Purim in England, 2026: The masks we choose, and those we don’t
Visible Jewishness is not a neutral act. For a significant minority, it carries risk, hesitation or calculation
On Purim, we put on masks. We dress up as kings and queens, villains and heroes, hiding our faces in plain sight. It is a festival of disguise and revelation, of hidden identities and sudden reversals, of “Adloyada” (“until one no longer knows”). In the Book of Esther, God’s name does not appear, Jewish identity is initially concealed, and survival depends on when – and how – to reveal who we truly are.
For one day a year, we play with concealment. But for many Jews these days, the mask is no longer just a costume, and hiding one’s identity is no longer a playful ritual.
Recent data from JPR’s 2025 Jews in Uncertain Times Survey offer a sobering lens through which to read Purim this year. On the one hand, there is resilience. A striking 85% of British Jews say they feel able to practise Judaism freely in the UK, either strongly or somewhat agreeing with that statement. That is not a trivial figure. It reflects a community that continues to celebrate, gather, learn and live Jewishly in public and in private.
And yet, that headline conceals a more complicated reality.
Around one in ten Jews disagree that they are able to practise freely. That represents many thousands of people who do not experience Britain as a space of unqualified comfort. Even more telling is what happens when we ask not about formal religious freedom, but about everyday visibility.
When respondents were asked how confident they feel displaying their Jewishness openly, the answers reveal a community divided. Nearly three in ten (29%) score themselves at the lower end of the scale – 0 to 3 out of 10 – indicating very low confidence. At the other end, just a quarter (25%) express high confidence, rating themselves 8 to 10.
In other words, visible Jewishness is not a neutral act. For a significant minority, it carries risk, hesitation or calculation.
This is where Purim speaks with uncomfortable clarity.
In the Megillah, Esther conceals her identity at Mordechai’s instruction. She lives in the palace, outwardly indistinguishable from her surroundings. Only at a moment of existential threat does she reveal who she is: “If I perish, I perish.” Her unmasking becomes the turning point of the story.
For much of Jewish history, concealment has not been theatrical but strategic. Names were changed. Clothing was adapted. Accents were softened. The instinct to blend in has often been a survival mechanism.
The JPR findings suggest that, for some British Jews, this instinct has not disappeared. It may manifest in small decisions: whether to wear a Magen David necklace outside a shirt, whether to post a Jewish-themed message online, whether to mention synagogue in a workplace conversation. None of these are dramatic acts. But collectively, they amount to a negotiation of identity.
That negotiation is not uniform. The data show variation by age, denomination and level of communal connection. Those more embedded in Jewish life – through synagogue affiliation or stronger religious identification – often report higher confidence. Others are more cautious. This suggests that visibility is shaped not only by external pressures, but by internal anchoring. The stronger one’s Jewish networks, the less alone one may feel in displaying Jewishness.
Yet even among the most connected, the context of recent years cannot be ignored. The survey was conducted against a backdrop of heightened antisemitic incidents, polarised public debate and the aftershocks of October 7 and its aftermath. When 29% of Jews report very low confidence in displaying their Jewishness, it is difficult to see that as unrelated.
Purim, however, is not only about concealment. It is also about reversal. The festival’s joy is not naïve; it comes after threat. Masks are worn not because identity is erased, but because it is secure enough, for a moment, to be played with.
There is a profound difference between choosing to hide and feeling compelled to do so.
On Purim, we choose the mask. We exaggerate identity rather than suppress it. We parade through streets in costume. Children march in school assemblies dressed as Queen Esther or Mordechai. The very visibility of Jewishness becomes part of the celebration.
Perhaps that is why Purim can feel so powerful this year. It allows us to experience public Jewishness not as risk but as joy. It reminds us that concealment is not the whole story. Esther’s moment of revelation changes history not because she had hidden, but because she ultimately stepped forward.
The JPR data tell us that most British Jews still feel able to practise freely. That is something to cherish and protect. But they also tell us that a significant minority feel uncertain about being visibly Jewish. That reality demands attention – from policymakers, from communal leaders, and from wider society.
A society in which Jews feel able to celebrate Purim loudly, colourfully and without hesitation is a society that is working.
For now, the masks we wear on Purim remain a choice. The challenge for the rest of the year is to ensure that they stay that way.
Omri Gal Kornblum is Director of Communications for the Institute for Jewish Policy Research (JPR)
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