Connect with us

Features

The River – an excerpt from a new novel by former Winnipegger Zev Coehn

Cohen Zev 2019Introduction: The following story is an excerpt from a longer story in Zev Cohen’s new novel titled “Are You Still Alive?”
As Zev wrote to us recently, “this is Chapter One of my novel, “Are You Still Alive?” It is partially based on events recounted to me by my late father Moshe. The story, beyond being one of the countless tales of Jewish survival against all odds during the Holocaust, is also an allegory for the indomitable human spirit intertwined with Rabbi Akiva’s maxim ‘V’havta l’raecha kamocha’. I hope to have the complete novel published soon.
Zev’s writing has appeared several times in the past in this paper. His collection of short stories, titled “Twilight in Saigon,” was published in 2021.
Born in Israel, Zev lived in Winnipeg until he was 17, when he returned to Israel with his parents. He now spends half the year in Israel and half the year in Calgary, where his two sons live.

Chumak leads the way towards the river in the dark. I had walked the route from his hut to the riverbank in daylight a few times and am confident I know the path down to the water and back. This time, though, I intend to cross to the other side under cover of darkness. Chumak, who came up with the idea, eagerly insists on guiding me so, he says, I don’t get lost. He claims he can find his way blindfolded. I think he believes that if this works, he might soon be rid of us, although he hasn’t said anything openly about it. To be fair, my suspicion just might be a projection of my own pressing desire to escape on to Chumak, whom I trust implicitly.
This summer has been uncommonly wet, and tonight the clouds are scudding low, hiding the moon and stars and making it difficult for others to spot us. At first, the only sounds are those of our movement through the brush and the occasional whoosh of passing nightbirds. The path is not overly challenging, and my labored breathing and rapidly beating heart stem more from fear than physical effort. Though I’m soaked to the skin by the constant drizzle, it is a minor irritation in the face of what I expect lies ahead. The sudden rattle of machine-gun fire causes us to instinctively fall flat on the ground, but luckily it isn’t close by, and we move forward a moment later. Distant flickers of lightning and muffled thunder are the backdrops as I blunder through the undergrowth and futilely attempt to avoid trees. Banging my knee against a tree trunk while trying to keep up with Chumak, I stifle a cry of pain, and then suddenly, I slip and slide down the muddy embankment, unable to get any traction. He grabs me before I plunge headfirst into the river.

“Quiet, you’ll get us caught,” he whispers as he holds my arm in his vicelike grip. “There are German and Romanian patrols on both sides of the river. Be more careful, or you will end up dead before you begin.”
The slope ends at the lapping water’s edge, but the river is barely visible in the blackness. A dog begins to bark incessantly on the other side. Has it picked up our scent even before I start to swim? I have no choice but to take my chances. Along the opposite bank downriver, dim points of light seem to be moving—smugglers perhaps or night fishermen. It’s hard to estimate how far away they are. I hope the current doesn’t drag me to them, but there is no going back. At least, for now, no searchlights are combing this particular area. Chumak seems to have picked the right spot.
Lightning flashes again, stronger this time, and in that instant, I realize how far it is to the other side across the rippling current. My swimming experience is limited to a small, calm pond near home, where my brother taught me some strokes. The wide, flowing river looks ominous, but I’ve made it this far, and I can’t give up now. And Chumak urges me on. I’m already knee-deep in the water, shivering, but not because the water is especially frigid.
“You can do it,” he encourages me. “The current isn’t so strong at this time of year. You must do it. It’s your only hope. Go!”

I stop for a moment and turn to him. “If anything happens…if I don’t make it back, help Ella and Sophie, please. They have no one else.” I don’t want to sound as if I’m pleading, but I am.
“Go, nothing will happen. You’re going to save them and yourself,” he says. “It’s the only way. I will wait here till you reach the other side and when you get there, clap some stones together three times to let me know you are safely there. The sound carries far at night. I’ll hear it, and I’ll tell Pani Ella that you made it.” Amid everything, I notice that this is the first time he calls Ella by her name.
I move slowly into the deeper water. At first, it’s easy; the water is up to my chest, but my feet still touch the soft muddy bottom. Then, without warning, it drops away, and I’m flailing and swallowing water. Finally, I calm down, gain control, and begin to swim. The current takes hold and starts pushing me downriver. Sputtering, I force myself to fight the rising panic and use my arms and kick with my legs in a crawl that will hopefully propel me towards the unseen shoreline. It’s working, and I’m not drowning, but I’m weakening rapidly. The combination of sickness I haven’t completely recovered from since the camp and general malnutrition has sapped me of strength. My clothes are waterlogged and drag me down. This can’t continue much longer. How idiotic would it be, I think, if I drowned now before beginning my mission? Rolling over on my back, I take the pig’s bladder that Chumak wrapped the note in from my pocket, and holding it tight, I squirm out of my pants to lighten the load. I let the current carry me and turn on my back to stroke and move gradually in the riverbank direction. It is less exhausting this way.
I’ve lost any notion of time as I float on my back and see nothing but the overcast sky. Has it been minutes? An hour? I fear trying to stand. If it’s still deep, I might sink and not be able to come back up. At least the rain has stopped. Some clouds have dispersed, and I can see stars in the black sky. Then I hear it. A baying sound getting closer. Maybe a dog? Then barking. Yes, a dog. Thankfully I must be near the shore. My feet hit bottom. I totter through the shallow water and, in the faint moonlight, survey a pebbly beach fronting the tree line. There is no sign of the huts nor of the large two-story house Chumak had pointed out some days earlier opposite my point of departure.

The house, he told me, belonged to a certain Nicolescu, a wealthy Romanian and well-known smuggler before the war. Chumak suggested that my woman, as he called Ella, write a letter to Nicolescu in Romanian asking for his help crossing the river. I imagined that he would get the letter to the Romanian or at least knew someone who could do it, so it took me by surprise when he said, “You will bring the letter to him, and he will make the arrangements.”
It seemed like a far-fetched idea. Beyond the problem of my crossing the river, in itself seemingly suicidal, why, I asked, would any Romanian, not to mention a wealthy smuggler, have anything to do with helping Jews? This is probably a punishable offense in Romania and meant certain death in German-occupied Poland. Only gypsies were desperate enough to offer their services. Even if Nicolescu was willing to help me, I had no money to pay him.
Moreover, those who did pay were often betrayed and delivered to the authorities on one or the other side. There was no guarantee of success, and many lost their lives in the attempt. A few days earlier, I saw a clump of corpses roped to each other floating down the river. I didn’t consider my death an issue anymore, but I was afraid of exposing Ella and the child to the risks involved. I told Chumak to forget it. I couldn’t do it.
“What choice do you have?” Chumak pressed. “Don’t be a fool. You, the woman, and the child definitely won’t survive on this side of the river, and you will stand a better chance over there, as far away as you can get from the Germans.”
His understanding of the situation is correct. The local peasants were handing Jews over for some butter or sugar and an opportunity to steal their belongings. They say a drowning man will grasp at a razor blade to save himself, so I agree.
“Even if I manage to make it across, how will I convince him? I have no money.”

Chumak was skeptical about my claim of penury. This wasn’t out of spite that he had thought through but rather an inherited bias. He was of the age-old school that believed Jews always had hidden treasure somewhere. He was convinced that if I couldn’t offer cash immediately, Nicolescu would accept a promise of future payment from a “high-class” Jew like me. To me, this appeared to be just wishful thinking since Chumak admitted never having actually done business with this Romanian smuggler, who was out of his league.
Chumak remained adamant, and his confident tone was hard to resist. “Tell your woman to write that she comes from an important, prosperous family in Romania that will pay him generously for his efforts. Give him a written guarantee.”
Before I could change my mind, he produced a slightly greasy lined sheet of paper from a child’s copybook and a blunt pencil stub. I took it to our hideout in the nearby forest, where I cajoled Ella, who also thought the plan was absurd and not doable, into writing the requisite supplication and promise of reward.
Standing on the flat terrain on this side of the river, I realize that the current took me downstream, and I need to walk back to the Nicolescu house. I’m not sure how far it is, but at least I can see where I’m going in the moonlight. I find some stones and strike them together three times, as I promised Chumak, hoping that he hears me, and goes back to report to Ella. Not expecting a response, I walk close to the tree line, off the riverbank pathway used by locals and military patrols. When a searchlight sweeps the river from the Polish side, I scamper into the trees, waiting, breathing hard, and picking up a dead branch for self-defense. Going forward, I detour through the woods to avoid a small group of men sitting by the embers of a fire smoking and passing around a bottle. Hunters or fishermen, I believe.

The house lies ahead through the gate of a stone-walled enclosure. No light escapes from the windows. Nearby in the compound, there are two thatched-roof peasant huts, weak light emanating from one of the windows, and a barn where a horse nickers. I stop to consider which building would be best to approach, and then, as I take a step closer, the dogs come at me, snarling. I fend them off with the branch, hitting one of them in the head. It runs off whimpering while the others keep their distance, growling, and barking. I’m done for. They are going to wake everyone. I retreat into the adjacent cornfield, crouching there cold, miserable, and afraid, as a woman appears holding a lantern outside one of the huts. She calls off the dogs and shoos them into the barn. As she locks the barn door, she stares into the darkness in my direction before going to draw water from a well in the yard and returning to the hut.
I can’t stay here much longer as indecision eats away at my remaining determination. It’s time to make a move, either forward to Nicolescu, whatever the risk and chances of success, or back across the river in abject failure. I run to the hut showing light and knock hesitantly. The dogs continue barking hysterically in the barn. Nothing happens, and I try again more decisively.
“Who’s there,” asks a muffled woman’s voice in Ukrainian.
“It’s me,” I reply. What else could I say?
She opens the door a crack. People must be accustomed to seeing strange sights around here because she doesn’t slam the door in the face of the wet, disheveled, half-naked specter that stands before her.
“What do you want? Who are you looking for?” the woman asks as if I was routinely passing by.
“I have an important letter for Mr. Nicolescu. He needs to see it,” I say, also in Ukrainian.

She invites me into the hut. Alone in the single, earthen floor room, she wears widow’s black. Wrinkeled but unbent, her age is indeterminate. Most of the space in the room is taken up by a traditional wooden loom, while a large blackened icon of the Savior hangs above a stove. I rarely devoted attention to Christian symbols, having never, so far, entered a church and always hurrying by the ubiquitous roadside shrines in our vicinity with eyes averted. The narrative of Christianity and Christians as moral and physical threats was, since time immemorial part of our Jewish psyche, but I have no direct personal experience of it. Even the murder of my father by Jew-hating thugs, which undoubtedly weighed heavily on my perception of the people who surrounded us, didn’t feel like a religious issue. Now though, as I stand here shivering, Jesus on the cross seems to be observing me ominously. But, immediately, my attention is drawn away to a piece of bread on a side table, and without invitation, I grab it and chew hungrily. The woman sees that I am exhausted and soaked and tells me to sit and rest. She brings me a blanket and pours a cup of water, watching silently as I continue chewing the bread thoroughly.
When I finish, she says, “You are from over there. You’re a Jew.” It’s not posed as a question, and she clearly knows why I have come. I’m not the first desperate Jew who has shown up on her doorstep. To my relief, she doesn’t take long to make her decision. “I will take you to Mr. Nicolescu’s mother. She lives in the other hut. Maybe she will help you.”
“Thank you.” I’m wary of digging too deeply into the subject for fear of treading on sensitive toes, but I’m also anxious to find out what has happened on this side of the river and know what to expect if Ella and Sophie are to cross with me later. “Are there any Jews left around here?” I ask warily. “What about the Jews in the city?”
“They got rid of all our Jews,” she replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “They say the devil came for them. You need to watch out.”
“Come,” she beckons. “We should go to Nicolescu’s mother before anyone else sees you here. People won’t hesitate to give you up.” I follow her to the neighboring hut, where a tall, old woman approaches us. “Who is that with you, Bohuslava?” she calls out in Romanian. “Beware of robbers. I’ll get a stick and run him off.”
Bohuslava walks over to her. “Shh, be quiet,” she says in Ukrainian. “Stop fussing. He means no harm and just wants to show you something. “Come here quickly,” she gestures to me.

Grey-haired, slightly stooped, with one eye clouded by a cataract, she must be in her seventies but looks far from frail. She takes my hand with a firm grip. “Let’s go inside,” she says.
She lights a kerosene lamp. This is a much bigger and well-appointed abode with an ornate porcelain stove dominating the room and a dining table covered in a hand-embroidered red and white tablecloth. Adjacent to the stove stands a single bed occupied by a young woman sleeping, oblivious to us.
“Bohuslava, you may go,” the Romanian says. “Just keep your mouth shut, or it won’t be long before everybody is aware that you take in Jewish strays. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“What will I say?” answers the other woman on her way out. “That you have a new lover and a Jewish one at that,” she cackles.
“Sit,” the tall woman says, pointing to a chair beside the table. Like most Romanians living on the border, she is fluent in Ukrainian, while my Romanian is rudimentary at best. “Show me what you brought,” she asks. I remove it from the pig’s bladder and hand the grotty piece of paper to her. She dons reading glasses and concentrates on the message.
“Good Romanian,” is her first reaction. “Who wrote it? It couldn’t be you.”
“My wife,” I say tersely.
“Is she from around here?”
“She is from the city,” I reply. “Actually, we’re together but not officially married. She has a small child, her daughter, with her. They were forced across the river with others a few months ago, and we are trying to get back to the city to join relatives who might still be there. The situation on the other side of the river is deadly.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not really safe here, either. If you’re caught, they will send you back there without a second thought. Don’t expect much pity here because nobody wants to get in trouble for hiding Jews from the authorities.”

Not wanting to get into a discussion on motivations. I prefer to get to the point. “I was told that your son, Domnul Nicolescu, has experience getting people across the river. If your son could help us, we will take our chances. It’s preferable to certain death over there.”
“I can’t speak for him,” she says. “He is a good man, but I doubt, though, that he would be willing to take such a great risk. He was never involved in the smuggling of people across the border. It’s a bad business. For him, it has always been cigarettes and other contraband.”
I am surprised, honestly, that she speaks so openly of her son’s activities to a stranger… especially to one with a price on his head. Though she doesn’t hold out hope, her demeanor and attitude give me a sliver of confidence. “You should get some rest,” she suggests, “and I will take you to him in the morning.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Margareta. And yours?”
“I am Emil. Thank you, Doamna Margareta, for your kindness. I hope your son takes after you.”
She wakes the girl rudely and pushes her into the other room. “Here, take this bed. The servant girl can sleep in my room. I will leave some dry clothes for you and wake you when we need to go.”
“Thank you again. Good night.” I kiss her hand.
“Good night, Domnule Emil. Sleep well.”

I feel exhausted and drained, and my shriveled muscles ache from the unaccustomed effort of swimming across the water, but sleep remains elusive. It’s not the discomfort of the thin, lumpy mattress and the scratchy wool blanket that still hold the sour odor of their previous user, nor is it the constant, sometimes frantic, barking of dogs outside that keep rest at bay. By now, I’m also habituated to grasping moments of sleep in more dire circumstances, whether in the camp barracks or on the cold forest floor. Tonight I’m kept wide awake by the train of thoughts and questions running in a relentless loop through my mind. Are Ella and Sophie safe on the other side, alone with the Chumaks? Will Nicolescu agree to help without payment in advance? Will we be betrayed by the smuggler as so many have been before us? What lies in store for us on this side without any means for survival at our disposal? Should we hide in the countryside here or take the risk of heading for the city? I try to block out the most subversive, monstrous, cowardly, and tempting considerations, but they are there. The palpable fear of swimming back across the river toward the near certainty of death, tries to convince me that I’m now safer and that on my own, I stand a better chance of hiding and surviving. Yes, I would be abandoning Ella and Sophie, but by going back, I would only join them in being captured and killed. They would be safer staying with the Chumaks, who certainly would take pity and continue to conceal and support a defenseless woman and child. Or maybe I could remain here and just send the smuggler for them. I want to scream. I will go back.
The sun is up when Margareta nudges me awake and offers me a mug of hot tea while waiting as I put on the clothes she brought. They belong to a larger man, but they will have to do. I walk with her to the door of the house. A few people, already out and about, are on their way to work in the fields, some leading cattle and a flock of sheep. The men doff their hats and greet her, paying no attention to me.

Margareta instructs me to wait outside and enters without knocking. I hear raised voices inside. “Have you lost your mind? Why did you bring him here? Do you want to get us arrested? Send him away!” A few moments later, Margareta reappears with another woman, a pale ash blonde of about forty, holding a cigarette in her long elegant fingers with a worried look on her face — definitely not of the farming class. The woman scans the yard nervously.
“My mother-in-law told me what you want. I am sorry, but Mr. Nicolescu doesn’t do this business. We cannot do anything for you.” Her voice trembles and she is obviously terrified. “Anyway, he is not here. He is in the city, and I don’t know when he will be back. You must go. It’s dangerous here, and you will get us into trouble. Please go now.” She starts to retreat into the house.
I can’t hold her against her will, and if Nicolescu is indeed away, there is nothing more to be gained here. “Thank you, Doamna Nicolescu,” I say in Romanian and press my luck. “I will go, but could you kindly give me some bread?”
She goes inside and is soon back with half of a large loaf. I once again kiss her well-manicured hand and turn to leave.
“Mr. Emil,” says Margareta, “You should not wander around here in daylight. It’s dangerous to stay out in the open. Why don’t you hide in the barn till dark? It will be safer that way.”
“Again, you are so kind, Madame, but I must return to my family. It has been too long already. They are alone and will worry that something bad has happened to me. I will be as careful as I can.”
“Very well, if you must, but follow me.” She leads me into the forest on a narrow footpath that is a roundabout way down to the water’s edge. “Eat the bread, you need the strength, and it will be ruined in the water,” she says. I need no more encouragement as I almost choke, devouring it. She turns to leave. “Be careful, Emil, and good luck to you. I will talk to Nicolescu when he returns. Maybe he will agree to help. He has more conscience than that frightened ornament he calls his wife. How can he find you?”
“There is a peasant named Chumak. He knows where we are,” I tell her.
“Yes, Chumak. I know him. He also used to smuggle cigarettes before the war.”
“Thank you, Madame. I will remember your generosity.” She is gone.

I sit brooding among the trees looking at the river as the sun glints off the streaming water and listening to cheerful birds chirping. I can’t help but ponder the difference between the elderly women, Bohuslava and Margareta, and the wife of Nicolescu. I’m not surprised by the younger woman’s reaction. It is one version, slightly less brusque, of the general refusal to help Jews. But, all other considerations aside, who can blame people for fearing the fatal punishments meted out by the Germans and their Ukrainian lackeys to so-called Jew-lovers? Would I behave any differently in their shoes? I am more impressed, not to say astonished, by those candles in the darkness, people who have everything to lose, yet whose basic humanity causes them to stretch out their hands to support their fellow men and women. That rough peasant Chumak, whose whole universe is his tiny homestead next to an unknown village on the banks of the river, heads my list of the righteous. Now I add Bohuslava and Margareta to it. The existence of such people, beyond their contribution to our physical safety, keeps alive my essential positivity toward humankind and allows me to still retain some belief in our survival.
What next, I ask myself? I achieved nothing and have no other plan in reserve. Swimming back in broad daylight now seems suicidal. Maybe drowning is a good option? But that means abandoning Ella and the child, and I have already decided this is not an option. Bring back yesterday’s rain, I pray. I pray, though my belief in the idea of an Almighty, never cast-iron, has been dramatically undermined by the past year’s events. Then the wind picks up, and the miracle unfolds. Dark clouds scud across the sky, and the first drops wet my face, replacing the tears. In moments the downpour becomes torrential. I tie the new clothes around my neck and dive into the river, feeling more energetic on my way back. The current is slow enough for me to gradually dog-paddle most of the way across and finish with a few crawl strokes.
I’m carried only about a half-kilometer downstream, and elation replaces caution as I drag myself onto the riverbank and start walking. Climbing up the steep slope, Chumak’s hut is soon ahead, but when I approach and enter it, nobody is there. I look for Ella and Sophie, but the barn is empty too, and figuring that Chumak is probably out working in the field, I continue upwards into the forest towards our erstwhile hiding place. Ella and Sophie are supposed to wait there for me in case of trouble. I call out not to surprise them but there is no reply. I run to the hideout. They are gone.

 

Continue Reading

Features

More Than the Price: What Discount Culture and Screen Printed T-Shirts Tell Us About Identity and Community

Amidst the era where we’re inclined to speak in hashtags and memes, there remains something quietly powerful in the humble T-shirt—specifically the screen-printed t-shirt. Whether a frayed band tee from a 1998 concert or a crisp cotton shirt promoting some issue of the day, the T-shirt is a storyteller. And when these discounted T-shirts become more accessible, they are democratized, stories made more widely available, somehow ironically more valuable to the people wearing them.

In Jewish life, value has never been two-dimensional. Value is ethical. Value is social. And value, every now and then, is found in the rim of a bargain bin, where meaning isn’t lost, but amplified.

The Discount: A Jewish Perspective on Value

Discounts are typically considered in strictly economic terms: “Was it a good deal?” “How much did you save?” But in most Jewish cultures, there is an additional component: mindful spending. Whether through the bal tashchit principle (not wasting resources) or the practice of tzedakah (charity), Jewish religious doctrine will tend to encourage mindful consumption. A discount isn’t always getting more for less—sometimes it’s about transferring value, leaving cash on the neighborhood high street, or making room in your budget for what counts.

If a tiny Jewish-owned T-shirt store sells screen printed shirt specials for a discounted price during a synagogue fundraiser or youth pilgrimage to Israel, that discounted price sticker doesn’t cheapen the product—it maximizes its purpose. It’s not just a cheap wearable memory; it’s meaningful.

Screen Printed T-Shirts: Textile Torah on the Streets

Screen printed T-shirts are not merchandise—they’re message on wheels. Think of them as contemporary mezuzot, but not on the door, on the person. They announce affiliations, values, and sense of humor. They say: “This is who I am.” And in some Jewish communities, they’ve proved a powerful vehicle for unity and visibility.

From “Camp Shalom 2024” tees to “Shabbat Vibes Only” tees, screen printed shirts have become shorthand. For moments of communal joy—or despair—they’ve become uniform and uniforming. To collect money for Jewish causes, mark a bar mitzvah, or spread word about antisemitism, these T-shirts transcend fashion. They become statements.

And when these tees do become available on sale—after the game or through community programs—it’s not an end. It’s a start. The shirt that originally cost $30 and now costs $10 may end up in someone’s hands who couldn’t have bought it otherwise but wears it with the same, or even more, pride.

Discounted Doesn’t Mean Disconnected

There’s a sweet humility in something that’s undervalued—not because it’s less desirable, but because it’s got a second life to live.

Within Jewish mysticism is the principle of tikkun olam—repairing the world. In a small way, each discounted T-shirt that finds its second home brings us one step closer to this reality. A surplus of camp tops reformatted as pajamas at a homeless shelter. Unused Hanukkah tees donated to local teens. Or just, a well-constructed shirt brought into reach for a young person seeking to express himself.

Discount culture, in this case, is not consumer culture—it’s access. It’s about opening up symbols of identity, solidarity, and protest to greater populations. For communities like Winnipeg’s Jewish community—tight-knit, heritage-grounded, and always pushing forward—this involves ensuring that belonging to culture is never out of reach because of a price.

Printing the Future: T-Shirts as Tools for Cultural Continuity

When younger generations discover themselves, especially in diasporic societies, the tools with which they take hold of themselves change. While one may have sported a siddur on the sleeve, another will sport a message on their chest. That does not make it any less sacred—it merely makes it different.

And while a $5 shirt on sale might not feel like a sacred object, if it sparks a conversation about Israel, inspires curiosity about Yiddish, or gives someone the courage to say, “Yes, I’m Jewish,” then it has value far beyond retail.

Screen printed tees are becoming historical documents. They inform us about what people care about, what they are fighting for, what they are laughing at, and what they are daydreaming about. And because of commerce, more people can be a part of that visual conversation.

The Takeaway: Don’t Underestimate the Cotton

The next time you spot a rack of reduced-rate screen-printed T-shirts—whether at a Jewish community center, synagogue gift shop, or Internet site—see past the discount. Consider who produced the shirt, who first wore it, and who will next wear it. Reflect on the message emblazoned across the chest, and the community that wears it.

Because in an age of throwaway messages and fast fashion, all too often it is the simple cotton shirt—worn from use, screen-printed with purpose, and sold cheaply through sale—that does the lion’s share of cultural preservation.

Continue Reading

Features

Don’t Ignore antisemitism on the Right

l-r: Tucker Carlson, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Candace Owens

By HENRY SREBRNIK Most of us know that currently most antisemitism, usually masked as “anti-Zionism,” can be found on the left of the political spectrum in Canada and the United States, thanks to the hatred of Israel. The Jewish state is being isolated internationally, and its Jewish supporters harassed and attacked domestically. And since the political left controls much, if not most, of academia, the media, the “human rights” organizations, and other essential components of society, its negative effects are profound.

On the right, we find far more support of Israel. But this doesn’t mean we should ignore an atavistic, somewhat “old-fashioned,” form of antisemitism on the far right, particularly in the U.S. These people support isolationism in foreign policy. The most explosive issue involves Jews. They see neoconservatives – mainly Jews — as imperialists and themselves as defenders of the republic, including even against President Donald Trump himself. 

They are obsessed with the idea of Israel as a uniquely evil force in world history and American Jews as a malignant fifth column. Was the recent striking of Iran’s nuclear program by Trump in America’s national interest, or a needless sacrifice for the Israel lobby, they asked?

Most prominent in this group is the talk show commentator Tucker Carlson. In the paranoid version of world events concocted by Carlson and his guests, it is the “neocons” who drive America to war in the Middle East, motivated by Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s insatiably expansionist ambitions. 

The day after Israel commenced Operation Rising Lion against Iran, Carlson suggested the U.S. military was being controlled by Netanyahu. “Earlier this week, unnamed Washington sources expressed concern over Israel’s ability to fend off Iran’s retaliation, which would inevitably lead to Benjamin Netanyahu ordering the American military to step in and fight on his country’s behalf,” Carlson wrote in a newsletter. “We’re not going to imperil American national security, the American economy, or America itself on your behalf,” he continued.

At the conservative Turning Point USA (TPUSA) conference in July, Carlson also claimed that deceased convicted child sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein was working for Israel’s Mossad. He said it is “extremely obvious” that Epstein “had direct connections to a foreign government.” Carlson went on: “Now, no one’s allowed to say that that foreign government is Israel, because we have been somehow cowed into thinking that that’s naughty.” 

At a debate at TPUSA between comedian Dave Smith and conservative intellectual Josh Hammer about U.S. support for Israel, Smith asserted that “The level of Israeli control over our politics is frankly pretty undeniable.” He called Trump “a war criminal who should spend his life in prison.”

Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia, elected in 2020, initially made headlines for an antisemitic conspiracy theory she shared in 2018 suggesting that deadly California wildfires were caused by alleged Jewish space lasers controlled by the Rothschild family. She has gone on to further infamy. This past June she appeared to suggest in a post on X that former President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963 over his opposition to Israel’s nuclear program.

“There was once a great President that the American people loved. He opposed Israel’s nuclear program. And then he was assassinated,” Greene posted as she also defended her dissatisfaction with Trump’s strike on Iran. 

She and Carlson shocked viewers after praising New York mayoral candidate and socialist Zohran Mamadani for how he ran his campaign after he won the New York mayoralty Democratic Party primary. “That guy was the only person in the New York City mayor’s debate to say he wanted to focus on New York City,” Carlson said on the June 27 episode of “The Tucker Carlson Show,” with Greene as his guest.

While Greene and Carlson strongly disagreed with Mamdani’s vision for the city, they praised him for running a New York City-centered campaign, noting his answer during a Democratic debate where candidates were asked what foreign country they would visit.

“I think most said Israel,” Carlson stated. “And he said, ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere. I’d stay in New York and like, if I want to meet Jewish constituents, I go to their synagogues, their homes or whatever, but I’d be here in New York because that’s what I’m doing. I’m running New York. That’s my job.’” Responded Greene: “Well, he gave the right answer.”

Another prominent antisemite who has condemned Trump’s support of Israel in the “Twelve-Day War” with Iran is Candace Owens. “This was not Trump’s decision; it was Bibi Netanyahu’s decision,” Owens told TV host Piers Morgan. “And that is the reason that he did it. We’re very aware that Israel is dictating our foreign policy, and we’d now like that to stop.” Like Greene, Owens has suggested that AIPAC, the pro-Israel lobbying group, was responsible for President Kennedy’s assassination. 

Owens worked for a time at the right-wing youth conservative movement Turning Point USA, where she began to gain a following, including Ye, formerly known as Kanye West, who later appeared in public with her before he went on a string of antisemitic rants. She has made and endorsed numerous comments with roots in antisemitic stereotypes, including the blood libel, and her views have been praised by avowed white supremacist and Holocaust denier Nick Fuentes. 

Given that the Democratic Party has basically begun to abandon Israel, should the antisemitic right gain control of the Republican Party MAGA movement, Jews in America, and Israel internationally, would be left in a perilous position similar to the 1939-1941 period. That was when the America First isolationists, many of them fascists, and the Communist Party fellow travellers joined hands in refusing to oppose Hitler, following the notorious Molotov-Ribbentrop nonaggression pact (also known as the Hitler-Stalin Pact) between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, signed that August 23, 1939. As we know, it led to the Second World War and the Holocaust. 

Henry Srebrnik is a professor of political science at the University of Prince Edward Island.

Continue Reading

Features

Two bookstores – two contrasting approaches when it comes to offering readers books by an avowed defender of Israel

Douglas Murray/cover of his most recent book

By BERNIE BELLAN Recently we were contacted by a reader who asked us whether we would be interested in looking into why it is that McNally Robinson Booksellers does not offer any books written by Douglas Murray.

Who is Douglas Murray? you might ask. We have had several stories about Murray on this website over the years, most recently last November, in a story written originally for the Canadian Jewish News titled: “Douglas Murray: A Champion of Israel.

To give you a better idea who Murray is, here is what Wikipedia has to say about him: “Douglas Murray (born 16 July 1979[)is a British neoconservative political commentator, cultural critic, author, and journalist. He is currently an associate editor of the conservative British political and cultural magazine The Spectator, and has been a regular contributor to The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Sun, the Daily Mail, New York Post, National Review, The Free Press, and UnHerd.

“His books include Neoconservatism: Why We Need It (2006), The Strange Death of Europe: Immigration, Identity, Islam (2017), The Madness of Crowds: Gender, Race and Identity (2019), The War on the West (2022), and On Democracies and Death Cults: Israel, Hamas and the Future of the West (2025).

“Murray was the associate director of the Henry Jackson Society, a neoconservative think tank, from 2011 to 2018.

“Murray is a critic of current immigration into Europe and of Islam. He became more well-known internationally due to his advocacy for Israel after the October 7 attacks in 2023.

“Murray has been praised by conservatives and criticized by others. Articles in the academic journals Ethnic and Racial Studies and National Identities associate his views with Islamophobia nd he has been described as promoting far-right ideas such as the Eurabia, Great Replacement, and Cultural Marxism conspiracy theories.”

Murray’s most recent book, as mentioned above, is On Democracies and Death Cults: Israel, Hamas and the Future of the West.

Here is the description of the book you can find on Amazon:

“In his travels through Israel and Gaza, #1 International Bestselling author Douglas Murray has seen the best and the worst humanity has to offer, and he has no trouble choosing a side.

“Murray is not Jewish and before October 7, he had never lived in Israel. However, he objects to being lied to, and Israel has been on the receiving end of the biggest, deepest, longest lies in history.

“Israel’s commitment to fundamental Western values—capitalism, individual rights, democracy, and reason—has made it a beacon of progress in a region dominated by authoritarianism and extremism. Israel’s principles vividly contrast with the ideology of Hamas, which openly proclaims its love of death over life. With incisive moral clarity, On Democracies and Death Cults exposes how the campus left and international establishment confuse this conflict by:

  • “Calling on Israel for restraint and proportionality, while Hamas commits genocide.
  • “Slandering Israelis as white colonialists, while only a third of Israelis are Jews of European ancestry.
  • “Framing the conflict as oppressor vs. oppressed, when it is really between a thriving multi-ethnic democracy and a death cult bent on its annihilation.

“Drawing from intensive on-the-ground reporting in Israel, Gaza, and Lebanon, Douglas Murray places the latest violence in its proper historical context. He takes readers on a harrowing journey through the aftermath of the October 7 massacre, piecing together the exclusive accounts from victims, survivors, and even the terrorists responsible for the atrocities. If left unchecked, misplaced sympathy could embolden forces that seek to undermine not only Israel, but all of Western civilization.”

Given that Douglas Murray is a staunch defender of Israel, what does it say about McNally Robinson Booksellers that they refuse to carry any of the five books that Murray has written to date?

We asked a spokesperson for McNally Robinson whether anyone wished to comment as to why it is that the store will not carry any of Murray’s books, but we were told that McNally Robinson has no comment to make.

As a result, we headed down to the store to take a look for ourselves at the selection of titles that McNally Robinson has on display about Israel and Palestine and that can be found under the heading “Middle East Issues.”

Here are the titles we were able to see in the store:

The Time Beneath the Concrete – Palestine between Camp and Colony; I Shall Not Hate; Jews Don’t Count; Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza (by Peter Beinart); Hope Without Hope; The Gardener of Lashkar Gah; States Without People; Hamas – From Resistance to Regime; The State of Israel vs. The Jews; Israel/Palestine; Banging on the Walls of the Tank; Perfect Victims; Genocide Bad; The Wall Between; The Palestine Laboratory; Road to October 7; Hamas; The World After Gaza; Palestine in a World on Fire; Lobbying for Zionism on Both Sides of the Atlantic; Loot – How Israel Stole Palestinian Property.

As well, McNally Robinson has a great many other books about Israel and Palestine that are available to order online, including (but not limited to):

The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine – A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance 1917-2017; Genocide Bad; A Genocide Foretold; The Shortest History of Israel and Palestine; Recognizing the Stranger (On Palestine and Narrative): The Question of Palestine; October 7th – Searching for the Humanitarian Middle

In contrast with McNally Robinson’s approach to the subject of Israel and Palestine, Indigo Books offers books that are more sympathetic to Israel. Given that Heather Reisman is the owner of Indigo Books and has demonstrated support for Israel, particularly through a foundation she and her husband, Gerald Schwartz, established, known as the HESEG Foundation, which provides scholarships for “lone soldiers” serving in the Israel Defence Forces, it should come as no surprise that Indigo Books offers books that contain a more pro-Israel perspective – in contrast with McNally Robinson.

As well, from time to time, Heather Reisman adds the title “Heather’s Pick” to a particular book, which means that book is “specifically recommended by her and comes with a money-back guarantee,” according to the article about her on Wikipedia.

Here are titles that were located on shelves under the heading “World History” that we saw on display at the Indigo Books location on Empress:

The Prime Ministers – An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (a “Heather’s Pick”); Mossad; A Child in Palestine; Understanding Palestine; Enemies and Neighbors; Palestine 1936 – The Great Revolt and the Roots of the Middle East Conflict; The Hundred Years War for Palestine; The Wall; Israel – Palestine; Orientalism (by Edward Said); The Question of Palestine; Ghosts of a Holy War; The Shortest History of Israel and Palestine; A Half Century of Occupation; Can We Talk About Israel?; Deluge; A Day in the Life of Abed Salama: Anatomy of a Jerusalem Tragedy; Israel (by Noa Tishby); The Lemon Tree; Thirteen Days in September: The Dramatic Story of the Struggle for Peace (story of Begin and Sadat at Camp David); Son of Hamas; Israel – A Concise History of a Nation Reborn (a “Heather’s Pick”); Israel and Civilization; Terror Tunnels (by Alan Dershowitz); Israel – A History (by Martin Gilbert); Impossible Takes Longer; Israel Alone; Ally (by Michael Oren); On Being Jewish Now; The Story of the Jews; Antisemitism in America; The World After Gaza; The War on the West (also by Douglas Murray).

As well, Indigo Book has a lengthy list of other titles that relate to the subjects of Israel and Palestine and that can be ordered online.

We might also note that the Douglas Murray book, On Democracies and Death Cults: Israel, Hamas and the Future of the West, was not only for sale at the Indigo Books location on Empress, it was showcased when we were there (July 24).

Readers should bear in mind though that both McNally Robinson Booksellers and Indigo Books are privately owned and it is the prerogative of the owners to choose which books they will sell.

Continue Reading

Copyright © 2017 - 2023 Jewish Post & News