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Letty Cottin Pogrebin wants Jews to own up to the corrosive power of shame
(JTA) — When a lawyer for Donald Trump asked E. Jean Carroll why she didn’t scream while allegedly being raped by Donald Trump, I thought of Letty Cottin Pogrebin. In her latest book, “Shanda: A Memoir of Shame and Secrecy,” she writes about being assaulted by a famous poet — and how the shadow of shame kept women like her silent about attacks on their own bodies.
That incident in 1962, she writes, was “fifty-eight years before the #MeToo movement provided the sisterhood and solidarity that made survivors of abuse and rape feel safe enough to tell their stories.”
Now 83, Pogrebin could have coasted with a memoir celebrating her six decades as a leading feminist: She co-founded Ms. magazine, its Foundation for Women and the National Women’s Political Caucus. She served as president of Americans for Peace Now and in 1982 blew the whistle on antisemitism in the feminist movement.
Instead, “Shanda” is about her immigrant Jewish family and the secrets they carried through their lives. First marriages that were kept hidden. An unacknowledged half-sister. Money problems and domestic abuse. An uncle banished for sharing family dirt in public.
“My mania around secrecy and shame was sparked in 1951 by the discovery that my parents had concealed from me the truth about their personal histories, and every member of my large extended family, on both sides, was in on it,” writes Pogrebin, now 83. “Their need to avoid scandal was so compelling that, once identified, it provided the lens through which I could see my family with fresh eyes, spotlight their fears, and, in so doing, illuminate my own.”
“Shanda” (the Yiddish word describes the kind of behavior that brings shame on an entire family or even a people) is also a portrait of immigrant New York Jews in the 20th century. As her father and mother father move up in the world and leave their Yiddish-speaking, Old World families behind for new lives in the Bronx and Queens, they stand in for a generation of Jews and new Americans “bent on saving face and determined to be, if not exemplary, at least impeccably respectable.”
Pogrebin and I spoke last week ahead of the Eight Over Eighty Gala on May 31, where she will be honored with a group that includes another Jewish feminist icon, the writer Erica Jong, and musician Eve Queler, who founded her own ensemble, the Opera Orchestra of New York, when she wasn’t being given chances to conduct in the male-dominated world of classical music. The gala is a fundraiser for the New Jewish Home, a healthcare nonprofit serving older New Yorkers.
Pogrebin and I spoke about shame and how it plays out in public and private, from rape accusations against a former president to her regrets over how she wrote about her own abortions to how the Bible justifies family trickery.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
I found your book very moving because my parents’ generation, who like your family were middle-class Jews who grew up or lived in the New York metropolitan area, are also all gone now. Your book brought back to me that world of aunts and uncles and cousins, and kids like us who couldn’t imagine what kinds of secrets and traumas our parents and relatives were hiding. But you went back and asked all the questions that many of us are afraid to ask.
I can’t tell you how good writing it has been. I feel as though I have no weight on my back. And people who have read it gained such comfort from the normalization that happens when you read that others have been through what you’ve been through. And my family secrets are so varied — just one right after the other. The chameleon-like behavior of that generation — they became who they wanted to be through pretense or actual accomplishment.
In my mother’s case, pretense led the way. She went and got a studio photo that made it look like she graduated from high school when she didn’t. In the eighth grade, she went up to her uncle’s house in the north Bronx and had her dates pick her up there because of the shanda of where she lived on the Lower East Side with nine people in three rooms. She had to imagine herself the child of her uncle, who didn’t have an accent or had an accent but at least spoke English.
You describe yours as “an immigrant family torn between loyalty to their own kind and longing for American acceptance.”
There was the feeling that, “If only we could measure up, we would be real Americans.” My mother was a sewing machine operator who became a designer and figured out what American women wore when she came from rags and cardboard shoes, in steerage. So I admire them. As much as I was discomforted by the lies, I ended up having compassion for them.
It’s also a story of thwarted women, and all that lost potential of a generation in which few could contemplate a college degree or a career outside the home. Your mother worked for a time as a junior designer for Hattie Carnegie, a sort of Donna Karan of her day, but abandoned that after she met your dad and became, as you write, “Mrs. Jack Cottin.”
The powerlessness of women was complicated in the 1950s by the demands of the masculine Jewish ideal. So having a wife who didn’t work was proof that you were a man who could provide. As a result women sacrificed their own aspirations and passions. She protected her husband’s image by not pursuing her life outside the home. In a way my feminism is a positive, like a photograph, to the negative of my mother’s 1950s womanhood.
“I’m not an optimist. I call myself a ‘cockeyed strategist,” said Pogrebin, who has a home on the Upper West Side. (Mike Lovett)
You write that you “think of shame and secrecy as quintessentially Jewish issues.” What were the Jewish pressures that inspired your parents to tell so many stories that weren’t true?
Think about what we did. We hid behind our names. We changed our names. We sloughed off our accents. My mother learned to make My*T*Fine pudding instead of gefilte fish. Shame and secrecy have always been intrinsically Jewish to me, because of the “sha!” factor: At every supper party, there would be the moment when somebody would say, “Sha! We don’t talk about that!” So even though we talked about what felt like everything, there were things that couldn’t be touched: illness, the C-word [cancer]. If you wanted to make a shidduch [wedding match] with another family in the insular communities in which Jews lived, you couldn’t let it be known that there was cancer in the family, or mental illness.
While I was writing this memoir, I realized that the [Torah portion] I’m listening to one Shabbat morning is all about hiding. It is Jacob finding out that he didn’t marry Rachel, after all, but married somebody he didn’t love. All of the hiding that I took for granted in the Bible stories and I was raised on like mother’s milk was formative. They justified pretense, and they justified trickery. Rebecca lied to her husband and presented her younger son Jacob for the blessing because God told her, because it was for the greater good of the future the Jewish people.
I think Jews felt that same sort of way when it came to surviving. So we can get rid of our names. We wouldn’t have survived, whether we were hiding in a forest or behind a cabinet, a name or a passport, or [pushed into hiding] with [forced] conversions. Hiding was survival.
I was reading your book just as the E. Jean Carroll verdict came down, holding Donald Trump liable for sexually assaulting her during an encounter in the mid-’90s. You write how in 1962, when you were working as a book publicist, the hard-drinking Irish poet Brendan Behan (who died in 1964) tried to rape you in a hotel room and you didn’t report it. Like Carroll, you didn’t think that it was something that could be reported because the cost was too high.
Certainly in that era powerful men could get away with horrible behavior because of shanda reasons.
Carroll said in her court testimony, “It was shameful to go to the police.”
You know that it happened to so many others and nobody paid the price. The man’s reputation was intact and we kept our jobs because we sacrificed our dignity and our truth. I was in a career, and I really was supporting myself. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I would have been pilloried for having gone to his hotel room, and nobody was there when he picked up an ashtray and threatened to break the window of the Chelsea Hotel unless I went up there with him.The cards were stacked against me.
In “Shanda,” you write about another kind of shame: The shame you now feel decades later about how you described the incident in your first book. You regret “how blithely I transformed an aggravated assault by a powerful man into a ‘sticky sexual encounter.’”
I wrote about the incident in such offhand terms, and wonder why. I wrote, basically, “Okay, girls, you’re gonna have to put up with this, but you’re gonna have to find your own magical sentence like I had with Behan” to get him to stop.
You write that you said, “You can’t do this to me! I’m a nice Jewish girl!” And that got him to back off.
Really painful.
I think that’s a powerful aspect of your book — how you look back at the ways you let down the movement or your family or friends and now regret. In 1991 you wrote a New York Times essay about an illegal abortion you had as a college senior in 1958, but not the second one you had only a few months later. While you were urging women to tell their stories of abortion, you note how a different shame kept you from telling the whole truth.
Jewish girls could be, you know, plain or ordinary, but they had to be smart, and I had been stupid. I could out myself as one of the many millions of women who had an abortion but not as a Jewish girl who made the same mistake [of getting pregnant] twice.
The book was written before the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade. In the book you write powerfully about the shame, danger and loneliness among women when abortion was illegal, and now, after 50 years, it is happening again. Having been very much part of the generation of activists that saw Roe become the law of the land, how have you processed its demise?
Since the 1970s, we thought everything was happening in this proper linear way. We got legislation passed, we had litigation and we won, and we saw the percentage of women’s participation in the workplace all across professions and trades and everything else rise and rise. And then Ronald Reagan was elected and then there was the Moral Majority and then it was the Hyde Amendment [barring the use of federal funds to pay for abortion]. I was sideswiped because I think I was naive enough to imagine that once we articulated what feminism was driving at and why women’s rights were important, and how the economic reality of families and discrimination against women weren’t just women’s issues, people would internalize it and understand it and justice would be done.
In the case of Roe, we could not imagine that rights could ever be taken away. We didn’t do something that we should have done, which is to have outed ourselves in a big way. It’s not enough that abortion was legal. We allowed it to remain stigmatized. We allowed the right wing to create their own valence around it. That negated solidarity. If we had talked about abortion as healthcare, if we had had our stories published and created organizations around remembering what it was like and people telling their stories about when abortion was illegal and dangerous…. Instead we allowed the religious right to prioritize [fetal] cells over a woman’s life. We just were not truthful with each other, so we didn’t create solidarity.
Are you heartened by the backlash against restrictive new laws in red states or optimistic that the next wave of activism can reclaim the right to abortion?
I’m not an optimist. I call myself a “cockeyed strategist.” If you look at my long resume, it is all about organizing: Ms. magazine, feminist organizations, women’s foundations, Black-Jewish dialogues, Torah study groups and Palestinian-Jewish dialogues.
Number one, we have to own the data and reframe the narrative. We have to open channels for discussion for women who have either had one or know someone who has had one, even in religious Catholic families. The state-by-state strategy was really slow, but Ruth Bader Ginsburg wanted that. She almost didn’t get on the court because she didn’t like the nationwide, right-to-privacy strategy of Roe but instead wanted it won state by state, which would have required campaigns of acceptance and consciousness-raising.
So, the irony is she hasn’t lived to see that we’re going to have to do it her way.
You share a lot of family secrets in this book. Is this a book that you waited to write until, I’ll try to put this gently, most of the people had died?
I started this book when I was 78 years old, and there’s always a connection to my major birthdays. And turning 80 – you experience that number and it is so weird. It doesn’t describe me and it probably won’t describe you. I thought, this could well be my last book, so I needed to be completely transparent, put it all out there.
My mother and father and aunts and uncles were gone, but I have 24 cousins altogether. I went to my cousins, and told them I am going to write about the secret of your parents: It’s my uncle, but it’s your father. It’s your family story even though it’s my family, but it’s yours first. And every cousin, uniformly, said, “Are you kidding? You don’t even know the half of it,” and they’d tell me the whole story. I guess people want the truth out in the end.
Is that an aspect of getting older?
I think it’s a promise of liberation, which is what I have found. It’s this experience of being free from anything that I’ve hid. I don’t have to hide. Years ago, on our 35th wedding anniversary, we took our whole family to the Tenement Museum because we wanted them to see how far we’ve come in two generations.
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How 3 Jewish refugees from the Nazis built Iceland’s classical music scene from scratch
(JTA) — REYKJAVIK, Iceland —This city in the autumn of 1935 was a small fishing port of corrugated-iron houses battered by high winds, cod trawlers idling in the harbor, and geothermal steam curling up from hot springs that would one day heat the whole city. Fewer than 30,000 people lived there. There was no concert hall, no real orchestra, and no conservatory worth the name.
Onto this isolated island, in late 1935, stepped a 22-year-old pianist from Berlin named Robert Abraham. He carried almost nothing with him and hoped no one would ask too many questions about why he had left Germany.
He wasn’t the only one. Three years later, a Viennese conductor named Victor Urbancic disembarked with his Jewish wife, Melitta, after years of trying and failing to find a safe harbor elsewhere in Europe. And somewhere in between came Heinz Edelstein, a cellist and teacher from the German town of Freiburg, who arrived with his wife and two sons.
None of them had chosen Iceland. For a classically trained European musician fleeing the Nazis, an island near the Arctic Circle with no symphony orchestra and a government hostile to Jewish immigration was about as far from a dream destination as it got. Yet Urbancic, Abraham, and Edelstein went on to build the institutions that still define Icelandic classical music today.
Iceland is a nation that has always known how to keep its stories alive, from the medieval sagas to the living oral traditions that shaped its literature and language. But its more recent history of Jewish exile has gone largely untold for nearly a century until now — as scholars have worked both to recover the music that Nazi persecution scattered across the globe and reconstruct an Icelandic musical history that offers a painful reminder of the country’s Holocaust history.
The musicians’ story is the subject of a newly translated book, “Music at World’s End: Three Refugee Musicians from Nazi Germany and Their Contribution to Iceland’s Music Life,” by Icelandic musicologist Árni Heimir Ingólfsson. It was published in English this year by SUNY Press following the Icelandic edition in 2024.
The book reconstructs the three refugees’ individual pathways to Iceland. Urbancic was born in Vienna in 1903 and trained as a pianist, composer, and conductor at the Vienna Conservatory, working his way through theaters in Mainz and Graz. He was raised Catholic, but his wife, Melitta, came from a Jewish family, and under the Nazis, that was enough to end his career. After doors closed on him in Switzerland and the United States, an old classmate helped him find a foothold in Iceland in 1938.
Abraham’s path was more solitary. Born in Berlin in 1912, the son of musicologist Otto Abraham, he trained at the Berlin Hochschule für Musik before fleeing Germany in 1934, at age 22. Denmark turned him down. In late 1935, he sailed for Iceland alone and was advised to settle first in the fishing town of Akureyri, in the north.
Edelstein’s journey looked different from the start, a father bringing his family into exile rather than a young man traveling light.
“Today, there are as many as 100 descendants of these three men living in Iceland,” Ingólfsson said in an interview.
Their arrival was never guaranteed. At least four other Jewish musicians, including composer Viktor Ullmann, who would later die in Auschwitz, applied for Icelandic work permits around the same time and were turned away under a government that had largely closed the door to Jewish immigration. At the time, Icelandic immigration policies were very restrictive, similar to Denmark’s policies before and during the war. Iceland was a poor country with economic hardship, and antisemitism also played a role.
“Iceland is small and isolated, and in a place like that, xenophobia takes root easily,” Ingólfsson said. “The country was struggling economically, which fed suspicion of foreigners, and there was a prime minister who, on his own authority, closed the country to Jews entirely.”
Yet that same isolation created a practical need for what these three men could offer. “Iceland was pushing toward full independence from Denmark, and we felt we needed our own institutions to be taken seriously as a nation,” Ingólfsson said. “Musically, we still had a long way to go. … These three musicians arrived at exactly the right moment, despite the antisemitism.”
One more factor may have eased their acceptance, Ingólfsson said: By the time they reached Iceland, none of the three was a practicing Jew.
Abraham had been raised Protestant by his Jewish parents; he was no longer religious, according to Ingólfsson. Urbancic’s wife was Jewish, but he was not. And Edelstein had become an atheist.
“That made them easier for Icelanders to accept,” Ingólfsson said.
The three were admitted based on luck, timing, and getting their cases in front of the right people.
“In a way, it happened in a very Icelandic way,” said Ingólfsson. “They were lucky; instead of an automatic no, their applications were forwarded on based on people who knew people.”
Tina Frühauf of the CUNY Graduate Center, who studies Jewish music in the modern era, noted that Jewish identity across pre-Holocaust Europe was far from monolithic, meaning that many emigres had biographies like the Iceland refugees’.
“Before the Holocaust, Germany had an incredibly diverse Jewish religious landscape, and that diversity carried over into the migration itself,” she said.
What happened next still seems improbable. Urbancic became chief conductor of the Reykjavík Orchestra, the ensemble that, by 1950, had grown into the Iceland Symphony Orchestra, and led the country’s first performances of Bach’s “St. John Passion” and Mozart’s “Requiem,” and, in 1951, its first staged opera, Verdi’s “Rigoletto.” He also taught piano and theory at the Reykjavík School of Music and played the organ in the city’s only Catholic church.
Abraham became a central figure in Icelandic choral music. He conducted the Iceland Symphony Orchestra’s first-ever concert in 1950, founded the Philharmonia Choral Society in 1959, and earned a doctorate in musicology, eventually serving as director of music for the Church of Iceland — a long way from the young man who had arrived in Akureyri with one suitcase and instructions to keep a low profile. Edelstein, meanwhile, helped build the music schools and teaching pipelines that a country with no conservatory tradition simply didn’t have.
“They essentially created it,” Ingólfsson said of Iceland’s classical music scene. “People often ask why a country this small punches so far above its weight musically. Part of it is training, but just as important is a willingness to do the work. These three men set their egos aside. They were multi-talented and willing to take on any role — training orchestras, building choirs, teaching children — not just performing or conducting.”
That willingness, Ingólfsson argued, wasn’t incidental. A country with no infrastructure needed people willing to do five jobs at once, for little money and less glory. Urbancic, Edelstein, and Abraham fit that need because their old lives had already been upended. They weren’t protecting professional reputations, they were starting over.
Despite its impact, the story sat largely untold for decades, even in Iceland. Ingólfsson stumbled into it by chance. “It came to me by accident — about 25 years ago, an editor in Iceland approached me with the idea,” he said. “I was in graduate school at Harvard, so I researched and wrote much of it during my summer break.”
He published three newspaper profiles of the men in 2001, then set the project aside for two decades before finally turning it into a full book — work that meant tracking down archives, and just as often, tracking down people.
“I got in touch with the musicians’ families and met each of their children,” he said. “It’s a small world, and one connection led to another. Having that access early on made all the difference.”
One connection led somewhere unexpected and miraculous. While researching Abraham, Ingólfsson learned that the young musician had once been engaged to a non-Jewish woman who stayed behind in Berlin when he fled, and that he sent her care packages for years. Ingólfsson tracked down her daughter and wrote to her cold. “I’m writing a biography of your mother’s ex-boyfriend,” he told her. “She was overjoyed,” he recalled. “I met her in Hamburg, and she handed me a box of letters. That daughter became a second grandmother to me.”
So why did the story take so long to surface? “There’s still a tendency to tell the stories of our own,” Ingólfsson said. “Yes, these men did extraordinary work, but they were foreigners. Musicology is also a fairly new field in Iceland; there are only three or four musicologists in the whole country.”
Recognition is arriving now: Weeks ago, the Exile Museum in Berlin launched a series with foreign embassies, each spotlighting a refugee story tied to their country, and Iceland was chosen to go first.
Set against the wider history of Jewish musical exile, Iceland is an extreme case of an ordinary pattern. Musicians fleeing Nazi Europe scattered unevenly across the globe, and what happened to them next often depended on little more than where an immigration officer happened to say yes.
“Exile happened in very different ways,” Frühauf said. “Some musicians were actively forced out, threatened with internment, and some were even interned before being released. Others left earlier, and where they ended up varied enormously — America, Singapore, all over the world.”
The German musicologist Albrecht Dümling, meanwhile, saw his research take him to Australia, where nearly 100 German-Jewish refugee musicians landed, some of whom, after fleeing the Nazis, were deported there by the British, who considered them “enemy aliens.”
“They were horrified, as they had come as Jewish refugees to Britain and had hoped to be in a safe country,” he said of men sent aboard the prison ship Dunera in 1940. “They could not believe that in England they had been interned, and this was continued in Australia as well. Some were very depressed. But others saw their internment as a challenge to write songs that made clear their opposition to Hitler’s Germany.”
What separated musicians who thrived from those who vanished, Dümling said, often had less to do with talent than paperwork: Refugees in Iceland typically weren’t permitted to resume their old careers, a fate Urbancic, Edelstein, and Abraham avoided only because Iceland’s need for musicians overrode the usual restrictions.
Frühauf sees Iceland’s relative obscurity as instructive rather than incidental. “Smaller countries of exile are exactly where you find figures who’ve been overlooked,” she said. “Because exiles were so widely dispersed, many remain unknown simply due to geography.”
All three scholars described a sense of urgency, with the window for hearing these stories firsthand closing fast. “As eyewitnesses to the Nazi era pass away, hopes are pinned on the second generation,” Dümling said, “but the publication of personal memoirs, letters, and diaries written by these eyewitnesses is also taking on greater significance.”
That urgency comes with an ethical balancing act, Frühauf said. Recover the work too cautiously, and the story behind the music stays lost; recover it carelessly, and real artists risk being seen merely as symbols of suffering. “We have to avoid reducing these artists to simply victims or survivors, and instead make sure their music is valued on its own artistic merit,” she said. “The goal isn’t only to recover lost works, it’s to bring these musicians back into the canon.”
For Ingólfsson, the project has become something closer to a rescue than a research assignment, a chance to explain to the country that has been hearing this music for so many years, where so much of it actually came from.
“What strikes me most is the sheer randomness of it, how much depended on one person knowing another, often in events far outside Iceland,” he said. “These men were growing desperate in the 1930s, trying everything to get out. For a classical musician, Iceland was hardly a dream destination. And yet they turned something depressing and unfortunate into something extraordinary. It’s a very Icelandic story.”
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South Carolina’s Republican Senate nominee will likely be pro-Israel, but no match for Lindsey Graham
(JTA) — A crowded field of candidates will compete in South Carolina’s special primary this Tuesday, with hopes of securing the Republican nomination for a U.S. Senate seat long held by the late Lindsey Graham, one of Israel’s strongest allies on Capitol Hill and an advocate for military action against Iran.
There is little doubt that the winner will be supportive of Israel, but it remains to be seen just how high the Jewish state will rank among the candidate’s priorities. Matching Graham’s level of foreign policy experience and focus on the Middle East, a region he often visited, would be difficult.
“If other people are quite that hawkish, then they just don’t have the platform and power to say it. Whereas, he did,” Scott Huffmon, a professor of political science at South Carolina’s Winthrop University, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
Graham died suddenly on July 11 from an aortic dissection, at 71 years old, after serving 23 years in the Senate and eight in the U.S. House. He was a longstanding member of the Senate’s Armed Services and Budget committees and had traveled to Israel about a dozen times since Hamas’s Oct. 7, 2023 attack on Israel.
Having grown up in the Cold War era, Graham was an anti-Soviet and then anti-Russia conservative who was always solidly pro-Israel, said Huffmon, who also directs Winthrop’s Center for Public Opinion and Policy Research.
“He viewed peace in the Middle East through the lens of a protected Israel,” Huffmon said, noting that Graham made Israel a priority issue. “It would be really tough for a new person to have the traction to do that, even if they believe just as strongly as the late Senator Graham.”
Just a few days after his death, South Carolina Gov. Henry McMaster, a Republican, appointed the late senator’s younger sister, Darline Graham, to complete the rest of his term. Despite having only limited policy experience, such as previously serving on the South Carolina Commission for the Blind, she quickly earned President Trump’s endorsement and announced she would be running in Tuesday’s special primary.
Graham will be up against nine fellow Republicans, with her biggest challengers including Ralph Norman and Russell Fry, who are both currently serving in Congress, as well as Mark Sanford and Mark Lynch.
A recent Emerson College poll showed Graham and Norman vying for the lead, with 19% and 22% support, respectively, while Fry had 12%. Sanford is a former congressman and South Carolina governor, while Lynch is a businessman.
Among Norman’s top priorities is the Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act (SAVE America Act), a bill he co-sponsored in the U.S. House that would require voters to provide identification at the polls – and a top priority for Trump. He also has pledged to reduce spending, secure the U.S. borders, fund law enforcement, protect gun ownership rights, restrict women’s sports to assigned females at birth, support veterans and strengthen the military.
“We should be slow to send America’s sons and daughters into harm’s way, but when we do, they deserve every advantage to accomplish the mission and return home safely,” the campaign stated.
Darline Graham revealed her platforms less than a week ago on Fox News, noting that the SAVE America Act is her first co-sponsored bill in the U.S. Senate. Her other policies were similar to those on Norman’s list, though she also expressed specific support for the right to life, She slams diversity, equity and inclusion, and two bugbears of the left: progressive leader Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York and Anthony Fauci, the former top federal health official Republicans say bungled the COVID pandemic. Graham earned the backing of the Republican Jewish Coalition shortly after announcing her candidacy.
Fry’s campaign also promotes the Trump-branded “America First” agenda, focusing on securing borders, ending the fentanyl crisis, lowering costs, advocating for farmers and rural communities, honoring veterans, confronting China’s communist party and advancing U.S. oil, gas and nuclear energy development.
Sanford’s top priority, as highlighted in bold and red on his website, is the “nation’s debt and the spending that drives it.” His campaign focuses on reversing the “financial tipping point” that has threatened the country’s “ability to sustain the American Dream.” Sanford, whose governorship was plagued with scandals, briefly ran against Trump in the 2020 presidential primaries.
Lynch’s focuses are fairly similar to those of Norman, Graham and Fry, with stronger language on foreign policy that demands a “lethal military focused on defending the homeland,” an end to “American involvement in open-ended foreign conflicts” and formal congressional authorization for new military engagements.
Israel has not been an active issue in the campaign.
Although Graham earned Trump’s endorsement, Huffmon said that supporters of Norman and Fry also see them as candidates who “will help push Trump’s agenda.” Norman has a strong track record and statewide recognition as a fiscal conservative, while Fry has “solid conservative bona fides” but less notability, according to Huffmon.
In his own past polls of South Carolina Republicans, Huffmon said he found that the most conservative voters tended to have high approval ratings for Trump, McMaster and former governor Nikki Haley, but they saw Lindsey Graham as “too moderate.”
“The people who want the Trump agenda to succeed the most were not always Graham’s biggest fan,” he added. “So they might not automatically say, ‘Well, Graham’s sister is the natural candidate.’”
Christopher Cooper, a political science professor at Western Carolina University, predicted that “she will be fairly close to her brother on most issues,” noting that this is in some ways “her feature as a candidate.” But like Huffmon, he stressed that “Lindsey Graham was not that popular,” even if he was expected to win reelection.
That said, Huffmon stressed that South Carolina “is still a conservative, Trump supporting state” and that “his endorsement still matters a lot.”
Cooper agreed. “I think you’d rather have it than not have it, but it’s no longer a guarantee for victory,” he said.
The Emerson poll — which included about 500 GOP primary voters — also asked respondents what issues the next senator of South Carolina should prioritize. Just 3.5% chose foreign policy, while 59.5% picked the economy, 18.7% immigration, 8.3% healthcare and 10% “something else.” On the other hand, 56.1% said they “strongly support” U.S. military action in Iran, with only 14.6% voicing strong opposition.
Huffmon said that when a poll asks for a voter’s top priority, the respondent’s second most important issue could be “millimeters behind,” but they can only name one. Voters right now might feel like a strong foreign policy approach “is necessary but not sufficient,” he said.
Huffmon characterized Israel as “a threshold issue,” meaning that voters would view anti-Israel, pro-Palestinian sentiments as disqualifying factors, but the issue is not as high priority in comparison to other concerns, like the economy.
Cooper agreed. “GOP voters are going to be fairly hawkish, but if you ask any group of people right now, what’s your most important issue, it’s going to be the economy,” he said.
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Michigan rabbis urge Democrats to protect Jewish delegates at upcoming convention after AG, fearing harassment, pulls out of event
(JTA) — Michigan rabbis and other Jewish figures delivered a petition to the head of the state’s Democratic Party Monday urging him to “ensure the safety” of all Jewish delegates at the state party’s upcoming convention, underscoring anxieties about growing antisemitism in the state’s blue coalition.
The petition, whose total signatories numbered around 200, comes days after Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel, who is Jewish, announced she would not be attending the Aug. 29 convention out of fear of being targeted for harassment.
“We believe you need to make it clear, publicly, that anyone who chases, screams at, or otherwise harasses Jews at your convention will be arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law,” reads the petition, delivered to Curtis Hertel, Jr., the state party chair.
Citing Nessel’s comments, the letter continues, “If Jews — including the highest-ranking Jewish state official in Michigan — are intimidated into staying away from your convention, it will not stop there.”
Among the clergy who signed the letter at press time are five rabbis who actively lead congregations in the state, representing Reform, Conservative and Humanistic denominations. Those include Amy Bigman of Congregation Shaarey Zedek in East Lansing; Aaron Starr of Congregation Shaarey Zedek in Southfield, a Detroit suburb; Nadav Caine of Beth Israel Congregation in Ann Arbor; Natalie Shribman of Temple Kol Ami in West Bloomfield; and Jeffrey Falick of the Congregation for Humanistic Judaism of Metro Detroit, in Farmington Hills.
The vast majority of signatories hailed from outside the state, including Rafael Medoff, director of the David S. Wyman Institute for Holocaust Studies, who organized and delivered the petition to Hertel; Rabbi Etan Tokayer, president of the Rabbinical Council of America, an Orthodox rabbinical network; Jewish historian and Zionist commentator Gil Troy; and several other rabbis and Jewish academics across the country.
The letter did not mention Abdul El-Sayed, the party’s newly minted U.S. Senate nominee in Michigan. But the state’s Jewish Democrats have been on edge with El-Sayed’s rhetoric on both Israel and local matters of Jewish safety, including what they believe was his equivocal response to the Temple Israel attack in March in West Bloomfield. No rabbis affiliated with Temple Israel had signed the Hertel petition as of press time.
El-Sayed, a former county health official, appeared to acknowledge the concerns in his victory speech last week. “My commitment to Jewish safety is the same commitment that I have to the safety of my own daughters,” he said.
A number of Jewish Democratic leaders are not yet convinced, and many believe the threat of antisemitism within the party has become more acute with his rise.
“Acceptance or tolerance of antisemitism in Democratic spaces must also come to an end, and this requires clear action, not just words, on the part of El-Sayed,” Halie Soifer, chair of the Jewish Democratic Council of America and a Michigan native, wrote in a JDCA statement Friday.
Soifer called on El-Sayed to “stand with and defend Nessel and other Jewish Democrats,” noting that JDCA would focus its campaign season on helping elect “Democrats who share our values.” She added, “The Jewish vote is a critical component of a winning Democratic coalition, including in Michigan, and it’s not something that can be taken for granted.” More than 100,000 Jews live in Michigan, a swing state, and two thirds identify as Democrats, according to a 2020 Brandeis University population survey.
The Michigan Jewish Democratic Caucus, too, recently said El-Sayed’s campaign “must commit to … rejecting rhetoric that demonizes the Jewish civic identity.”
An El-Sayed campaign spokesperson did not immediately respond to a Jewish Telegraphic Agency request for comment on Nessel and antisemitism. Nessel has been targeted by pro-Palestinian activists in the state, who rallied against her ultimately unsuccessful efforts to prosecute encampment protesters at the University of Michigan.
The state’s last Democratic convention, in April, was marred by what many of its Jewish attendees said was a toxic environment that included nominating an attorney with a social media history of praising Hezbollah and far-right conspiracist Candace Owens to the ballot for the University of Michigan board of regents. Attendees also booed U.S. Rep. Haley Stevens, El-Sayed’s pro-Israel primary rival; a third candidate, state Sen. Mallory McMorrow, alleged that some attendees directed antisemitic remarks at her Jewish husband.
In her recent statement, Soifer said El-Sayed’s supporters had “created a hostile environment” at that convention. The candidate has said he directed his supporters not to boo anyone in April.
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