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Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers
(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.
It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.
Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend.
“From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian.
“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”
When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.
In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.
The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”
Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.
“We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.”
In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it.
“In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.”
Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.
To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac.
Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train.
The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.
This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.
With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains.
“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.”
He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance.
During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war.
Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English.
When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo.
In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe.
“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary.
At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape.
Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo.
“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”
When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known.
Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo.
Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport.
In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.
“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.”
Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets.
“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.
Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival.
“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.
Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia.
From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.
Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.
“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”
When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role.
During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well.
“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”
Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.
As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel.
In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot.
Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.
“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”
“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”
“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”
Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.
—
The post Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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‘Antisemitism Crisis in America’: Swastika Graffiti Again Appears Across New York City Boro
Swastikas graffitied in Forest Park in Queens, New York City over the weekend. Photo: Screenshot.
Antisemitic vandals in Queens, New York City are painting the town Nazi red, having added over the weekend two new incidents of swastika graffiti to a spree of hate crimes targeting Jewish institutions and homes across the borough.
As seen in photographs shared on social media, the unknown suspects graffitied some eleven swastikas at Highland Park and Forest Park for locals to discover on Monday — just one week after perpetrating the same crime at four Jewish owned properties in Rego Park and Forest Hills.
“This is yet another hateful incident meant to intimidate Jewish New Yorkers and divide our city,” New York City Council speaker of the house Julie Menin said in a statement posted on the X social media platform. “We want to be clear: we cannot and will not accept this as normal.”
The vandalism wave came just as the New York City Police Department (NYPD) announced that an ongoing surge in antisemitic hate crimes in the metropolis, which is home to the largest Jewish population outside of Israel, continues unabated.
According to newly released data the agency published on Monday, Jews were targeted in 60 percent of all confirmed hate crimes last month, despite making up just 10 percent of the city’s population.
In April, the police confirmed 30 antisemitic incidents out of 50 total hate crimes in the city. As for all reported/suspected hate crimes, 38 out of the total of 65 targeted Jews.
The NYPD had previously reported suspected, but unconfirmed, hate crime incidents. In February, the police began reporting confirmed incidents instead. And then after receiving scrutiny, the department began reporting both suspected and confirmed hate crimes in March.
Regardless of the methodology, the majority of all hate crimes in New York City this year have targeted Jews, especially the Orthodox community, continuing a surge in antisemitism that has swept the city after the start of the Israel-Hamas war in Gaza in October 2023.
In just eight days between the end of October and the beginning of November 2024, for example, three Hasidim, including children, were brutally assaulted in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. In one instance, an Orthodox man was accosted by two assailants, one masked, who “chased and beat him” after he refused to surrender his cellphone in compliance with what appeared to have been an attempted robbery. In another incident, an African American male smacked a 13-year-old Jewish boy who was commuting to school on his bike in the heavily Jewish neighborhood. Less than a week earlier, an assailant slashed a visibly Jewish man in the face as he was walking in Brooklyn.
In November, just days after the election of Zohran Mamdani as mayor of New York City, hundreds of people amassed outside a prominent synagogue and clamored for violence against Jews.
The change in New York City’s climate since Mamdani’s election is palpable, Jewish advocacy groups have said. On his first day in office in January, Mamdani voided the city government’s adoption of the IHRA definition, lifted the ban on contracts with companies boycotting Israel, and modified key provisions of an executive order directing law enforcement to monitor anti-Israel protests held near synagogues.
“Mayor Mamdani pledged to build an inclusive New York and combat all forms of hate, including antisemitism,” a coalition of leading Jewish groups said in a statement addressing the changes enacted by the new administration. “But when the new administration hit reset on many of Mayor Adams’ executive orders, it reversed … significant protections against antisemitism.”
Mayor Mamdani has denounced the swastika graffiti as a “deliberate act of antisemitic hatred” and said that he has assigned the NYPD’s Hate Crimes Task Force to investigate it.
Follow Dion J. Pierre @DionJPierre.
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‘Time Zone’ — poetry by Jake Schneider
צײַטזאָנע (אַטלאַס)
פֿאַר די ייִדיש־שרײַבערס פֿון יאָר 2100
אַן עסײ־פּאָעמע געשריבן אין יאַנואַר 2026
12:00
טײל פּאַסאַזשירן דרײען צוריק די זײגערלעך
בײַם אָפּפֿלי, אַנדערע בײַ דער לאַנדונג.
רובֿ פּאַסאַזשירן אָבער טראָגן מער נישט
קײן זײגערלעך און װאַרטן ביז די מאָבילקעס
פֿאַרבינדן זיך מיט דער נײַער צײַט.
די צײַט באַשטײט פֿון פֿאַרבינדונגען.
אױף די עקראַנען: מאַפּעס מיט גרענעצן.
אונטער די פֿענצטער: אַנאָנימע פּײזאַזשן.
אײן עראָפּלאַן מיט דרײַ צײַטזאָנעס:
אָפּשטאַם, צילאָרט און פֿלימאָדוס.
1:00
פֿעטער אַרטשיבאַלד דער אַװאָקאַט
גלײבט נישט אין זומער־זײגער.
אָפֿט קומט ער אָן אַ שעה פֿריִער
פֿאַר אַ זיצונג מיטן ריכטער.
זײַנע שפּעטע װעטשערע־געסט, װידער,
קריגן בלױז אַ שטיקל פּעקאַן־פּײַ.
לױט דער באָבען לײענט ער באַריכטן
הין און קריק, אױף זײַן הױדע־בענקל.
2:00
אין ברוקלין האָט די מאַמע ע״ה בדעה
צו שענקען מײַן זומער־לאַגער אַ זונזײגער,
גיט זי אַ קלונג רבֿ קונדא ז״ל,
דעם דירעקטאָר און דערצײלער.
צו קאַלקולירן אַן אַקוראַטן װײַזער־שאָטן
דאַרף מען קודם די פּינקטלעכע פּאָזיציע.
אפֿשר לעבן דער הײַזקע װוּ ער דערצײלט
יעדן שבת זײַנע אַלטע משפּחה־מעשׂיות?
דװקא דאָרט װוּ מיר קינדער פֿאַרלירן
נאָך מנחה דעם חשבֿון פֿון די שעהען?
3:45
כינע־צײַט װערט טראַנסמיטירט
פֿון צײַט־צענטער אױף באַרג לישאַן
פֿאַר אַ ראַדיאָ־עולם פֿון װיגורסטאַן
אַזש ביז כּמעט ביראָבידזשאַן.
צענטראַל־מערבֿ־אױסטראַליע־צײַט
¾8 שעה נאָך לאָנדאָן־װעלטצײַט
פֿירט זיך אין פֿינף אָפּרו־סטאַנציעס
אױפֿן שאָסײ פֿון קײַגונע קײן גרענעצדאָרף.
אַן אַטלאַנטישער קאָנטײנער־שיף
פֿאַרמאָגט מער נישט קײן שיפֿגלאָק.
דאָס באַשליסט בלױז הער קאַפּיטאַן
װען אַ נײַע צײַטזאָנע הײבט זיך אָן.
די אַװיאָנען פֿון „פּאַװע לופֿט“ טיקען
צום טאַקט פֿון די סטואַרד/קעס הערצער:
אָט פֿאַרלעשן זײ די קאַבינע־ליכט;
איצט פֿירן זײ דאָס שפּײַזװעגעלע.
4:00
אין „גאַלעריע צײַטזאָנע“ געדױערט
אַ מינוט כאָטש הונדערט סעקונדעס.
אַ באַזוכערין פֿון אױסלאַנד װערט אומזיכער:
אין װאָסער יאָרהונדערט איז זי אַרײַנגעפֿלױגן?
די װענט באַמאָלענע מיט אַלטנײַע אותיות,
אױסגעפּוצטע מיט חוצפּהדיקע אַנאַכראָניזמען.
אַ מאָל פֿאַרבעט מען געסט פֿון דער װײַטנס
אױפֿצוטרעטן װירטועל אױף דער לײַװנט,
נאָר ס׳איז שטענדיק שװער זיך צו אײניקן
אױף אַ סינכראָנישער שעה פֿאַרן זום־קלונג
װײַל טײל האַלטן די גאַלעריע פֿאַר פֿאַרבײַ,
אַנדערע דװקא פֿאַר דער צוקונפֿט.
5:00
צײַטזאָנעס, אַזױ װי לשונות, קענען זיך
טוליען, איבערשנײַדן, אײַננעסטיקן:
צען שפּראַכן אין אײן צען־דירהדיקן הױז;
צען שפּרפּאַכן אין אײן מוח. פֿון דרױסן
באַמערקט אַ פֿאַרבײַגײער די פֿענצטער,
סײַ די ליכטיק װאַכע און סײַ די פֿינצטער
פֿאַרחלומטע. װאָסערע לשונות הערן זיך
דערינען? װיפֿל איז דאָרט דער זײגער?
איבער די הײַזער פֿליט אַן אַװיאָן
מיט פֿאַרמאַכטע פֿענצטער־רולעטן,
פֿאַרלאָשענע מאַפּעס און קאַבינע־ליכט—
נאָר עטלעכע פֿון אױבן באַלײַכטענע ביכער.
6:00
אױף דער אונטערבאַן־ליניע אַכט
מאָנטיק זעקס אַ זײגער אין דער פֿרי
– צענטראַל־אײראָפּע־צײַט, פֿאַרשטײט זיך –
פֿאָרט אײנער אַ מידער
אַהײם פֿון קיטקאַט־קלוב
לעבן אַ צװײטער אַ מידער
װאָס זי פֿאָרט צו דער אַרבעט.
7:00
די צװישן־צײַטזאָנעס שטרעקן זיך אױס
פֿון דרעמל־קנעפּל ביזן צװײטן װעקער
פֿון ליפֿט־קנעפּל ביז דער אָפֿענער טיר
פֿון שלום־עליכם ביזן ערשטן קוש
פֿון זײַ־געזונט ביז דער קאַלטער גאַס
8:00
„פּאַװע לופֿט“ באָט אָן פֿאַרבינדונגען
צו אַלע צײַטזאָנעלעך פֿון ייִדישלאַנד.
כאָטש געװיסע פֿליִען הײבן זיך אָן
אין שװער צו דערגרײכן יאָרן.
אַבי עס בלײַבט אונדז עפּעס
אַ פֿאַרבינדונג צװישן די דורות.
9:00
די געשיכטע פֿון כּלל־צײַטזאָנעס
איז אַ מעכטיקע משפּחה־מעשׂה
פֿון סינכראָניזירטע אימפּעריעס
מיט כּלערלײ קונציקע זײגערס:
60 מינוט אין אַ שעה לױט די בבֿלים
12 שעה אין אַ נאַכט לױט די מצרים
24 שעה אין אַ מעת־לעת לױט די גריכן
7 טעג אין אַ װאָך לױטן רױמישן קײסער
12 חדשים מיט קײסערלעך רױמישע נעמען
דער בריטישער פֿלאָט האָט באַזיגט
דעם זונפֿאַרגאַנג און יעדן מערידיאַן
מיט זײַנע כּסדרדיקע כראָנאָמעטערס
װאָס טראָגן לאָנדאָן־צײַט װײַט און ברײט
נאָר די טראַנסקאָנטינענטאַלע אײַזנבאַן
האָט געדאַרפֿט שאַפֿן צײַט־פֿאַרבינדונגען
צװישן די שיפֿן און די רעלסן און די פּײסאַזשן.
4 זאָנעס איבער אַלע באַזיגטע געביטן.
24 זאָנעס פֿאַראײניקטע מיט טעלעגראַפֿן.
אין װאַשינגטאָן האָט מען באַשטימט
אַז דער טאָג הײבט זיך אָן אין לאָנדאָן;
אין זשענעװע האָט מען פּראָקלאַמירט
די „װעלטצײַט“ לױט אַ גענױער סעקונדע
אַן אַטאָמיש געמאָסטענע אין פּאַריז
10:00
דער טאָג
לױט סװאַטש־
הײבט זיך אָן
האַלבע נאַכט
לױט דער כּלל־צײַט
פֿון ביל, שװײץ
און צעטײלט זיך
אױף טױזנט „טאַקטן“
װעלכע גלײַכן
זיך פּינקטלעך
צו פֿראַנצײזיש־
רעװאָלוציאָנערע
דעצימאַלע מינוטן
די רעװאָלוציאָנערע
צײַט האָט טױזנטער
צײַטזאָנעס לױט דער זון
איבער יעדן דאָרף און שטעטל
סװאַטש־צײַט
פֿונדעסטװעגן
איז סינכראָניזירט
צװישן יעדן דופֿקדיקן געלענק
11:00
אין װאָרמס
טראָגט אַ ייִנגל אַ בוך.
זאָל „פּיפּער־
נאָטער לופֿט“
אים טראָגן בשלום
קײן מאָליעװ
און פֿון דאָרטן בשלום
קײן בערלין.
זאָל ער זיך אַראָפּ־
לאָזן װי אַ ראָזשינקע
אױף טעמפּלהאָפֿער פֿליפֿעלד
און װײַטער לײענען דאָס בוך
אױף טראַמװײַ נײַנאונײַנציק
אַזש ביז צײַטזאָנע —
11:59
דאָס בוך גופֿא
איז אַ פֿליפֿאַרבינד
איבער לשון־צײַט,
אַ צײַטזאָנעלע
פֿון אױגן־
ציטערנישן
צװישן
אָט און
איצט.
אָט—
נאַט אײַך
די בילעטן.
מיר װינטשן אײַך
אַן אײַנגענעמע
רײַזע.
The post ‘Time Zone’ — poetry by Jake Schneider appeared first on The Forward.
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Abe Foxman built the Jewish establishment. He died troubled by what it had become
Abe Foxman never texted me Shabbat Shalom, and he didn’t always answer my calls. I couldn’t blame him, because I was often looking for something more from Foxman than his comment on current events.
Foxman, who died on Sunday, was a consummate insider who had become troubled by what he viewed as the cowardice of the very Jewish establishment he helped create during his five decades at the Anti-Defamation League. This dynamic fascinated me, and I sometimes pressed him articulate these concerns more candidly. But Foxman didn’t want to become a gadfly following his retirement in 2015 and picked his words carefully.
Occasionally, though, his frustration slipped through.
When I asked him a few years ago about the boom in new organizations created to fight antisemitism — more than 75 nonprofits with that mission have been created since he left the ADL in 2015— he lamented that it had become much more difficult for legacy organizations to say no to donors with political agendas because they could now take their dollars elsewhere.
“I had rules,” Foxman said. “Maybe that’s why they’re able to raise more money than I could.”
The erosion of rules that had once governed American society alarmed Foxman because he recognized that it was those norms — political correctness, trust in the mainstream media, bipartisanship — that had protected Jews.
“Antisemitism has always been here,” Foxman said on Israel’s Army Radio in 2018, during Donald Trump’s first term as president and after the Charlottesville “Unite the Right” rally had opened the nation’s eyes to an emboldened antisemitic movement. “What has changed is a new permissiveness, a new legitimacy, a new emboldenment, as if it’s OK — or more OK — today to be an antisemite.”
Unlike many of the leaders who succeeded him atop the country’s most powerful Jewish organizations, Foxman drew a direct line between the rise of Trump and skyrocketing hostility toward Jews.
“Trump’s presidency — in spirit and in deed — has given succor to bigots, supremacists, and those seeking to divide our society,” Foxman wrote in his endorsement of Joe Biden. “He and his administration dehumanize immigrants, demonize the most vulnerable, and undermine the civility and enlightened political culture that have allowed Jews to achieve what no diaspora community outside Israel can claim in two millennia.”
Foxman slammed Jonathan Greenblatt, his successor at the ADL, and other Jewish leaders for failing to follow his lead during the campaign.
But Foxman had, in some respects, paved the way for the state of affairs that he later bemoaned.
Take his relationship with Fox News owner Rupert Murdoch, who he met in the shvitz during one of Foxman’s biannual visits to a spa for billionaires, where each week-long stay cost nearly $9,000, paid for by an ADL donor. “I have come to know the man, not his image,” Foxman said after presenting Murdoch with a leadership award in 2010.
When I asked Foxman whether he regretted feting the founder of Fox News, which had almost certainly contributed to the erosion of political correctness and trust in the media that he later lamented, he cryptically brushed aside the concern: “Fox wasn’t Fox back then.”
And Foxman could claim impunity when it came to countering antisemitism in the way that he saw fit.
After the ADL found itself embroiled in a scandal over its close monitoring of political activists in the early 1990s, including activists against South African apartheid who were also critical of Israel, a Washington Post reporter wrote that Foxman “testily argued” to him that the ADL “has a right to do whatever it must within the law to combat antisemitism,” including receiving files the police said were stolen from the FBI.
Foxman also lobbied Congress not to recognize the Armenian genocide, worried that doing so would endanger Turkey’s Jewish community and damage the country’s relationship with Israel, before eventually reversing course. And, in what became the central allegation in longstanding complaints from the left that Foxman had stoked Islamophobia, he insisted that it was offensive to build a proposed mosque near Ground Zero in Manhattan.
Foxman also deeply believed that Israel’s security was connected to the safety of Jews in the United States, and that animus toward Israel was often a veiled expression of animosity toward Jews, something he remained concerned about until the very end.
This willingness to play ball with billionaires and stake out controversial political positions intended to protect Jews or Israel — often blurring the line between the two — would help shape how the Jewish community evolved in the decades after Foxman became ADL director in 1987.
Foxman achieved his towering status partly through his gravitas and charisma, what Nicole Mutchnik, chair of the ADL board, referred to as his ability to be a “warm friend, advisor, spirited antagonist and hugger — all over lunch.”
But I suspect it also had to do with his ability to maintain what has become an untenable political stance: a deep belief that Jews must fight for civil rights without giving up particular Jewish concerns around Israel and antisemitism.
This meant investing in the ADL’s civil rights portfolio — voting rights, immigration, racial justice, LGBTQ equality — even as he defended Israel in ways that rankled many liberals inside and outside of the organization.
And it meant becoming a forceful voice against both Trump and Israel’s far-right turn in recent years, even as he complained about what he viewed as unfair criticism of AIPAC by progressives and Democratic politicians drifting away from support for Israel in recent interviews.
Foxman shared this commitment to both liberalism, and a connection to Israel that at least sometimes conflicts with that liberalism, with a plurality of American Jews giving the ADL arguably the strongest claim of any legacy organization that it actually represented the American Jews it claimed to speak for.
But despite Foxman’s success — praise for his legacy came from wildly diverse corners of the Jewish community — the current crop of Jewish leaders have not adopted his politics.
The largest establishment organizations, including the current iteration of the Anti-Defamation League, seem to have determined that a wider-ranging commitment to civil rights advocacy and vocal opposition to Trump is a nonstarter if they intend to continue advocating for Israel, at a time when much of the Democratic Party has turned actively hostile to the Jewish state.
Meanwhile, the progressive Jewish groups who remain most committed to civil rights work have largely abandoned Zionism as part of their missions.
This may be a more honest form of Jewish politics than what came before. But it has also left many Jews feeling politically homeless and played into the erasure of a political center that Foxman, and no shortage of Jewish historians, have insisted is integral to Jewish safety.
“We do well when we’re in the center,” Foxman told me shortly after I started this job. “And there is no center today.”
The post Abe Foxman built the Jewish establishment. He died troubled by what it had become appeared first on The Forward.