antisemitism

Deep, dangerous bias

The sale by George Soros of a (comparatively) modest holding in Elon Musk’s Tesla car company seems to have sent Musk into a Twitter tirade last week.

“He wants to erode the very fabric of civilization,” Musk tweeted in a reckles overreaction. “Soros hates humanity.”

The context of the smear is worth a moment of consideration. A man who sinks a chunk of his estimated $185 billion US pile into a space flight hobby says that a man who has donated (at a minimum) $32 billion US into building civil society in the former Soviet bloc and other countries “hates humanity.”

Beyond this context is a whole lot of subtext.

There is nothing essentially wrong with a public figure criticizing another public figure. If the target feels he has been libeled, there are legal recourses available. That’s not really the issue here.

As one of the world’s foremost funders of liberal causes, Soros draws criticism from plenty of people who don’t agree with his politics. Fair enough. But “Soros” has become a shorthand. Generations of people have used the name “Rothschild” to invoke a conspiracy of Jewish wealth and power. “Soros” is a 21st-century update of that conspiracy.

This is a bit dicey. It is fair to criticize someone who dumps billions of dollars into causes you disagree with. If the person happens to be Jewish, that doesn’t make you antisemitic. If you use that person’s name as a stand-in for a complex of ideas about Jews more generally manipulating events with wealth and the manipulative force that can come with it, that is antisemitic. But, of course, getting into the head of a suspected bigot is impossible. One person can accuse another of racism, the accused can deny it and neither is any further ahead. Sometimes the accused may not even be conscious of what they have done.

But Musk tipped his hand. He launched his outburst with: “Soros reminds me of Magneto.”

Magneto is a villain in the Marvel Comics franchise X-Men. Like Soros, Magneto is a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust.

The idea that Soros “hates humanity” is an especially laden accusation. It seems like a peculiar assertion – unless one is familiar with centuries of slander against Jewish people, which has posited that Jews are the embodiment of Satan, the enemy of all things good. In Christian theology, including official Catholic doctrine until the mid-1960s, Jews were accused of deicide, of literal God-killing, of destroying what is most sacred to humanity. To accuse a Jew in 2023 of hating humanity – and all that implies in the context of funding social change movements – is to invoke (intentionally or not) millennia of deadly ideas about Jewish evil-doing. To also invoke a (Jewish) cartoon villain in the process makes Musk’s playing to pervasive tropes about Soros, money, Jews and power seem more deliberate.

This is what is so confounding about racism and bigotry in general, and antisemitism in particular: it so often manifests not as outright intolerance and hatred but as unconscious or barely conscious bias that motivates our beliefs and actions without us knowing it. In some ways, this is the more frightening prospect. It is easy to identify and condemn the most overt acts of racism or hatred. Parsing and reproving harmful, unconscious ideas is much more challenging.

We are not all in a position (thankfully!) to have our Tweets or other late-night brainwaves analyzed by millions. Musk hosts a powerful platform and his speech can move financial markets and mobilize followers. Ideally, he may take time to reflect on whether he carries unconscious biases that need examining.

For us, there are at least two lessons. First, we are reminded that confronting antisemitism is not as easy as condemning those who exhibit the most obvious signs. Second, while we are critical of one of the most prominent people in the world letting slip what appear to be deep-seated conspiratorial ideas that project onto a single individual a host of negative characteristics attributed to the group to which he belongs, we would do well to consider how we use the platforms we each have in our daily lives in the service of justice, anti-racism and truth.

Hate crimes down a bit

The number of antisemitic hate crimes in Canada declined a fraction last year, according to the B’nai Brith Canada League for Human Rights Annual Audit of Antisemitic Incidents 2022. The decline, though, is from 2021, which saw the highest number of incidents since the audit began 40 years ago so, despite the marginally good news, 2022 remains the second-worst year on record. In all, 2022 saw 2,769 incidents, down 1.1% from the 2,799 incidents reported in 2021.

“When viewed from a historical perspective … the numbers are less reassuring,” Marvin Rotrand, national director of the League for Human Rights, writes in the report. “In 2012, the Jewish community sounded the alarm when that audit noted 1,345 antisemitic incidents, the highest ever since we first began auditing in 1982. Ten years later, the number is an alarming 105.9% higher than that reported in 2012, and the second-highest total since we started tracking 41 years ago.”

Aron Csaplaros, British Columbia regional manager for B’nai Brith Canada, noted the most significant finding is that the majority of hate incidents are online.

“The audit says that 74% of hate is now online and that violent incidents are down,” he told the Jewish Independent. Violent incidents across Canada dropped to 25 last year from 75 the year previous. “But incidents have been moving online in the past decade or so and it’s kind of equally, if not more, dangerous when hate is online because it’s much easier to spread, more people read it,” he said. “It’s about context. It’s obviously different than a violent incident but it is equally as dangerous.”

Csaplaros does not have a clear explanation on why violent incidents saw such a drop. It may have to do with the fact that 2022 saw slightly less incendiary conflict in Israel and Palestine, overseas problems that invariably have repercussions worldwide.

“Obviously, we’re happy that violent incidents have gone down,” he said. “Hopefully, the reason for that is that certain provinces have adopted, for example, the IHRA [International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance] definition of antisemitism, and that might have filtered down into education for police forces and how they respond and deal with these situations. But we don’t really have a theory on why the violent incidents have gone down.”

In British Columbia, the number of violent crimes declined from two in 2021 to a single incident in 2022: a threat against Victoria’s Jewish Community Centre during the annual Jewish film festival in the capital city. Other B.C. instances include 51 cases of vandalism, 53 cases of harassment and 137 cases of online hate.

Csaplaros acknowledged that it is difficult to place a number on online antisemitic incidents.

“There are, unfortunately, probably thousands, millions of anti-Israel and antisemitic comments online and, obviously, just because of the sheer number of them, we don’t catch all of them,” he said.

The criteria B’nai Brith uses to measure hate online includes the question, “Is it antisemitic in that it targets Jews as a people and attribute negative things to them? For example, that they caused COVID, or do they use antisemitic stereotypes like Jews control the banks and so on and so forth,” explained Csaplaros. “With a lot of these comments, they are clearly antisemitic.”

B’nai Brith, he said, uses the “three Ds” measure created by Natan Sharansky: delegitimization, demonization, and applying double standards to the state of Israel.

While 74% of incidents were online, 15% involved vandalism, 10% in-person harassment and 1% were violent incidents.

In British Columbia overall, incidents declined more than 40%, to 242, compared with 409 the previous year. (For the purposes of the report, British Columbia and Yukon are reported together.) Examples of B.C. incidents included in the B’nai Brith report are the Simon Fraser University student society’s passing of a resolution referring to Israeli “war crimes and apartheid” and a Tweet accusing Jews of Satan worship and seeking world domination.

“At the end of the day, hate is hate,” said Csaplaros. “It’s important to have a record of how many antisemitic incidents occurred, regardless of whether it was a Laith Marouf-type thing or a violent incident or a swastika drawn on the sidewalk. Hate and antisemitism is hate … and it’s important to record all of that.”

Laith Marouf is a Montreal activist whose Community Media Advocacy Centre received more than $133,000 in federal government consulting fees before his antisemitic social media postings became widely known, including one in which he called Jewish people “loud mouthed bags of human feces.”

Csaplaros called on the province of British Columbia to join half of Canada’s other provinces in adopting the IHRA definition of antisemitism and to follow Ontario’s lead by introducing Holocaust education into the elementary school curriculum. The core curriculum in British Columbia does not mandate any Holocaust education, Csaplaros said. Students can learn about the Holocaust in elective courses and may learn about it in core courses, depending on the teacher’s choices.

The full annual audit is online at bnaibrith.ca.

Witness to “longest hatred”

The Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre maintains significant holdings of Nazi and antisemitic propaganda that bears witness to centuries of anti-Jewish hatred. Acquired through the generosity of local historians and collectors – Peter N. Moogk, professor emeritus, history, University of British Columbia; Kit Krieger, Joseph Tan, Harrison and Hilary Brown, and others – the propaganda in the VHEC collection promoted antisemitic stereotypes, including Nazi ideology, in Europe and North America from 1770 to the postwar period. Although the content is offensive, these primary sources serve as an important historical record of the “longest hatred.”

The study of propaganda is critical to Holocaust scholarship. Historic antisemitica reveals a cultural tradition in Europe that the Nazis were able to exploit in pursuit of their “Final Solution.” The stereotypes found in Nazi propaganda were hardly new; Nazi propaganda was built upon the same antisemitic rhetoric and tropes that had been repeated over centuries and across countries and continents. Viewed in this context, propaganda provides insight as to why the Nazis’ message met with little resistance from an audience familiar with the language and imagery of anti-Jewish hatred.

The study of propaganda is also important to our understanding of the use of a state’s authority to control targeted segments of its population. This dynamic is explored in the VHEC’s new exhibition, Age of Influence: Youth & Nazi Propaganda. Drawing upon diverse primary sources, Age of Influence examines the Nazis’ efforts to manipulate the experiences, attitudes and aspirations of German children and teens.

photo - Photograph of a girl wearing the uniform of the League of German Girls, circa 1940. Donated by Peter N. Moogk — Photograph of a girl wearing the uniform of the League of German Girls, circa 1940. Donated by Peter N. Moogk. *(photo from VHEC)*

Many of the materials featured in this exhibition will be new to visitors, such as family photographs, Nazi youth magazines and anti-Roma youth fiction. Other artifacts will be instantly recognizable, like the infamous children’s books on display at the VHEC for the first time: The Poisonous Mushroom (Ernst Hiemer, Der Giftpilz, Nuremberg: Stürmerverlag, 1938) and Trust No Fox (Elvira Bauer, Trau keinem Fuchs auf grüner Heid und keinem Jud auf seinem Eid [Trust No Fox on his Green Heath and No Jew on his Oath], Nuremberg: Der Stürmer Verlag, 1936). Age of Influence is designed to encourage active engagement with these artifacts and images. Throughout the exhibition, questions prompt visitors to critically analyze materials on display and identify common techniques used to disseminate both positive and negative propaganda.

The exhibition’s storyline begins in the early 20th century, when youth in Germany started defining themselves as a distinct socio-cultural group, attracting the attention of parties across the political spectrum. Popularized by youth-led groups like the Wandervogel, the German youth movement sought independence from adult authority and embraced communal and back-to-nature ideals. Their activities focused on hiking, survival skills and group pursuits in nature. Against this backdrop, the Nazi party emerged and cast itself as the future-facing “movement of youth.” With its Hitler Youth organization, the Nazi party tapped into the German youth movement and set its sights on this demographic to shape the future of a “racially pure” and physically fit national community.

Age of Influence examines how the Hitler Youth became the regime’s most effective tool to indoctrinate children and teens in Nazi ideology. It offered German youth a powerful group identity and appealed to adolescent yearnings such as the desire to belong, the quest for action and adventure, a sense of purpose and independence from parents. With separate organizations for boys and girls, Hitler Youth glorified gender roles. Boys were prepared for military and leadership responsibilities while girls were groomed to become wives, mothers and caregivers for the nation.

image - June 1934 issue of Der Aufbruch, a Hitler Youth magazine. Donated by Joseph Tan — June 1934 issue of Der Aufbruch, a Hitler Youth magazine. Donated by Joseph Tan. *(image from VHEC)*

An array of Nazi youth magazines from 1934 to 1943 are featured in Age of Influence, as well as family photographs, collectible cigarette cards, video clips and Hitler Youth paraphernalia. Visitors can browse the pages of Nazi youth magazines to discover for themselves the eye-catching fonts, unique graphics and captivating images, which were carefully designed to attract young audiences. At its height, the Nazi youth press published 57 different magazine titles for children.

While participation in Hitler Youth was compulsory for most children, Jewish youths were banned from membership. Their experience is given voice in the exhibition by local survivors. In video testimony clips, Serge Vanry, Jannushka Jakoubovitch and Judith Eisinger describe their feelings of fear, shame and rejection as Jewish children confronted with pervasive antisemitic propaganda and excluded from the activities of their non-Jewish peers.

Perhaps the best-known propaganda tactic used by the Nazis was the creation of common enemies. Antisemitism and racism were key educational goals in the Nazi German school system, where students were taught that the health of the German nation was threatened by “inferior” groups like the Jews, Roma and individuals with disabilities. By demonizing and scapegoating these groups, the Nazis created a climate of hostility and indifference toward their treatment. Age of Influence depicts this process with reference to artifacts such as children’s books and instructional posters used in German schools.

Contextualizing Nazi propaganda within a broad historical framework is essential. For this reason, Age of Influence has been mounted in conjunction with In Focus: The Holocaust through the VHEC Collection. In Focus presents a thematic history of the Holocaust, illustrated by artifacts donated to the VHEC by local survivors and collectors. A curated selection of antisemitica in this exhibition conveys the long-held perceptions and representations of Jews through time.

This history is also important as we navigate escalating antisemitism and racism around the globe and in Canada, where reports of antisemitic incidents have reached record levels. The use of digital media has amplified hate, and the ease with which disinformation can be spread on social media platforms perpetuates Holocaust distortion and denial. In this milieu, it is imperative to equip students with the media literacy skills required to critically evaluate information they encounter. Age of Influence will assist educators to promote key curricular objectives such as digital literacy, critical thinking and social responsibility.

For more information on Age of Influence and In Focus, visit vhec.org.

Lise Kirchner has worked with the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre since 1999 in the development and delivery of its educational programs. She was part of the exhibition team that developed Age of Influence: Youth & Nazi Propaganda, along with Tessa Coutu, Franziska Schurr and Illene Yu. This article was originally published in the VHEC’s Spring 2023 issue of Zachor.

Decline of Polish Jewry

Dr. Kamil Kijek of the University of Wrocław, in Poland. (photo from University of British Columbia)

For Polish Jews who survived the Holocaust, the question of where to begin life anew after the cataclysm was not as clear as it might seem in hindsight.

Looking back at the successive tragedies of postwar life for Jews in Poland, it might seem obvious that the blood-soaked homeland held little hope for the future. The choices for survivors limited their options, though, and the faith that, surely, the worst had passed played a role in the decision by tens of thousands to try rebuilding their families on the soil of their ancestors.

The disastrous history of Jews in postwar Poland was the subject of a special presentation at the University of British Columbia by Dr. Kamil Kijek, an assistant professor in the Jewish studies department at the University of Wrocław, in Poland. Speaking virtually from Poland to students in-class and to a wider audience online, Kijek addressed the decision faced by Polish Jewish communities to stay in or leave post-Holocaust Poland. He was speaking to a class led by Dr. Ania Switzer, a sessional lecturer at UBC, who was born in communist Poland and who is a translator and historian specializing in Jewish studies and Holocaust education.

“Most of Poland did not become the desert of Jewish life right away,” said Kijek. “It happened over time.”

About 50,000 Jews survived the Holocaust in Polish territory. In early 1946, about 136,000 Polish Jews returned from the Soviet Union, where they had survived the war, and a few thousand others found their way back from other parts of Europe. By July 1946, there were about 200,000 Jews in Poland, compared with about 3.3 million in 1938.

The vast majority of Jews who remained in or returned to Poland after the war did not take up life in the places they had been born. The borders of the country had shifted enormously, with the Soviets taking large swaths of what had been eastern Poland and Poland being compensated with formerly German lands in the west. Jews, along with other displaced Poles, were encouraged to take up residency in these newly acquired places in the west of the country, replacing Germans who were expelled.

“It is almost impossible to understand the tragedy of the people the moment when they are freed,” said Kijek. “We need to understand that the end of the war and so-called freedom actually was a time of psychological collapse for most of these people.… These people, when they come back to the places [of their origin], they see their whole communities destroyed and it’s the first time they are sure that most of their friends and family were killed.”

Significant American and other Western funds flowed into the Jewish communities of the country, intended to rebuild Jewish society there. Hebrew schools, synagogues and other institutions were constructed and supported by the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee and other international Jewish welfare and aid agencies.

The postwar period saw continuous upheaval in Poland, with civil war between pro- and anti-communist forces. It was not immediately clear that Poland would fall to communism, nor was it apparent at the time that, even if that did transpire, an Iron Curtain would fall across the continent. Polish Jews in the immediate aftermath of the war maintained close and supportive personal and institutional connections with family and Jewish organizations abroad. A degree of political pluralism revived before the country fell into the Soviet orbit.

Government oppression was not the only concern, though. On July 4, 1946, a pogrom in the southern Polish city of Kielce saw 42 Jews murdered and more than 40 injured. This was just the most deadly and well-known of a series of attacks against Jewish survivors after the war. The immediacy of antisemitic violence by their Polish neighbours disabused many Jews of the hope that they could rebuild a life in the country of their birth.

An exodus followed, but Kijek noted that, while contemporary observers might have seen abandoning Poland as an obvious choice, for people then, there were many considerations. They may not have had any money to facilitate relocation. At middle age or later, it might be natural to resist relocating to a place where one’s language is not spoken and one’s work experience is not transferable. And the prewar barriers that left European Jews to their fate remained largely in place: Western countries still did not open their borders to refugees.

Events unfolded quickly as the communists gained the upper hand in the country, the Cold War arose and the state of Israel was founded, providing at least a place where fleeing Polish Jews could find a welcome.

About 100,000 Jews were still in Poland in 1948, when an estimated 30,000 made aliyah. There was a tremendous amount of judgment, even suggestions of sedition, toward Jews who remained in Poland when Israel existed as an alternative, said Kijek.

“For Zionist leaders, any decision to stay in Poland was an act of a kind of national treason or an act of not understanding the lessons of the Holocaust,” he said, adding that those who remained were not all driven by ideological commitment to communism. The remaining Polish Jews represented a cross-section of Jewish society, including Orthodox, socialist and Zionist individuals. Eventually, even Zionist organizations accepted that not all Jews would make aliyah.

About one-third of Polish Jews who survived the war remained in Poland by 1950, but the emergence of the Cold War isolated them from Jews worldwide.

“All these ties are suddenly cut off in the end of 1948 and 1949,” said Kijek. The burgeoning of Hebrew schools and Jewish cultural organizations was stanched by a communist crackdown on “Zionist” institutions. The state nationalized much of the Jewish community’s remaining assets.

A liberalization occurred after the Stalin era and a number of Jews were able to flee Poland in the late 1950s. Those Jews who remained in Poland into the 1960s were, to a large extent, living a non-Jewish life and may have believed that their identity was no longer a barrier to whatever success they could attain in the country. However, following the 1967 Six Day War, in which Soviet-backed Arab countries were defeated by Israel, and 1968 student demonstrations that posed a genuine threat to the continued dominance of the communist regime, the scapegoat of “Zionism” emerged again, with Jews being accused of disloyalty to Poland, some being forced from their jobs, and the final mass exodus of Polish Jews occurred.

When the communist regime fell, in 1989, there were an estimated 5,000 to 10,000 Jews in Poland, the last remaining of a millennia-old civilization.

On being an Upstander

Pat Johnson, founder of Upstanders Canada. (photo from Upstanders Canada)

Pat Johnson, the founder of Upstanders Canada, addressed the importance of standing up to antisemitism during a March 5 Zoom lecture organized by Kolot Mayim Reform Temple in Victoria. Upstanders mobilizes non-Jewish Canadians to confront antisemitism and anti-Zionism.

Johnson writes for many media outlets, including the Jewish Independent, where he is also on the editorial board. Over the years, he has worked for many Jewish organizations. He was quick to stress that, as a non-Jew, he is not trying to tell Jews what is antisemitism, but rather share his experiences fighting and studying it.

Due to the complexity of the ways in which antisemitism and anti-Zionism may overlap, Johnson defined anti-Zionism – as opposition to the existence of a Jewish state, and not as criticism of Israel – and then moved on to his topic.

Of primary concern in recent years, he said, is the notion of non-Jews laying claim to the definition of antisemitism, thereby effectively telling Jews whether or not their experiences with antisemitism are valid.

“Jewish people are treated differently than every other group, even by people who self-define as anti-racist, and I argue that this is proof itself of a problem,” said Johnson.

He maintains that, on such issues as the definition of antisemitism as put forward by the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA), some people “are willing to devote more resources to fighting over the definition of antisemitism than they are to fighting against antisemitism.”

As a result, he said, there is a more contentious discussion around antisemitism than any other form of racism. Antisemitism is different from other forms of bigotry because Jews can be of any race, colour or identity; therefore, they do not conveniently fall into any racial categories.

“Fighting discrimination against Jewish people has to some extent fallen through the cracks, in part because many people simply do not understand it, cannot see it, deny it or simply wish it away,” said Johnson. “We are dealing overwhelmingly with unconscious biases. People do not even realize they carry them. So, when we call someone out for a statement that appears to us to be premised on antisemitic stereotypes, it just doesn’t resonate.”

Johnson then discussed how antisemitism is not a problem of Jewish making. Rather, it is a product of the antisemitic imagination, a caricature. “In a weird way, antisemitism has nothing to do with Jews, except that Jews are the collateral damage in a corrupt world poisoned by antisemitic ideas,” he said.

Antisemitism comes in myriad forms and is not simply a matter of people hating Jews, he said. “If we think it is, we will never overcome it.”

Johnson provided numerous examples throughout the past several centuries of Jews serving as scapegoats, as well as more recent examples, including the denial in various circles of hate crimes committed against Jews, the abundance of anti-Jewish hostility in Arab media and the inevitability in nearly all conspiracy theories that Jews are lurking somewhere in the background as the masterminds.

Johnson spoke about the manifestation of antisemitism in progressive movements, making it clear that his criticisms were not being made from a right-wing standpoint. “These are my people and I have seen it up close,” he said of the left.

Johnson said discrimination is often the result of economic circumstances. Jews, from a Marxist perspective, are seen as a privileged economic class and not as a disadvantaged minority. Therefore, if taken a step further, lowering the Jewish status a peg can be translated, by some, not as prejudice but the advancement of equality.

“It is a racist economic critique, but I am absolutely certain that this is a core underpinning of antisemitism and unconscious bias about Jews that we see on the left,” Johnson said.

Right-wing antisemitism tends to be more overt and fundamentally racial and so it is more easily identifiable, he said. Left-wing antisemitism, in Johnson’s experience, is different.

“Even Jeremy Corbyn, the former British Labour Party leader, whom I would argue is a bare-faced, dyed-in-the-wool antisemite, maintained enough plausible deniability that perhaps he himself believed he was free from antisemitic ideas. Antisemites on the right don’t bother deluding themselves about where they stand,” he said.

To Johnson, the left’s ambivalence to antisemitism is all the more dispiriting because it ignores the contributions Jews have made in building progressive movements.

“If most leftists are not engaged in antisemitism, they are not engaged in fighting it, either,” Johnson said. “Betrayal hurts most because it does not come from your enemies. To admit that antisemitism has gotten worse during our lifetimes offends our progressive values.”

Johnson believes there may be a long struggle ahead in confronting antisemitism, though he did mention lessons he has learned in this battle. These include being intellectually prepared with an argument before problematic situations arise, so as not to be overwhelmed by emotion in the moment, and not assuming ill will when ignorance may be more likely. He noted that, while calling out antisemites is crucial, calling in those who unknowingly say or do something antisemitic is as important.

For more information about Upstanders Canada, visit upstanderscanada.com.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Thinker on hate at 100

Next month marks the centenary of the birth of a psychiatrist whose work on antisemitism deserves a fresh reading. Theodore Isaac Rubin was born 100 years ago April 11. He died at 95, in February 2019. His 1990 book Anti-Semitism, A Disease of the Mind: A Psychiatrist Explores the Psychodynamics of a Symbol Sicknessposited that bigotry against Jews may be a mental disorder.

Rubin had a sprawling career, writing fiction and nonfiction. His 1961 novel Lisa and David, a love story of teenagers with severe mental illnesses, was made into a film the next year and garnered two Academy Award nominations. But Rubin’s work, in addition to his clinical practice in New York City, was primarily devoted to psychology and self-help, including weight loss. He has been credited with coining the term “comfort food.”

Rubin attributed antisemitism to “symbol sickness.” Human beings use symbols to represent objects in the world and to communicate how we feel through these symbols – love and hate being among the most familiar. Symbol sickness occurs when a symbol becomes so divorced from its original meaning that it takes on a distorted or pathological sense. Antisemitism can occur when the objective meaning of “Jew” is imbued with projections from the mind of a person we would call antisemitic.

“The symbol tends to take on increasing importance, and this can and often does reach a state in which there is obsessional preoccupation with it,” he wrote. “In projecting inner conflict to, let us say, Jews, what really happens is that Jews – the symbol – are assigned roles representing aspects of one’s own conflicts.”

Rubin saw envy and feelings of exclusion as central to antisemitism, particularly the idea of a people who the spectator perceives as inferior yet are, in theological terms, “chosen.” The perception that these “inferior” people have little or no interest in him can lead the antisemite into frenzies of rage.

“Even as [the antisemite] denigrates the Jews, he envies what he sees as separateness, clannishness and exclusivity,” he wrote. “He believes that Jewish lack of interest in him, let alone winning him over, is a form of rejection. His reaction to rejection is enormous self-hate and projected self-hate. He rejects and despises the Jew, salving his own hurt pride and disguising his secret admiration and envy. He further embroiders the disguise, twisting envied Jewish characteristics into threatening ones. Thus, he sees Jewish commonality and cohesiveness as arrogance and unwillingness to meld and cooperate with the larger society. Even more, he sees Jewish cooperation and lack of missionary zeal or their desire to assimilate as secretive, cabal-like machinations.”

Perceptions of Jewish achievement can be similarly problematic.

Jews “had to cooperate in order to survive,” wrote Rubin. “They connect the past, present and future, and connect to each other. They profit from the wisdom and experience of forefathers and the group. This makes Nobel Prize cooperative efforts possible. This also makes them the envy – often the malignant envy – of the self-disenfranchised (from self, others, and past and future) antisemite to whom they become prime objects of projected self-hate. The Jew is an intense cooperator. The antisemite’s philosophy confuses commitment, dedication, intense interest, involvement and optimism with sick competition.”

Waiting for the Messiah – who never arrives – is a lesson in the process of postponement of gratification, Rubin argued, offering a reason for collective success – but rational explanations are not accepted by an antisemite. “To the antisemite, Jewish achievements are not seen in this light at all. They are seen as the result of slimy manipulation and cabal-like insider cooperation, designed to frustrate non-Jews.”

For people who are oppressed by political leaders, theology, daily drudgery or any other factors, antisemitism offers a scapegoat. Jews are a symbol of freedom – even when they are oppressed by dictatorial regimes or violent neighbours – merely because they exist outside of the majority society.

Rubin goes to some lengths to address Christian antisemitism and how it may fit into his thesis of anti-Jewish bigotry as a mental disorder. Rubin suggests that Christians who traditionally have accused Jews of deicide are not expressing hatred for the perceived annihilation of their deity, but the opposite. Jesus the Jew, in the Christian narrative, is the conscience-giving entity, paralleling the role of Judaism as the wellspring of ethical monotheism.

“The Jew is hated for being a conscience-giver rather than a Christ-killer,” according to Rubin. “Even as they kill the hated conscience-giving part of Jesus symbolized by the Jew, they brag about love for Jesus and Christian brotherhood.”

The antisemite may venerate the loving, compassionate aspects of Jesus, but struggle against the strictures imposed by moral and behavioural principles that accompany the theology.

“I believe that rabid antisemites who have convinced themselves of the historical delusion that Jews killed Christ unconsciously really admire and envy them for doing so,” Rubin added. “They also are secretly grateful to the Jew for providing them with a symbol to which they can displace that hatred. Hating Jesus directly is terrifying indeed and threatens overwhelming guilt, unbearable self-hate and eternal damnation. Calling Jews ‘Christ-killers’ supports shaky identifications with Jesus and even more so with his teachings. This helps convince the victim that, as the Jews killed Christ, the hater of Jews loves Christ.”

Similarly, the ethical constraints that are inherent to most religions – but which a Christian might associate with the Jewish origins of their own theology – might lead to not only a lashing out against their own church or clergy, but a messy effort to improve one’s own self-worth by “proving” the moral failure of the followers of the antecedent religion.

“To be Jewish is to be righteous, ethical in the world,” Rubin wrote. Identifying and emphasizing examples of Jewish moral failing is a form of self-redemption, he argues. If the Jews, the apparent fountainhead of Christian morality, can be proven as hypocrites, one’s own shortcomings may seem less corrupt.

Like the bogeyman under the bed, the antisemite is terrified of a monster of their own creation.

“The antisemite assumes that he is hated by the Jew at least as much as he hates the Jew,” Rubin wrote. “He must keep the Jew powerless and in sight at all times and, if possible, obliterate him, because the secretive creature of secret cabals may have special powers, powers derivative of the God of the Old Testament.”

Jewish reverence for life – exemplified in the toast “l’chaim!” – may be another source of resentment for people who are taught that their reward will come after death.

“To the Jew the greatest courage is not related to death but rather to life. To live and to live an ethical, caring life is a courageous way of life,” wrote Rubin. “The antisemite and all bigots are essentially joyless, life-denying, disconnected, auto-digestive people.”

There may also be a foundation of misogyny in antisemitism, Rubin suggested, with Judaism portrayed as the “mother religion” of Christianity.

As a representation of motherhood, he wrote, Jews “then offer an easy target for displacement and projection. Hatred for the mother is repressed to the unconscious and projected to Jews on the conscious level. This projection would be fed by any disturbed relationship with parents or authority.”

Additionally, peace is traditionally symbolized as feminine and war as masculine. The Jewish quest for peace – “shalom!” – is juxtaposed with, to offer just one example, the Crusades, and Jews’ perceived passivity in the face of centuries of oppression may be interpreted as a feminine docility by those who esteem masculine aggression. (The inversion of this, in recent decades, through the perception of Jewish aggression in the form of Israeli military actions, could be seen as an eruption of envy or outrage over a people who “don’t know their place.”)

Lashing out at others as a response to (real or perceived) internal shortcomings may be a desperate response to perceived shaming, according to Rubin. “The saddest is a person whose feelings are blunted and even deadened,” he wrote. “This means that inflicting pain is a last-ditch attempt to have feelings vicariously oneself. Coupled with bullying tactics, the infliction of pain makes the sadistic bully feel momentarily alive and potent. This is compensation for feeling powerless, helpless and dead.”

Rubin’s assessments rest on the idea that the perpetrators of antisemitism are bullies who perceive themselves as bullied. This is a fundamental way that antisemitism differs from most forms of discrimination or bigotry, which tend to position the perpetrator as superior to the victim. An antisemite often imagines Jews as believing they are superior to others, which leads the antisemite to feel driven to bring Jews down a notch.

When Rubin wrote his book, in 1990, antisemitism, at least in North America, was largely believed to be a fact of history. Since it came roaring back, a decade later, we have struggled to explain and contain it. We generally fall to sociological explanations and Rubin’s unique approach – a psychological explanation – is an important one to help understand a phenomenon that, to be frank, we really have no firm consensus about how to confront.

Local heads new office

B’nai Brith Canada has returned to Vancouver. This time with a local office headed by Aron Csaplaros, who was born and raised in Vancouver.

B’nai Brith and its now-defunct newspaper the Jewish Tribune last made their presence felt here in 2009. In an interview with the Jewish Independent, Csaplaros emphasized “that our organization is not the B’nai Brith of the 1960s or 1970s, or the 2000s. Mr. [Michael] Mostyn took over control of our organization in 2014 as CEO and has created a ‘B’nai Brith 2.0.’ We are still heavily involved in affordable housing, feeding the vulnerable and seniors and social programming (something we hope to bring to B.C. as well in the future), but our main focuses have been advocacy and combating antisemitism.”

photo - Aron Csaplaros is the regional manager of the new local office of B’nai Brith Canada — Aron Csaplaros is the regional manager of the new local office of B’nai Brith Canada. (photo from B’nai Brith Canada)

As regional manager, Csaplaros said, “My mandate is 100% focused on combating antisemitism in our province. This includes responding to incidents of antisemitic vandalism, liaising with Jewish organizations on university campuses regarding antisemitism, and also keeping tabs on antisemitic individuals and organizations active in B.C. and devising strategies, which can range from working with local police and Crown prosecutors on criminal charges, removal of their platform, which they use to spread hate, or other legal measures we can take. I am also working on having the provincial government and municipalities across B.C. adopt the crucial IHRA [International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance] definition of antisemitism.”

Csaplaros acknowledged that there are already organizations based in British Columbia that deal with antisemitism and discrimination.

“B’nai Brith’s goal, and my presence in B.C., is not to compete with, duplicate or replace the important work that other organizations do,” he said. “On the contrary, we plan to work together with other organizations when we can establish a united front against antisemitism and Jew-hate.

“The value that B’nai Brith, and my presence here, adds is our laser focus on fighting antisemitism and the legal acumen that B’nai Brith possesses to aid us in this goal. We have several staff lawyers with expertise in criminal law and constitutional law, and many of our staff members (including myself and our CEO, Michael Mostyn) have legal backgrounds in litigation. This gives the ability to devise creative strategies when dealing with antisemitic organizations and individuals, and allows us to work closely with police departments and Crown prosecutors.

“We also have a Canada-wide network of volunteer Jewish lawyers called the Matas Law Society,” he said. “These lawyers are available to assist us in anything from writing submissions for parliamentary committee hearings, to intervening in court cases that impact the Jewish community.

“We are also the only Jewish organization in Canada to have an anti-hate hotline and a mobile app with the same purpose, where people can report incidents of antisemitism or other forms of discrimination. In addition, we have produced an annual, comprehensive audit of antisemitic incidents in Canada, and this publication is used by, among other entities, Statistics Canada, the U.S. State Department and Tel Aviv University. B’nai Brith does not engage in Israel advocacy, and we only respond to issues concerning antisemitism in Canada affecting Canadian members of the Jewish community. We also have a lean but well-connected team working at our organization, which allows us to respond quickly to incidents as they arise.”

Csaplaros started his position as the B.C. regional manager for B’nai Brith in January, and has met with local leaders in the Jewish community, politicians, and leaders of non-Jewish organizations that are also involved in combating hatred and discrimination, he said.

Csaplaros was born to a family of Hungarian immigrants, with his grandfather having been the first to arrive in Canada, in the 1950s. His parents arrived in 1995.

“I was brought up in a traditional Jewish household, and my paternal grandmother is a child survivor of the Holocaust,” he said. “I grew up very close to Congregation Schara Tzedeck, the synagogue which I am a member of and still attend to this day with my wife. I sit in the same seat that my grandfather purchased over 30 years ago, and it gives me great pride to continue his legacy by sitting in his seat and regularly attending services and events at the synagogue.

“I attended Vancouver Talmud Torah all the way from preschool until graduating in seventh grade,” he continued. “I then spent a year at King David High School, before transferring to Pacific Torah Institute (PTI) [which is no longer in Vancouver] and completing high school there. I then spent three years in their post-high school program, before attending Yeshivas Chofetz Chaim in New York for a year, where I received my bachelor’s degree in rabbinical studies.”

Throughout his time at PTI and at the yeshivah in New York, Csaplaros said, “I was engaged in learning with community members and teaching how to read Jewish source texts in their original format. I was also involved in community outreach, spending time and studying with elementary and high school-aged students from disadvantaged backgrounds. I also served on the board of directors of PTI.”

After his bachelor’s degree, Csaplaros attended law school at the University of Calgary, completing his articles at Kornfeld LLP.

“I’ve always had a passion for research, advocacy and governmental affairs, and I regularly participated in debates organized by Federation,” he said. “Yeshivah studies also involve debate and plenty of research, so that is another reason I chose to pursue a yeshivah education for several years. I then decided that the best way for me to develop my advocacy skills and learn more about the structure of Canada’s government was to attend law school…. I knew from the beginning of my legal studies that I wanted to be a litigator and, in the future, focus on human rights and civil liberties matters. Throughout law school, I was involved in initiatives to increase access to justice for members of the Indigenous community.”

During his time at Kornfeld LLP, Csaplaros said, “I focused on litigation, including construction, real estate and general commercial litigation. I was fortunate to appear in court several times and run a small claims trial on my own.

“These experiences further strengthened my desire to be an advocate,” he said, “and, as my time as an articling student at the firm was coming to a close, I learned that B’nai Brith Canada was looking for a regional manager for B.C. whose main mandate would be advocacy and fighting antisemitism and hatred in all forms. I knew that B’nai Brith Canada is a leader in fighting antisemitism in Canada, and I also knew that I could use my knowledge of the legal system to help me further this goal.”

Csaplaros can be reached at [email protected].

Canadians Jews doing well

Prof. Dr. Morton Weinfeld was the latest speaker in Kolot Mayim’s 2022/23 series. (photo from Twitter)

On Feb. 5, Morton Weinfeld, a professor of sociology at McGill University in Montreal, presented the talk The Jewish Glass Is Half Full, as part of the 2022/23 Building Bridges Zoom lecture series put on by Kolot Mayim Reform Temple in Victoria.

Weinfeld, the child of Holocaust survivors from Poland and the author of Like Everyone Else But Different: The Paradoxical Success of Canadian Jews, started teaching at McGill in 1977 and has seen more than 4,000 students participate in his course on the sociology of North American Jewry.

The course, Weinfeld explained, formed the basis of his book, in which he uses Jews as a case study for the challenges in Canada of identity, culture and acceptance of the country’s multicultural position. By his own description, he tends to take a more liberal stance on Israel.

Weinfeld confessed at the beginning of his talk that the track record for predicting the future has been, and remains, dismal. The same is the case for sociological studies of the Jewish community, he asserted. As an example, he noted that the social sciences in the 20th century missed the mark on predicting the Holocaust, the triumph of Zionism, and the revival of orthodoxy in North America, among other things.

“Thus, I am doing this presentation with humility, in case anyone thinks I can predict the future,” he stated at the outset.

Accentuating the positive at first, Weinfeld praised Canadian multiculturalism. “Canada is committed to helping promote and enhance cultures, and Canada also will try to offer these cultures maximum participation in Canadian society. So, if you want to be a professor at McGill, or you want to run for a cabinet post in any government, you are free to do that. Canada will remove the barriers that prevent you from achieving that.”

In Weinfeld’s view, the Canadian Jewish community is currently doing quite well in this regard, particularly when compared to other minority groups in Canada and Jewish communities elsewhere in the world.

“One of the reasons why Jews have done well in diasporic settings [like Canada] is because they have been at it for such a long time,” he said. “For at least 2,000 years, since the Roman exile, Jews have had no choice but to learn how to live in a variety of the diasporic settings. Practise makes perfect. Other Canadian minority groups have not had anything like this.”

Weinfeld offered another piece of news: that the Canadian Jewish population is growing. While the number of Jews self-identifying as ethnically Jewish decreased from the 2011 Census to the 2021 Census, the number of Jews self-identifying as Jewish by religion increased from 329,500 in 2011 to 335,295 in 2021. In the context of this statistic, he referred to a 1964 cover story in Look magazine called “The Vanishing American Jew,” which painted a bleak future for North American Jewry, with intermarriage being among the main concerns. Look is no longer around, he noted, but the number of Jews in North America has grown and, “over the past two decades, the fears of assimilation have become muted.”

Further, the pluralism seen in the Jewish community, from liberal denominations to orthodoxy, is a source of strength, said Weinfeld. Together, he said, the different groups combine to make Jews in Canada far more interesting and viable, despite the lack of understanding each group in the community may have for one another.

Weinfeld characterized Jews in Canada as having a high-degree of voluntary self-segregation; that is, each group tends to congregate more within its own circles. However, he said, the comfort of one group can lead to a bolstering of overall Jewish identity.

“Those doom and gloom predictions for Jewish disappearance, certainly in the United States and Canada, have been excessive,” he said.

Weinfeld then spoke about the presence of antisemitism in modern North American society, pointing out that, just a few years ago, it would have been unimaginable for a former American president to dine with an unabashed antisemite like Kanye West.

“There is no question that antisemitism is a reality in Canadian Jewish life,” Weinfeld said, referring to surveys and polls showing that millions of Canadians believe in conspiracies theories, often with Jews as the masterminds behind them.

Canada, according to surveys by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), is worse than Scandinavian countries and the Netherlands when it comes to levels of antisemitism, but fares better than France and Germany.

Regarding the situation at Canadian universities, Weinfeld said, “I think that, on campuses today, there is a tendency to dismiss the concerns of those Jewish students that like to support Israel. And I’m not speaking of the extreme right, I’m speaking of very liberal, progressive Jewish students who want to also retain Israel’s right to exist.”

Later in his talk, Weinfeld warned, “I think that we may be in for a rocky period – with regard to antisemitism and its links with Israel, Israeli policy and Zionism, in part because of the new Israeli government. But I want to be very clear, the seeds of all of that predate the current Israeli government.”

Rabbi Suzanne Singer of Temple Beth El in California, a former journalist, will wrap up this year’s speaker series on April 9. With a history of leadership at Kolot Mayim, Singer will talk about Hope: How Do We Find Hope in a World with Unending Problems? To register for this talk, visit kolotmayimreformtemple.com.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Making room for compassion

I’ve been under stress lately. It’s the usual: money, household, family and work concerns. Some of it is my own doing: in our enthusiasm for extracurricular activities, I somehow managed to sign our twins up for three different weekly ones during January and February. Yet, even though rushed dinners and drives through snowstorms and -30°C windchills aren’t my favourite activities, I found a silver lining. As my kids learned to use sewing machines at the studio, I got to knit and read quietly in the renovated waiting area overlooking river skating trails and watching the sunset. During chess club at the local Chabad, I saw friends briefly, then I hid, reading alone.

Thinking about the two sides of these activity nights made me reflect further. Having the time and energy and, yes, money to manage these extra enrichments is a gift, even if schlepping kids around can be hard and tiring for parents. The few moments of relative quiet, while the kids are happy, occupied and learning, usually enable me to regain my composure.

Once I have had those moments, I find room to be more patient, kind and compassionate. I’m not big on spas or manicures or tropical vacations. For me, something as simple as a few moments alone in a warm, quiet place with a good book or a good view can give me that reprieve.

I thought of this while speaking with my mom recently. She mentioned that, while on neighbourhood forums, sometimes she feels that all people do is complain. Worse, she feels that, in a Jewish forum, there is always someone who reads everything that happens to her as antisemitic. There was a pause in the conversation as I sensed her frustration. I was able to reach back into one of those warm, calm moments and suggest, in response, that perhaps in an era of rising antisemitism, the person concerned about antisemitism had actually experienced trauma. That, maybe, her fearful responses and anxiety were a response to a real incident.

Similarly, I wondered about those who were “always complaining” online. Perhaps those people also had bad experiences, but had no one offline to comfort or hear them. No one “saw” them. As a result, they were seeking that attention and reassurance online instead.

There is no shortage of distressing stuff happening, particularly if you’re reading about the ongoing earthquakes and displacements in Turkey and Syria, the deaths and violence between Israelis and Palestinians, or the increased crime or fatal drug overdoses at home in Canada. There is plenty of “awful” to go around.

The big challenge is in finding that space in which to compose ourselves and respond to others with compassion and patience. It can be as simple as a cheerful conversation or joke, and as difficult as listening to someone’s painful cries for help, on repeat.

As someone who grew up in the United States, I dreaded what I would hear after the Shabbat recently described as a “Day of Hate” proposed by neo-Nazis. All day, I remained tense, worried. What happened? Thank goodness, nothing much. My brother’s family attended a lovely bat mitzvah at our family’s long-time congregation … like many in the States, they went to synagogue and nothing happened. Yet, the overall increased antisemitic activity afoot made it hard for me to just relax and hope for the best. Even if nothing happened on that day, the amount of hate going around has increased. Almost worse though is the response that Jews who are anxious about this are simply “crybabies” or “crying wolf” or worried about nothing. The bad feeling comes from fear. Some of it, due to intergenerational trauma, is internalized.

My husband’s father was born in a displaced persons camp in Germany after the Second World War. Although my husband’s grandparents lived, they lost most of their families. They managed to survive the war, with harrowing stories. My husband’s bubbe, may she rest in peace, talked about her experiences over and over. I often sat next to her, holding space for her stories, as she repeated her trauma in different ways. She’d effortlessly shift languages, speaking whatever language – among them, Hebrew, Yiddish and English – to whomever also had that room to hear her, see her and listen.

By contrast, my husband’s zayde, z”l, spoke less about the war, but, in his final years, when he lived in a nursing home, he replayed a scary story over and over. At every door of the care home, the healthcare workers posted photos of him, because he’d try to escape. Mimicking what must have happened during the war, he’d trick someone or sneak past or do something that allowed him to leave the home. They were the enemy, trapping him, and he needed to get out. Zayde often succeeded, showing up on the doorstep or sitting in his car in the driveway. He scared the heck out of Bubbe when she found him. He, too, was replaying his traumatic past.

We’re lucky to have new kinds of therapies and medications that help some people cope with trauma, but many of us still are working through issues. Even with access to basics like housing, food, medication and, hopefully, love, we all struggle to be seen and heard, to find enough compassion and love to make it through. We need to each find that quiet, well-lit space to regain our composure, so we can then reach out and help others.

As Hillel says in Pirkei Avot: “In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man.” It could also mean: “In a place where no one is acting like a good person, strive to be one.” Nowadays, some of our places for listening are online. Our social encounters are different than before, and finding that patience or inner strength can require more effort.

Love, and its close cousin, compassion, are not limited commodities. A heart full of kindness can find more space to help. As my crazy wintertime parenting and worry load lightens, I realize that I wish everyone could have that gift of an hour of solitude, watching the sun set over a river, seeing a rabbit’s tracks or a biker commuting home. We can’t singlehandedly fix or stop the world’s trauma, but we can gift each other our time and patience to help others feel seen and to heal from it.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Calling out antisemitism

When news broke that a Jewish person had been shot near a Los Angeles synagogue on Wednesday a week ago, the police statement said there was “no evidence” that the shooter had been targeting Jewish people. When another Jewish person was shot the next day, near the same synagogue, police repeated that these appeared to be separate incidents and that there was again no evidence that Jews were being targeted. Both victims were injured but survived.

When a single suspect in both shootings was arrested Friday, it turned out he has a long history of bombarding Jewish acquaintances and others with violent antisemitic threats.

There is nothing to be gained by having police or anyone else speculate on motives during or in the immediate aftermath of a crime. But if police are going to venture in that direction anyway, why err on the side of randomness? Denying the possibility of antisemitic intent until evidence makes it impossible to do so is a too-common response. It has happened around the world.

In 2015, two days after terrorists murdered 12 people at the offices of the French magazine Charlie Hebdo, ISIS-affiliated extremists took hostages and murdered four people at a kosher supermarket in Paris. Then-U.S. president Barack Obama referred to the attack on an explicitly Jewish store as “a bunch of violent, vicious zealots who … randomly shoot a bunch of folks in a deli in Paris.” There was, of course, nothing random about the “deli” that was chosen.

It happened again during an antisemitic attack in Jersey City, N.J., in December 2019, when six people were murdered. Police initially said they believed the kosher market was randomly chosen and there was no evidence of terrorism. Within hours, they acknowledged that the perpetrators had “targeted the location they attacked.”

In 2022, there was an 11-hour hostage-taking at a synagogue in Colleyville, Tex., in which there were thankfully no casualties but the perpetrator. A police spokesperson said immediately after the incident that the hostage-taker’s demands were “specifically focused on issues not connected to the Jewish community” and, two days later, officials amended this to “a terrorism-related matter, in which the Jewish community was targeted.”

The reality was less oblique. The perpetrator chose that synagogue because it was closest to the federal penitentiary holding a terrorist he sought to free. He chose a synagogue because that would be the surest way to get his demands met since, as he told the hostages, the U.S. “only cares about Jewish lives” and because “Jews control the world.”

What is this instinct to deny that antisemitism is a cause of antisemitic violence until the evidence makes denial untenable?

In her book People Love Dead Jews, Dara Horn posits that efforts at Holocaust education in recent years may be having the opposite of the intended effect. Rather than making people sensitive to anti-Jewish ideas or crimes, it may set the bar too high. When a few people are murdered in Paris or shot in Los Angeles, after all, it’s not the Holocaust. If the only thing a person (or a society) knows about antisemitism is the Holocaust, then cases of hate crimes involving a couple of people are, well, nothing to get too concerned about.

There may be a denial not only of the magnitude, but of the very existence of the phenomenon itself. We are in a time of reckoning about race and racism. These issues are a central fact in our collective discourse. But antisemitism does not fit neatly into this narrative. When skin colour is the defining factor, white-passing Jews are excluded from the discourse and non-white Jews are made even more invisible than they too often already are. Moreover, the outcomes by which racism is measured are, to some extent, economic inequities. Proof of racism is seen in reduced economic outcomes: higher unemployment, lower household wealth, fewer opportunities. These are not, collectively, how antisemitism manifests. Ergo, in some eyes, this means antisemitism does not exist – or does not have the serious, quantifiable impacts other forms of racism have.

Antisemitic incidents, including violent crime, are at alarming levels, according to every survey and measure available. The least that law enforcement, media and ordinary people can do under the circumstances, when a Jewish individual or community is attacked, is avoid retrenching into a defensive position that defaults to the assumption that anything but antisemitism is at work.