as misunderstanding.

Young people, particularly young women, are taught to see discomfort as something to overcome rather than a warning sign. When concerns are raised, they are often met with calls for empathy instead of accountability.

The cases described here are not an indictment of peace work itself. They are a warning. I am just one person with personal encounters with this behavior. Imagine the stories that have not yet come into focus.

The Epstein files remind us how long abuse can persist when institutions fail to ask hard questions. This article does not claim to expose the full scope of the problem. It aims to ask whether we have been looking in the wrong places, and whether, in our eagerness to believe in moral authority, we have allowed some people to hide in plain sight.