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A Jewish producer of ‘All Quiet On The Western Front’ sees his family history in the Oscar-nominated Netflix film
(JTA) — The film producer Daniel Dreifuss has only one surviving photo of a distant relative: his grandfather’s cousin, who fought for Germany in World War I and died in combat two days before the war’s end.
He has a few more photos of his grandfather, who also wore the German uniform in WWI — only to be rounded up by the Nazis two decades later during Kristallnacht and thrown into a concentration camp, as even the Jews who had fought for their country were not safe from its campaign of race extermination.
Dreifuss, who was raised in Brazil after his surviving ancestors fled the war to Uruguay, held up these weathered black-and-white photos to his Zoom camera as he spoke to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency from his home in Los Angeles. One shows his grandfather’s cousin in his military uniform, the other shows his grandparents posing together, between the wars.
“Twenty years later, your country, that you just gave your health for and your cousin for and your family for, sends you to a camp,” he said. “It’s a lot of trauma to have to go through in one lifetime.”
These family stories echoed through Dreifuss’ mind when he first read the script for a proposed modern take on “All Quiet on the Western Front,” the classic 1928 novel about the German army’s hellish experiences during World War I. Nearly a century later, author Erich Maria Remarque’s descriptions of trench warfare and of the utter lack of heroism, valor or patriotism felt by its soldier protagonists resonated with Dreifuss.
“I said, ‘I know these people,’” he recalled. “Not because they are some distant relatives that I’ve heard of, but because I am the grandson of one of those kids who were in the film.”
Dreifuss’ parents met at a Jewish youth group in Rio de Janeiro in the 1960s. “My father was my mother’s madrich,” he recalled, using the Hebrew word for a youth group counselor. After they were later married, they moved to Israel partially to avoid Brazil’s military dictatorship and became left-wing political activists. They left Israel just before the Yom Kippur War and relocated to Scotland, where Dreifuss was born, before returning to Brazil to raise him.
Dreifuss had his bar mitzvah in the city of Belo Horizonte before later moving to Rio, which has a much larger Jewish community. “My family was never at all religious, but culturally Jewish,” he said, recalling Passover celebrations and gefilte fish recipes. He did not have many Jewish friends growing up, but his Brazilian friends were interested in Judaism and would attend his family’s Jewish events.
Daniel Dreifuss, a producer of Netflix’s “All Quiet on the Western Front,” holds up a photo of his grandfather Max Dreifuss from 1919, recovering from his German military service in WWI. Max was sent to a concentration camp once the Nazis took power. (Courtesy of Daniel Dreifuss)
This global upbringing is reflected in Dreifuss’ interest in international film. It took a decade for him to mount his remake of “All Quiet,” which was eventually set up with a German production company and released by Netflix this past fall amid another endless military conflict in Europe. No one, he said, wanted to fund a resolutely anti-war film that refused to glorify its combatants, a film that was “never a hero’s journey, not the story of someone who came, you know, beat 1,000 people with their bare hands, triumphs and looks down on top of a hill at the end with some sweeping score.”
But that journey has been validated by the film’s impressive Oscar total, which surprised industry observers. At the nomination ceremony last month, “All Quiet” received nine total nods, the second most of any film this year, including for best picture — which the novel’s original 1930 Hollywood adaptation, directed by Jewish filmmaker Lewis Milestone, won. (This year’s Academy Awards will be held March 12.)
Considering the Nazis had once led a campaign of book burning against the source material and terrorized German movie theaters that showed the original movie adaptation, accusing it of being a “Judenfilm,” Dreifuss sees the new film’s success as a historical victory, too. “I love that my name will be associated with a story that was deemed degenerate by that regime,” he said.
When he was first presented with an early draft of the new “All Quiet” script, in 2013, Dreifuss was coming off of the success of another international historical film he had produced. “No,” a 1980s-set Chilean political drama, starred Gael Garcia Bernal as an ad executive tasked with convincing his country to vote the dictator Augusto Pinochet out of office. The film netted Chile’s first-ever Oscar nomination for international feature film, although Dreifuss himself is not Chilean.
In researching “No,” Dreifuss said, the film’s team had trouble finding Chileans who would admit to having cast their real-life vote in Pinochet’s favor — even though 40% of the population did so. “We couldn’t find one single person who supported him,” he recalled. “At some point, years later, no one wanted to say, ‘I supported it, I voted, I was on that side.’” He saw a parallel to the history of geopolitics in the run-up to WWII, when many Western countries — including his family’s adopted homeland of Brazil — were initially sympathetic to the Nazis.
When Hollywood studios turned down the proposed remake of “All Quiet,” forcing Dreifuss to turn to European financing, he saw an opportunity to mount the first-ever German adaptation of the property, which would allow the film to open up a “historical perspective” on how the aftermath of WWI led to the rise of the Nazis and the Holocaust.
German filmmaker Edward Berger, who also helmed several episodes of the espionage miniseries “Deutschland 83,” stepped into the director’s chair, and he also has a co-writing credit. German star Daniel Brühl, who has played many historical villains to the Jewish people in films ranging from “7 Days in Entebbe” to “The Zookeeper’s Wife,” took a key supporting role as the lead negotiator for the armistice agreements — the sole figure in the movie trying to find a peaceful resolution for his country. (The historical figure Brühl portrays, Matthias Erzberger, was vilified as a traitor by the German right and assassinated in 1921 by antisemitic nationalist radicals who were precursors to the Nazis.)
Though there are no explicitly Jewish characters in the film, Dreifuss believes it still speaks to the fate that would soon await Europe’s Jews.
“We know what followed in the decade in Germany,” he said. “So we could bring that to the film in subtle ways.”
He pointed to the armistice plotline that foreshadows how the Treaty of Versailles left Germany in a deeply disadvantaged position, creating an opportunity for Hitler’s brand of national populism. There are also scenes in which thoughtless German generals, driven by nationalistic fervor and wounded pride, send entire squadrons to their deaths mere minutes before the armistice is set to take effect. In one sequence, the film’s lead, the soldier Paul (Felix Kammerer), steals a goose from a French farming family of non-combatants and says: “It’s a hatred of the other, of not understanding, of being raised to have an enemy.”
Dreifuss is dipping into a different chapter of world Jewish history with his next project: a Showtime miniseries produced with the co-creators of the Israeli Netflix series “Fauda” that explores CIA operations in the Middle East and is partially set during the Lebanon War in which Israel had a heavy, and oft-criticized, military presence. The series will air this summer.
He has also been pitched a host of WWI and WWII-related projects in the wake of the success of “All Quiet.” But, he joked, “I would love for people to not only think of me as the war guy, or as the dictator guy.”
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The Diplomatic Trojan Horse: How UN Resolution 2803 Quietly Turns the Negev into an International Zone
Illustrative: Members of the United Nations Security Council vote against a resolution by Russia and China to delay by six months the reimposition of sanctions on Iran during the 80th UN General Assembly in New York City, US, Sept. 26, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Eduardo Munoz
UN Security Council Resolution 2803 looks like the diplomatic victory Israel has been desperate for since the war began. It finally codifies the demilitarization of Gaza, establishes a US-led “Board of Peace” to manage reconstruction, and seemingly ends the chaos of the post-war vacuum. The Prime Minister called it “a secure horizon,” and the White House hailed it as a “new chapter.”
But if you look past the press releases and turn to the technical addendums of the resolution, you will find a definition that threatens to undo 70 years of Israeli sovereignty in the south. For the first time in history, an international resolution has created a legal mechanism that treats sovereign Israeli territory — specifically the Western Negev — as a conditional jurisdiction subject to international oversight.
The devil is in the definitions.
The resolution establishes an “International Stabilization Force” (ISF) to police the demilitarization of Gaza. Crucially, the text defines the ISF’s area of operation not just as the Gaza Strip, but as the Strip and “all adjacent logistical corridors, staging grounds, and dual-use infrastructure designated as essential for the stabilization of the primary zone.”
This language is a catastrophe of ambiguity. It does not distinguish between a temporary dirt road paved by the UN and a major Israeli artery like Route 232. It does not distinguish between a UN field hospital and the Soroka Medical Center, should Soroka treat ISF personnel.
By accepting this text without a specific reservation, Israel has allowed the UN to designate parts of the Eshkol, Sdot Negev, and Sha’ar HaNegev regional councils as “adjunct stabilization infrastructure.”
The immediate danger is not that UN peacekeepers will start issuing traffic tickets in Sderot. The danger is a bureaucratic phenomenon known as “jurisdictional creep,” particularly regarding American law. In Washington, geography dictates funding. Under the US Foreign Assistance Act, American aid is subject to rigorous vetting based on where it is spent. Historically, the Green Line was the hard border for these restrictions; funds spent in Tel Aviv were safe, while funds spent in Judea and Samaria were scrutinized.
Resolution 2803 erases that line. Consider the Ashkelon Desalination Plant. Under the humanitarian clauses of the new resolution, Israel is required to pump millions of cubic meters of water into the Gaza “Safe Zones.” Under the definition in the new annex, this makes the Ashkelon plant “dual-use infrastructure essential for stabilization.” Legal analysts in Washington are already warning that this designation could trigger a “neutrality review.” If Israel applies for US guarantees to expand the plant, the State Department could now legally block that funding, arguing that the expansion prejudices the operational balance of the international mission.
Resolution 2803 is effectively the “Area C-ization” of the Negev. It creates a grey zone of sovereignty where the map says Israel, but the regulatory burden implies an international zone. Imagine a scenario six months from now where the IDF needs to pave a new patrol road near Kibbutz Be’eri. European donors to the “Board of Peace” could protest, claiming that the road interferes with a projected “humanitarian corridor” outlined in the UN plan. Because Israel agreed to the resolution’s broad definitions, those donors would have a legal leg to stand on. The construction stops, the lawyers are summoned, and the Negev waits.
The government has a narrow window to fix this before the “Board of Peace” officially convenes in January 2026. Israel must immediately issue a State Interpretative Declaration, a diplomatic tool used to clarify how a state interprets a vague treaty. The Prime Minister must declare that the term “adjacent logistical corridors” refers exclusively to temporal transit rights for specific convoys and confers no territorial jurisdiction whatsoever. Furthermore, Israel must insist that all infrastructure within the 1949 Armistice Lines remains solely under Israeli domestic law and is eligible for unconditional US bilateral cooperation, regardless of its utility to the Gaza reconstruction effort.
The residents of the south have spent the last two years rebuilding their homes from the ashes of October 7. They deserve full, unadulterated sovereignty. They cannot be asked to live in a “stabilization zone” where their water, roads, and security are subject to a UN veto.
Amine Ayoub, a fellow at the Middle East Forum, is a policy analyst and writer based in Morocco. Follow him on X: @amineayoubx
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We Should Be Building More Jewish Institutions and Buildings — Not Downsizing Them
Rabbi Eli C. Freedman, Senior Rabbi Jill L. Maderer, and Cantor Bradley Hyman lead a service marking Erev Rosh Hashanah at Rodeph Shalom in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, US, Sept. 6, 2021. REUTERS/Rachel Wisniewski
A few weeks ago, driving through West Philadelphia with my son, I pointed out the streets where my grandparents once lived and the places where an older generation of our family once belonged.
We ended up talking about my long-shuttered synagogue, Beth T’filah in Overbrook Park. It was a few-hundred-family, postwar shul — modest in scale, but central to the rhythms of Jewish life that shaped my childhood. Later that evening, wanting to show him what that world looked like, I searched online for old photographs.
What I found stunned and troubled me.
Despite being a student of history — Philadelphia history, specifically — I was unprepared for what appeared on my screen. Image after image of synagogues I had never even heard of: scattered throughout Strawberry Mansion, Logan, West Philadelphia, and Wynnefield Heights.
These weren’t simple storefront shuls. They were grand structures with limestone façades, soaring sanctuaries, and stained-glass windows that radiated pride. Community centers that once throbbed with life. Physical evidence of a Jewish world far deeper and more vibrant than I had ever understood; stories of families and countless lives lived mere miles from where I grew up, yet entirely unknown to me.
My son leaned over my shoulder, studying the images with urgent curiosity. “This was all here? We had this many synagogues?” he asked, scrolling through sanctuaries the size of concert halls.
He knows American Jewish life as something smaller, more cautious, more scattered. These images showed him — and reminded me — that we once built with astonishing boldness. That we were visible, rooted, unafraid.
Most of these buildings no longer house Jewish life. Many are churches now; others stand abandoned or have disappeared entirely. Hidden City Philadelphia’s haunting photographs of the last synagogues of Strawberry Mansion capture this painful truth: magnificent sanctuaries built for bustling communities now sit silent, their pasts forgotten by most who walk by.
This is not just Philadelphia’s story. The same pattern of memory and erasure appears in Detroit, St. Louis, Newark, Cleveland, Chicago, and dozens of other cities. Entire Jewish neighborhoods — once dense, spirited, and civically intertwined — have faded from view.
What They Built, and Why
It is worth remembering how and why these communities emerged. In the mid-20th century, Jewish families, many first- or second-generation Americans, moved to new neighborhoods seeking opportunity, safety, and stability. Veterans returned from war and built small businesses. Women organized sisterhoods and ran charity circles. Men’s clubs held debates, breakfasts, and social events. Hebrew schools, JCCs, Zionist youth groups, choirs, lecture series, and summer camps created the thick connective tissue of Jewish life. These weren’t simply clusters of Jewish families; they were ecosystems of belonging.
At the center of each ecosystem stood the synagogue – not just as a place to pray, but as a civic anchor: a social hub, a public square, a home for both the sacred and the ordinary. People went there for weekday minyanim and Hebrew school pickups, for community meetings and interfaith dialogues, for holiday carnivals and debates about Israel, for fundraisers and grief support. For everything. The synagogue was where American Jewish life displayed its fullness.
Our grandparents and their peers understood something we risk forgetting: Jewish life must be built. It does not survive on good intentions. It does not thrive on nostalgia. They had little money, limited political power, and uncertain futures; yet they erected schools before they had enough students, synagogues before they had enough members to fill the pews, and community centers before they knew how they would pay the heating bill. They assumed a Jewish future and constructed toward it.
The Danger of Our Caution
Today we are more cautious. We consolidate, close, downsize, and strategize. We measure risk before we imagine possibility. We worry about demographics and budgets and “market realities.” In an age of rising antisemitism, cultural erasure, and digital amnesia, the instinct to retreat has never been stronger or more dangerous.
When Jewish visibility shrinks, when communal footprints recede, when institutions atrophy, the void does not stay empty. Others fill it, often with hostility.
I understand the fear. Antisemitism is not theoretical, it’s spray-painted on our synagogues, screamed at our students, legislated in international forums. Jewish communities are smaller than they were. Intermarriage rates are high. Affiliation is down. These are facts, not talking points.
But here’s what else is true: dispersion makes us more vulnerable, not less. When Jews scatter, when we become invisible, when our institutions disappear, we don’t become safer – we become isolated targets. The antisemite doesn’t stop hating because the synagogue closed; he simply faces less organized resistance. A community that cannot gather cannot defend itself. A community without institutions cannot transmit its values, protect its members, or advocate for its interests.
Jewish survival has never been secured by retreat. It has always been secured by presence — visible, confident, communal presence. By building synagogues and schools and youth groups and cultural institutions. By creating Jewish spaces where identity is transmitted, where belonging is felt, where children grow up understanding that they are part of something larger and older and enduring. This is not recklessness. This is how minorities survive in hostile environments: through solidarity, visibility, and the infrastructure of mutual support.
What We Owe the Future
Driving through Philadelphia, I tried to convey this to my son: Jewish life is not something you simply inherit. It must be constructed, sustained, reinforced.
Our grandparents did not build out of sentimentality. They built out of responsibility, conviction, and love. They believed that their children and grandchildren would need places to pray, learn, gather, argue, celebrate, and mourn. They built because they believed Jewish life mattered in America and deserved permanence.
We need that mindset again; not as a wistful tribute to a vanished past, but as a practical and moral imperative. At a moment when antisemitism is resurgent and Jewish visibility is contested, we cannot afford minimalism. We should be founding more schools, not fewer. More synagogues, not fewer. More youth programs, more minyanim, more cultural centers, more visible Jewish infrastructure.
I know the objections. I’ve heard them all, often from people I respect.
“Those synagogues emptied out — why repeat the same mistakes?” We’re not talking about blind replication. We’re talking about recovering the audacity to build while learning from both successes and failures. The mid-century model had flaws — exclusivity, rigidity, the costs of suburbanization itself. But the alternative we’ve chosen — building little to nothing, consolidating endlessly — guarantees decline. You can’t iterate on what you refuse to create.
“Young Jews want something different — they’re not joiners, they want authenticity and flexibility.” Every generation believes it has invented a new kind of Judaism. Yes, forms must evolve. But the underlying need for physical Jewish space where real relationships form, where children absorb identity through presence and participation, where community becomes tangible — that need hasn’t changed. Digital community kept us connected during COVID, but you cannot transmit Jewish identity through a screen. You cannot raise Jewish children on Zoom.
“We can’t afford it — demographics are against us, costs are too high.” Our grandparents were poorer. They faced quotas, discrimination, and far more virulent antisemitism. They built anyway. Resource constraints are real, but they’re often cover for lack of will. And the math works in reverse: not building costs more. Every shuttered Hebrew school is a generation we fail to educate. Every consolidated synagogue is a neighborhood we abandon. Managed decline is still decline, just slower and more expensive.
“Consolidation is smart stewardship — better one strong institution than several struggling ones.” There’s a difference between strategic consolidation and institutional surrender dressed up as prudence. Yes, merge when it genuinely strengthens. But we’ve spent two decades consolidating, and Jewish life hasn’t gotten stronger — it’s gotten smaller, more distant, more fragile. At some point, “stewardship” becomes a euphemism for retreat.
The isolation crisis is real. American institutions of all kinds are weakening. Loneliness is epidemic. These are not reasons to build less — they are reasons to build more.
And it is happening. Despite the challenges, Jewish communities across North America are building. The Stanley I. Chera Sephardic Academy in Manhattan has grown from 20 preschool students in 2011 to 240 students through sixth grade in 2025, adding campuses and expanding rapidly.
New York Jewish day schools saw their largest single-year enrollment increase since 2020, growing by over 4,000 students in 2023-2024. Post-October 7, UJA-Federation of New York launched new subsidies responding to what they call “the surge” — a spike in demand for Jewish schools, camps, and synagogues. Eighteen synagogues across the United States are now operating or preparing Jewish after-school programs, serving nearly 300 students and growing. From Brooklyn to Los Angeles, independent minyanim continue to flourish, creating new models of engaged Jewish community for young adults.
These are not isolated examples — they represent a broader pattern of Jewish communities choosing to build rather than retreat.
The work begins with individual commitment and communal organization. Start by showing up. Attend that weekday minyan. Enroll your child in Hebrew school. Join the board of a struggling synagogue. Volunteer at the JCC. Donate to build, not just to maintain. Support new initiatives even when they feel risky. Push back against the reflex to consolidate and retreat. If your community lacks the institutions you want to see, gather a minyan of committed people and create them.
My son looked at those photographs with amazement, wondering how such a world could exist without him ever hearing about it. The truth is that the Jewish world he will inherit depends entirely on what we choose to build now.
Earlier generations left us institutions robust enough to carry us through a turbulent century. With far greater freedom and far more resources than they ever had, we have no excuse for shrinking our ambitions.
If they built so much with so little, then we — for our children and theirs — must do no less.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.
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I’m a Student at UChicago — I See Antisemitism Thrive Among Young Chinese Students
Chinese Foreign Minister Wag Yi stands with Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Sergey Ryabkov and Iranian Deputy Foreign Minister Kazeem Gharibabadi before a meeting regarding the Iranian nuclear issue at Diaoyutai State Guest House on March 14, 2025 in Beijing, China. Photo: Pool via REUTERS
Recently, a popular AI meme has begun circulating in Chinese online discourse in the Chicago area. The image features a stereotypical Jewish-looking man with a beard, a long nose, and a Star of David necklace, holding the K visa and standing next to a model of China.
While many laughed at the surreal sarcasm, others took it seriously and warned, “Watch out! They will come in masses and take over China!”
The meme’s spread reveals how casual humor has disguised deeper prejudice and how misinformation about China’s K-visa policy is feeding new antisemitic narratives among young Chinese students.
The antisemitism of China may seem like a tree without roots, since the Chinese people do not have a relatively long history of engaging with large Jewish populations.
The fact that Jews as foreigners explains the emergence and manifestations of the “International Jewish Conspiracy Theory,” which positions Jews as symbols of capitalism who will bring foreign capitalist influence into China and degrade China to a miserable state.
Clearly the origins of this modern Chinese antisemitism are influenced by Western culture, as can be seen every time voices in Chinese discourse accuse Jews as a collective of controlling the banks. This, coupled with stereotypes about Jews being global capitalists that have survived within China’s rich tradition of Communism — and the Chinese people’s concern about foreign influence — has been the main vehicle for Chinese antisemitism.
This fusion of foreign conspiracy and local economic fear doesn’t just misinform — it risks normalizing hatred among a generation that should know better.
The current rumor making the rounds centers on China’s so-called “K-visa,” a new policy intended to attract highly skilled young foreign professionals and scholars with advanced STEM degrees or professional experience.
The program is open to any applicant who meets China’s professional criteria, regardless of religion or ethnicity. But the lack of clear, accessible explanations in Chinese-language media has left a vacuum that rumors eagerly fill. These rumors are particularly antisemitic, pointing directly at Jews for implementing the K visa.
Online, however, interpretations of this visa have been twisted into baseless conspiracy theories. The comment sections of various posts from WeChat and RedNotes are filled with outcries from Chinese students all around the world, claiming that the visa was “designed for Jews to penetrate, corrupt, and eventually control China” and that “Jews abroad are cheering over this victory,” evidence, they say, of a secret plan for mass immigration.
This opinion is fundamentally wrong. Not only is the conspiracy fundamentally irrational, but this kind of antisemitic scapegoating has been used to manipulate the public. There is a long history of Western and Middle Eastern leaders blaming their failures on the Jews instead of acting responsibly. If the K-Visa program does not strengthen the country as hoped, what benefit is there to waste time blaming the Jews instead of learning from the experience and improving the program?
Additionally, what exactly is the harm they imagine will occur if a small influx of Jewish scientists choose to bring their knowledge and energy to benefit the people of China? The last time China was introduced to Jewish innovation, we gained the drip irrigation system, an innovative method of agricultural science that has helped feed China’s 1.4 billion people.
Unfortunately, merely debunking these myths is not enough to combat antisemitism in mainstream Chinese culture.
What is needed is dialogue and more opportunities for fact-based education. Firstly, UChicago and the local Chinese Students and Scholars Association chapters should organize and support events that facilitate cross-cultural conversations and host more intellectually and culturally diverse speaker events where scholars, religious figures, and students can openly discuss intersections of Jewish and Chinese culture and history.
My hope in writing this piece is not to condemn the Chinese overseas population, but to help my peers understand that antisemitism is not unique to the West; it comes in all shapes and forms, and from many cultures.
Many who share or believe antisemitic narratives do so without realizing the harm they perpetuate. As a Chinese person myself, I used to have very stereotypical views of the Jewish people, but my curiosity to learn more about Jewish life and culture led me to attend Shabbat dinners where I experienced first hand what it’s like to face hostility and aggression for no other reason than expressing someone’s identity. Only through awareness and self-reflection can we all refrain from falling into the traps of hatred.
Angella Tang is a UChicago Biology student and a CAMERA fellow passionate about fostering cross-cultural and interfaith understanding.