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A Black writer explores how Germany remembers its ‘unthinkable’ past
(JTA) — For his 2021 book “How the Word Is Passed,” winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Nonfiction, poet and journalist Clint Smith explored the landscape of American memory — specifically how the history of slavery is explained, commemorated, distorted and desecrated in sites across the United States.
While on tour promoting the book, he explained in an interview Tuesday, he’d often be asked if any country had gotten it right when it came to memorializing its own dark past. “I kept invoking the memorials in Germany, but I had never been to the memorials in Germany,” Smith said. “As a scholar, as a journalist, I felt like I had to do my due diligence and excavate the complexity and the nuance, and the emotional and human texture, that undergirds so many of these places and spaces.”
The result is December’s cover story in the Atlantic, “Monuments to the Unthinkable.” Smith traveled to Germany twice over the past two years, visiting Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, its Topography of Terror Museum, the museum in Wannsee where the Nazis plotted the Final Solution, and the concentration camp at Dachau, talking to historians and curators along the way. As a Black man wrestling with how America accounts for the crimes of its past, he went to learn from the experience of the Germans, who “are still trying to figure out how to tell the story of what their country did, and simultaneously trying to figure out who should tell it.”
In an interview, Smith talked about the inevitable differences between the Holocaust and the Atlantic slave trade, the similarities in how two countries — and communities — experience their histories, and how his article could serve as a bridge between African-Americans and Jews in a time of increasing tension between them.
Smith spoke to JTA from his parents’ home in his native New Orleans.
This interview was edited for length and clarity.
Jewish Telegraphic Agency: Your book is about the ways America succeeds and fails to come to terms with slavery, and your article is about the ways Germany is, in your phrase, “constructing public memory.” I was struck by someone who warned you, “Don’t go to Auschwitz.” What were they saying?
Clint Smith: It was Frederick Brenner, a Jewish man and a remarkable photographer who has photographed the Jewish Diaspora across the world for the past several decades, who said that, because people are standing [at Dachau] and they’re taking selfies, and it’s like “me in front of the crematorium” and “me in front of the barracks.” That was deeply unsettling to him, especially as someone whose family was largely killed in the Holocaust.
I don’t want to be reductive about it and say that you don’t want people to go to these spaces and take pictures. I think it’s all about the sort of disposition and sensibilities one brings to a space. If someone went to the Whitney Plantation in Louisiana, I don’t necessarily want them doing puckered-lip selfies in front of a slave cabin. I can understand why people wouldn’t want those places engaged with in that way, but you do want tourists to come, right? I mean, before the pandemic, 900,000 people visited Dachau every year, and part of what brings people to Dachau is seeing and taking a picture of the crematorium, taking a picture of themselves on this land in that space where history happened, and posting it online. And maybe that serves as a catalyst for somebody else to make that journey for themselves.
You did go to Dachau, which you call a “memorial to the evil that once transpired there.”
I am a huge believer in putting your body in the place where history happened. I stood in many places that carry the history of violence: plantations, execution chambers, death row. But I’ve never experienced the feeling in my body that I felt when I stood in the gas chamber at Dachau. And you just see the way that this space was constructed, with the sort of intentional, mechanized slaughter that it was meant to enact on people. The industrialized nature of it was something unlike anything I’d ever experienced before and it made me feel so much more proximate to that history in ways that I don’t think I would have ever experienced otherwise.
Physically standing in a concentration camp and physically standing and putting my body in the gas chamber fundamentally changed my understanding of the emotional texture and the human and psychological implications of it. Because when you’re in those spaces you’re able to more fully imagine what it might have been like to be in that space. And then you can imagine these people, these families, these women, these children who were marched into camps throughout Europe. You can never fully imagine the fear, that sense of desperation that one would have felt, but in some ways, it’s the closest we can get to it if you are someone who did not have family who lived through or survived the Holocaust. It provided me with a radical sense of empathy. And that’s why I took the trip in the first place.
A tourist takes a selfie inside the Memorial to the Murdered Jews Of Europe in Berlin, Sept. 25, 2019. (Beata Zawrzel/NurPhoto via Getty Images)
By contrast, there are the memorials that are not historical sites, but either sculptural or architectural, like Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, nearly five acres of concrete slabs. What do you think makes an effective memorial that isn’t necessarily the historical place itself, but a specifically memorial project?
Well, for example, the big one in Berlin. It’s just so enormous. The scale and scope of it was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I tried to imagine what an American analog would be like. What if in the middle of downtown Manhattan there was a 200,000-square-foot memorial, with thousands of stone columns, dedicated to commemorating the lives of indigenous people who were killed in the early Americas? Or a 200,000-square-foot memorial in the middle of downtown D.C., not far from the White House, to the lives of enslaved people?
With that said, what I found really valuable were the people I spoke to, who had very different relationships to that space. Some thought of that memorial as something that was so meaningful because of its size and because of its scope, and because it was a massive state-sanctioned project. And then there were others who thought that it was too abstract, that it was too passive, even in its name, right, the “Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe,” which sounds as if something happened to people without naming the people who enacted the harm and who committed the crime. Those are the sort of nuances and complexities that I wanted to spend more time with, and found really valuable because, in the same way, descendants of enslaved people here in the United States have many different conceptions of what the iconography of slavery should look like or what repair and reparations to slavery should be made.
You write about the “stumbling stones” or “Stolpersteine”: Those are the small brass plaques placed in the streets, inscribed with the names of Holocaust victims and placed in front of their last known residence. The stones are exactly the opposite scale of the Berlin memorial.
Right. I think that is the memorial that I was most struck by: the largest decentralized memorial in the world, with 90,000 stones across 30 different European countries. I remember the moment I was walking down the street looking for landmarks and saw my first Stolpersteine, and I only saw it because at that moment the clouds moved and the sun shone off the brass stone. You see the name, the birth date, the deportation date, the death date, the place where the person was killed. You walk past another home, you see seven; you walk past another home, you see 12. You begin to imagine entire lives based on the names and information that exist on these stones. It creates this profound sense of intimacy, this profound sense of closeness to the history and it’s so human, because it’s individual people and individual names.
One of the most valuable things about the stumbling stone project, I think, is all the work that precedes it. It’s the school students who are doing research to find out about the lives of the people who were taken from the home across the street from their school. It’s the people in the apartment complex, who come together and decide that they’re going to figure out who were the Jewish families who lived in that apartment complex before them. And sometimes it’s really remarkable, granular details about people’s lives: what their favorite food was, what their favorite flavor of ice cream was, what the child liked.
Artist Gunter Demnig lays “stumbling stones” that memorialize persecuted or murdered Jews on the streets of Frankfurt. (Boris Roessler/picture alliance via Getty Images)
As Gunter Demnig, the originator of the project, says, 6 million people is a huge abstraction, and now it becomes about one man, one woman, one child, and [people] realize that it truly was not that long ago. There are so many survivors of the Holocaust who are still with us. Gunter Demnig, his father fought for the German army. He represents this generation of people who are engaging in a sort of contrition for the acts of their parents and their grandparents.
You ask in the piece what it would look like for a similar project to be created in the United States as a memorial to enslaved people.
I’m from New Orleans, and the descendant of enslaved people in New Orleans, which was at one point the busiest slave market in the country. And as Barbara Steiner, a Jewish historian, said to me in Germany, entire streets [of New Orleans] would be covered in brass stones! That was such a striking moment for me. That helped me more fully realize the profound lack of markers and iconography and documentation that we have to enslaved people in our landscape here in the United States relative to that of Germany.
Why are physical monuments important? I have sometimes wondered why we spend so much money on the infrastructure of memory — statues, museums, memorials — and if that money could be better used for living memorials, like scholarships for the descendants of victims, say, or programs that study or archive evidence of genocide. Why is it important to see a statue or a museum or even a plaque?
First off, museums and statues and memorials and monuments are by no means a panacea. It is not the case that you put up some memorials or you lay down some Stolpersteine and suddenly antisemitism is gone. Obviously, Germany is a case study and is experiencing its own rise in antisemitism. And that’s something that’s deeply unsettling, and is not going to singularly be solved by memorials and monuments.
With that said, I think there is something to be said to regularly encounter physical markers and manifestations of the violence that has been enacted and crimes that have been done in your name, or to the people that you are the descendant of. I try to imagine Germany without any of these memorials and I think it would just be so much easier for antisemitism to become far more pervasive. Because when your landscape is ornamented by things that are outlining the history that happened there, it is much more difficult to deny its significance, it is much more difficult to deny that it happened, it is much more difficult not to have it shape the way you think about public policy. I do believe that if we had these sorts of markers in the United States, it wouldn’t solve the racial wealth gap, it wouldn’t solve racism, it wouldn’t solve discrimination. It wouldn’t eradicate white nationalism or white supremacy. But I do think it would play some role in recalibrating and reshaping our collective public consciousness, our collective sense of history in ways that would not be insignificant.
And to your point, my hope is that those things are never mutually exclusive. It’s a conversation that’s happening here in the United States with regard to how different institutions are accounting for their relationship to slavery. Universities are coming up with reports, presentations, panels and conferences that outline their relationship to the history of slavery, especially since the murder of George Floyd [in 2020]. Activists and descendants have pushed them to not just put out a report, or put up a plaque or make a monument. It’s also about, well, what are you going to do for the descendants of those people? Harvard, where I went to grad school, put $100 million aside specifically for those sorts of interventions. Places like Georgetown have made it so that people who were the descendants of those who are enslaved have specific opportunities to come to the school without paying. And people of good faith can disagree over whether those initiatives are commensurate with or enough to atone for that past, and I think the answer is almost inevitably no.
Certainly people on what we like to think of as the wrong side of history understood the importance of physical monuments in creating memory.
The origin story of my own book was that I watched the monuments come down in 2017, in my hometown in New Orleans, of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee. I was thinking about what it meant that I grew up in a majority Black city, and there were more homages to enslavers than there were to enslaved people. What does it mean that to get to school I had to go down Robert E. Lee Boulevard? That to get to the grocery store, I had to go down Jefferson Davis Parkway? That my middle school was named after a leader of the Confederacy? And that my parents still live on a street today named after someone who owned 115 enslaved people? The names and iconography are reflective of the stories that people tell and those stories shaped the narratives that communities carry. And those narratives shape public policy and public policy is what shapes the material conditions of people’s lives.
One thing about Germany is that its national project of memory and repentance has been accompanied by a vast reparations program — for Israel, Jewish survivors, their families and programs to propagate Jewish culture. I wonder if you think Germany could have moved ahead without reparations? And can America ever fully grapple with the legacy of slavery without its own reparations?
The short answer is no. America cannot fully move forward from its past without reparations. The important thing is not to be limited and reductive in the way that we conceive of what reparations are or should look like. In some ways, I’m as interested if not more interested in what specific cities and states are doing in order to account for those histories and those crimes. For example, in Evanston, Illinois, they created a specific program to give reparations to Black families who experienced housing segregation, in a certain period of time, given how prevalent redlining was in and around Chicago in the mid-20th century. I know in Asheville, North Carolina, there’s a similar program that’s thinking about how to meaningfully engage in repair to the descendants of communities that were harmed from some of the policies that existed there. This is not to say that those programs themselves are perfect. But I think we sometimes talk about it so much on a federal level, that we forget the local opportunities that exist.
West German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer signs the reparations agreement between his country and Israel, Sept. 10, 1952. (United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Benjamin Ferencz, from “Reckonings”)
Many people who were redlined or experienced housing covenants — all the sort of insidious manifestations of wealth extraction that were part of Jim Crow — are still alive today. So sometimes it’s not even a question of what you have to give the descendants. Sometimes it’s like, what do you give the actual people who are still here?
That’s an important distinction you make in your article, about the difference between grappling with the past in Germany and the United States. In Germany, there are so few Jews, while in the U.S. we see the living evidence of slavery, not the evidence of absence.
That’s perhaps the greatest difference that allows for both a landscape of memory to be created in Germany, and also allows for Germany to pay reparations in ways that the United States is reluctant to do: Jewish people in Germany represent less than one quarter of one percent of the population of Germany. One of the folks I spoke to told me that Jewish people in Germany are a historical abstraction. Because there’s so few Jewish people left, because of the slaughter of the Holocaust. I think about the reparations that were given to Japanese Americans who were held in incarceration camps during World War II. They got $20,000 checks, which is not commensurate with what it means to be held in a prison camp for multiple years, and cannot totally atone for that. But part of the reason that can be enacted is that there’s a limited amount of people. There are 40 million black people in this country. So the economic implications of reparations are something fundamentally different here in the United States.
So let me ask you if there’s anything else you wanted to mention that we haven’t talked about.
I want to name specifically for your readers that I’m not and would never intend to conflate slavery and the Holocaust. They are qualitatively different historical phenomena that have their own specific complexities and should be understood on their own terms. With that said, I do think it can be helpful to put the two in conversation with one another, specifically in the profound ways that these two monumental periods of world history have shaped the modern world and how they are remembered in fundamentally different ways.
And there are similarities as well, which you write about.
I did find so many parallels. The Jewish people I spent time with in Germany explained that some of the manifestations of racism and anti-Blackness in the United States are not so different from the sort of manifestations of antisemitism that exist in Germany, especially as it relates to public memory. When I was at the museum devoted to the Wannsee conference, the executive director, Deborah Hartmann, told me that she and Deidre Berger [the chair of the executive board of the Jewish Digital Cultural Recovery Project Foundation] were talking about how Jewish people did not always have a seat at the table when these monuments and memorials were being built. Jewish people were not allowed to participate beyond a certain extent, because many Germans felt that Jewish people were not objective. Jewish historians couldn’t be taken seriously because they were too close to the history.
That just echoes so much of what Black scholars and historians have been told about their ability, or the lack thereof, to study the history of Black life. The godfather of African-American scholarship, W.E.B. Du Bois, was told by white scholars that he couldn’t be taken seriously because he was too close to the history of slavery.
Meanwhile, Deborah Hartmann talked about how so many of the historians and scholars who played a role in shaping the landscape of memory in Germany were themselves “close to the history,” including former members of the Hitler Youth.
Somebody sent me a message that really meant a lot to me this past week, basically saying that my essay is an exercise in “solidarity via remembrance” — in a moment where, unfortunately, there have been a lot of public manifestations of ideas and antisemitic remarks that might threaten to rupture a relationship between Black and Jewish people. Obviously, we didn’t time it this way: I worked on this piece for a year. But it’s my hope that as someone who is a Black American, who is the descendant of enslaved people, who is not himself Jewish — that my respectful, empathic, curious, journey reflects the long history of solidarity that has existed across Black and Jewish communities and that that I hope we never lose sight of.
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The post A Black writer explores how Germany remembers its ‘unthinkable’ past appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Memories of Bubbe Khave-Leye at the marketplace in Buenos Aires
אין אונדזערע צײַטן זענען ווייניק יונגע מענטשן זוכה אויסצוּוואַקסן אין אַ שטוב וווּ עס וווינען דרײַ דורות.
איך בין געבוירן געוואָרן אין אַ שטוב, וווּ עס האָבן געוווינט צוזאַמען מײַנע טאַטע־מאַמע מיט די טאַטע־מאַמע פֿון מײַן מאַמע – באָבע חווה־לאה און זיידע חיים־מענדל — יעדער דור מיט זײַן אייגענער גײַסטיקער וועלט, שפּראַך און נסיון אין לעבן. און דערפֿאַר האָב איך געזען, געהערט און איבערגעלעבט צוזאַמען מיט מענטשן פֿון 19טן יאָרהונדערט, געבוירענע אין מיזרח־אייראָפּע. די באָבע חווה־לאה איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין סטאָלפּצע (שטייבץ); דער זיידע חיים־מענדל — אין דראָהיטשן; די מאַמע, ברכה, פֿון פּינסק; דער טאַטע, שמואל, פֿון סטערדין (וואָלין), און איך – פֿון ייִדישן שפּיטאָל אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס.
פֿון די אַכט זין און טעכטער וואָס די באָבע חווה־לאה האָט געהאַט זײַנען פֿיר געבליבן לעבן. די ייִנגסטע טאָכטער, דודה עליזה (פֿראַדל אויף ייִדיש), האָט געוווינט מיט אונדז ביז זי האָט עולה געווען קיין מדינת־ישׂראל אין יאָר 1949. דערצו זײַנען צוויי ברידער פֿון מײַן מאַמען — פֿעטער יוסף און פֿעטער הערשל — געקומען מיט דער גאַנצער משפּחה פֿון פּינסק קיין בוענאָס־אײַרעס אין יאָר 1937.
אַרום פּסחדיקן טיש פֿלעגן זיצן בײַ אונדז די מומע עטעלע פֿון ווילנע און די מומע לאה פֿון בריסק – צוזאַמען מיט די פֿריִער דערמאָנטע משפּחה־מיטגלידער – אַ פֿיל־שפּראַכיק געזעמל פֿון מיזרח־אייראָפּעיִשע ייִדן, וועלכע האָבן געשמועסט אויף ייִדיש, העברעיִש, רוסיש, פּויליש און אויך שפּאַניש.
מײַן באָבע חווה־לאה איז געווען למעשׂה איינשפּראַכיק, געבוירן מן־הסתּם אָנהייב 1880ער יאָרן, איז איר ייִדיש געווען די זעלבע וואָס עס האָבן גערעדט אירע טאַטע־מאַמע און זיידע־באָבע. דער באָבעס ייִדיש איז געווען אײַנגעטונקען אין לומדישן לשון־קודש. זי פֿלעגט אַלע שבת מעבֿיר זײַן די סדרה אין חומש צוזאַמען מיט פּירושים און אַגדות אויף ייִדיש, גלײַך פֿון צאינה־וראינה. וואָך־אײַן וואָך־אויס, יאָר נאָך יאָר, פֿלעגט זי איבערחזרן דעם גאַנצן חומש מיט זײַנע פּירושים און מדרשים, וואָס האָט צוגעגעבן איר פּערזענלעכקייט אַ פּסיכאָלאָגישע טיפֿקייט און געפֿורעמט איר כאַראַקטער און געמיט.
אין דער רוסישער אימפּעריע האָט די משפּחה פֿון מײַן מאַמעס צד געלעבט פֿון דער אַרבעט פֿון מײַן זיידן חיים־מענדל שוואַרץ, ווי אַ בוכהאַלטער אין אַ טאַרטאַק, אָבער מײַן באָבע איז געווען אַ קראַסאַוויצע אין די אויגן פֿון די גויים, האָבן זיידע־באָבע געמוזט אַוועק וווינען אין דער שטאָט פּינסק. דאָרט איז די פּרנסה געווען אַ קליין געוועלב, וווּ מײַן באָבע האָט פֿאַרקויפֿט קאַלך און פֿאַרב.
פֿון קינדווײַז אָן האָב איך דערפֿאַר געהערט אַ לעבעדיקן ליטוויש־ייִדיש, ווי ייִדן האָבן גערעדט זינט, לכל־הפּחות, פֿון אָנהייב 19טן יאָרהונדערט. דאָס ליטווישע ייִדיש האָט אײַנגעזאַפּט אין זיך רוסישע ווערטער, וועלכע זענען מיט דער צײַט געוואָרן אַן אינטעגראַלער טייל פֿון ליטווישן ייִדיש. די משפּחה איז געגאַנגען אַלע שבת און אין די יום־טובֿים אין שיל. צוזאַמען מיטן אָפּהיטן כּשרות איז דאָס טעגלעכע לעבן געווען אײַנגעהילט אין אַ טראַדיציאָנעלן נישט־פֿאַנאַטישן סטיל. זינט איך בין געווען דרײַ יאָר אַלט און ביז נאָך מײַן בר־מצווה איז מײַן וועלט געווען באַאײַנפֿלוסט פֿון אָט דער אַטמאָספֿער. דער וואָס האָט נישט איבערגעלעבט אין זײַן קינדהייט די יום־טובֿדיקייט פֿון שׂמחת־תּורה בעת די הקפֿות אין שיל, איז נישט מסוגל צו באַגרײַפֿן וואָס מיינט אַ ליכטיקע שׂימחה פֿון אַ ציבור וואָס פֿרייט זיך פֿון גאַנצן האַרצן, האַלטנדיק אין זײַנע הענט אַ ספֿר־תּורה, דער אויטאָריטאַטיווער מקור וואָס באַפֿאַרבט זײַן לעבן מיט אַ זין. אַהרן צייטלין האָט אַמאָל וועגן דעם געשריבן אין זײַן פּאָעמע „דנאָען‟:
זײַן אָדער נישט זײַן, נישט דאָס איז די פֿראַגע. די פֿראַגע איז: זין אָדער נישט זין?
דער לוח, מיט זײַנע געדענקטעג און יום־טובֿים, האָט אָרגאַניזירט דאָס לעבן פֿון ייִדישן ציבור, אַרום געשיכטלעכע דאַטעס און טעג פֿון חשבון־הנפֿש, וועלכע האָבן געשטאַרקט דעם געפֿיל פֿון צוגעהעריקייט פֿון יעדן פּרט און יחיד, צו אַ גײַסטיקער און קולטור־טראַדיציע. אַזאַ צוגעהעריקייט באַפֿרײַט דעם יחיד פֿון זײַן איזאָלירונג און פֿירט אים אַרײַן אין אַ קאָלעקטיוו סײַ אין צײַט סײַ אין רוים.
באָבע חווה־לאה און איר טאָכטער, מײַן מאַמע, האָבן געפֿירט אין צווייען די ווירטשאַפֿט פֿון דער היים. אין מאַרק פֿלעג איך גיין אײַנקויפֿן מיט דער באָבען, פֿון זינט איך בין געווען דרײַ צי פֿיר יאָר אַלט. מיר פֿלעגן גיין צו פֿוס אַ האַלבן קילאָמעטער ביז אַ געדעקטן מאַרק, אַן אומגעהײַער גרויסער, אַ צוויישטאָקיקער. דאָס גיין אין מאַרק מיט מײַן באָבען איז געווען בײַ מיר אַן אויסערגעוויינלעכע געשעעניש, וואָס האָט זיך איבערגעחזרט אַלע דאָנערשטיק, כּדי האָבן די מעגלעכקייט צוצוגרייטן דעם שבת פֿרײַטיק אין דער פֿרי. אַזוינע עקסקורסיעס האָבן מיר געמאַכט ביז איך בין געוואָרן זעקס יאָר אַלט און אָנגעהויבן זיך לערנען סײַ אין חדר אין דער פֿרי, און סײַ אין אַ מלוכהשער שולע בײַ טאָג.
עס איז געווען פֿאַר מיר אַן איבערראַשנדיקער איבערגאַנג, פֿון אַ שטילער טראַדיציאָנעלער היים אַלע טעג פֿון דער וואָך, ביז דעם הו־האַ פֿון מאַרק. אַרײַנגייענדיק אין מאַרק פֿלעג איך זיך אָנטרעפֿן מיט אַ רעש און מיט קלינגענדיקע קולי־קולות פֿון מסחר – די פֿאַרקויפֿער און די קויפֿער. עס פֿאַרהילכט דער גרילצנדיקער רעש פֿון דער עלעקטרישער זעג פֿון לעמל דעם קצבֿ, און עס פֿאַרטויבן די געשרייען פֿון די פֿיש־פֿאַרקויפֿער וואָס פֿאַרקויפֿן פֿרישע פֿיש אין אײַזקאַסטנס, אָנגעטאָן אין הויכע שטיוול. זיי פֿאַרבעטן די קונים מיט ברייטע העוויות… און די פֿיש שטינקען, שטינקען דאָך… אַלע פֿינף חושים וואַכן אויף אין מאַרק. צו דעם אַלעם קומען צו אין אָט דעם קאַקאָפֿאָנישן כאָר אויך די קולות פֿון די קליענטן וואָס באַלאַגערן די סוחרים, שטופּן זיך און שרײַען איבער איינער דעם צווייטן.
אָט די איבערראַשנדיקע ווירקלעכקייט האָט מיך פֿאַרכּישופֿט און צעטומלט אין איין און דער זעלבער צײַט. איך בין נאָך געווען אַ נידעריקער קאַרליק פֿון אַזוינע פֿיר צי פֿינף צי זעקס יאָר, און בין נאָך נישט דערגאַנגען ביז צו די טאָמבענק אין מאַרק כּדי צו זען וואָס עס טוט זיך דאָרט איבער מײַן קעפּל פֿון דער אַנדערער זײַט. איך האָב נאָר געהערט קלאַנגען און ריחות. דער עיקר פֿלעג איך שטיין ווי צוגעשמידט און פֿאַרוווּנדערט אַנטקעגן דעם אַרײַנגאַנג צו זושע דעם שוחט, וואָס איז געזעסן און געשאָכטן עופֿות.
איך און באָבע חווה־לאה, מיט קוישן אין די הענט, פֿלעגן שטענדיק דורכגיין אין מאַרק דעם זעלבן מאַרשרוט: מע הייבט אָן בײַ לעמל דעם קצבֿ. אַרום זײַן פֿירקאַנטיקן טאָמבאַנק, פֿון דרײַ זײַטן ווי דער אות חית, איז שטענדיק געווען אַ גראַטשקע, מענטשן זײַנען געשטאַנען קעפּ אויף קעפּ, אין צוויי צי דרײַ שורות און געוואַרט, ווער מיט געדולד, און ווער מיט שטופּערײַ. לעמל האָט פֿאַרקויפֿט כּשר פֿלייש. די קונים האָבן זיך געסטאַרעט צוצוציִען די אויפֿמערקזאַמקייט פֿון לעמלען און זײַן משפּחה, מע זאָל זיי באַדינען. לעמל און זײַן משפּחה האָבן נישט גערוט אַ רגע, באַדינענדיק זייערע קונים.
נאָכן וויזיט בײַם קצבֿ פֿלעגן מיר אַרויפֿגיין מיט די טרעפּ אויפֿן צווייטן שטאָק פֿון מאַרק, צו די פֿיש. פֿון דאָרטן און ווײַטער האָב איך געוווּסט אַז באַלד וועל איך ווערן באַלוינט פֿאַר מײַן געדולדיקייט. מיר פֿלעגן זיך ווײַטער דאָרט צוגיין צו דער פֿרוי וואָס פֿאַרקויפֿט ברויט, בייגל, געבעקס און פּלעצעלעך מיט געפּרעגלטע ציבעלעס. שוין מיד פֿון באַגלייטן מײַן באָבען פֿון איין טאָמבאַנק צו אַ צווייטן, פֿלעג איך אויפֿעסן אַ פּלעצל בעת מיר זײַנען געגאַנגען ווײַטער – מיט אָדער אָן פּוטער. בײַ אונדז אין שטוב זײַנען אַזוינע מאַכלים געווען אַ דעליקאַטעס. למשל, מיר האָבן זייער ליב געהאַט עסן כאַלעמיטקעס און כאַלעאָנקעס – דאָס וואָס מע רופֿט ריכטיקער חלה מיט קעז אָדער חלה אָן קעז.
דער הויכפּונקט פֿון דעם שפּאַציר מײַנעם מיט דער באָבען איבערן מאַרק איז געווען בײַ דעם אָרט וווּ מע האָט פֿאַרקויפֿט עופֿות. שוין פֿון דער ווײַטנס פֿלעג איך דערהערן דעם קוואַקען פֿון די לעבעדיקע הינער אין זייערע שטײַגן, וועלכע זושע דער שוחט פֿלעגט פֿון דאָרטן אַרויסנעמען. זושע האָט זיי איינציקווײַז געהאַלטן אין איין האַנט, און אין דער צווייטער – דעם חלף. אַ ייִד מיט אַ געדיכטער ווײַסער באָרד, ראָזעווע באַקן און אַ קײַלעכדיקן פּנים — אַ מין „סאַנטאַ קלאַוס‟, וואָס האָט געדונגען אַ צימער אין הויז פֿון דער מומע לאה, די מומע פֿון מײַן מאַמען.
אויפֿן טאָמבאַנק פֿון געוועלב פֿון די עופֿות זענען געמאַכט געוואָרן די געשעפֿטן מיט די עופֿות, נאָך דער שחיטה. אין אַ זײַט איז געווען אַ מין אַרײַנגאַנג צו דער אַרענע פֿון די געשעענישן. דאָרט פֿלעג איך זיך אַוועקשטעלן און גאַפֿן, זעענדיק די שטײַגן אין וועלכע די הינער האָבן געליאַרעמט, דערפֿילנדיק מן־הסתּם אַז עס דערנענטערט זיך זייער סוף. זייערע קולות האָבן צוגעגעבן דעם גאַנצן סצענאַריאָ אַ דראַמאַטישע אַטמאָספֿער. הײַנט צו טאָג בין איך גענויגט צו קלערן אַז מײַן טאַלאַנט נאָכצומאַכן די קולות פֿון הינער in extremis איז נישט קיין אײַנגעבוירענער טאַלאַנט, נאָר איז דעראָבערט געוואָרן אין יענע יאָרן אין יענעם אָרט… און די קולות פֿון די הינער הילכן נאָך ביז הײַנט אין מײַן זכּרון פֿון די פּאַלעווינעס אַרויס.
אין יענע קינדעריאָרן האָב איך באַטראַכט מיט אומשולדיקע אויגן, אָן קיין שום מאָראַלישע אָפּהאַלטן, איינע פֿון די שפּײַזקייטן אין אונדזער פֿליישפֿרעסערישער וועלט. די פֿילפֿאַרביקייט אויפֿן שחיטה־שלאַכטפֿעלד האָט פֿאַרכאַפּט מײַן אויג אָנהייבנדיק פֿון דער קלאָר ווײַסער באָרד פֿון זושע דעם שוחט, צוזאַמען מיט די רויטלעכע הינער און די רויטע קאַמען פֿון די הענער, מיט דעם געלבלעכן זעגעכץ אויסגעשפּרייט אין דער לענג און אין דער ברייט אויף דער פּאָדלאָגע, און ענדיקנדיק מיט דער שחיטה אַליין וואָס האָט זיך אָפּגעשפּילט פֿאַר מײַנע אויגן, װען זושע האָט אויפֿגעהויבן דעם בלאַנציקן חלף. אָט דאָס איז וואָס מײַנע אויגן האָבן דערזען:
זושע דער שוחט נעמט אַרויס אַ הון פֿון אַ שטײַג, ער באַרויִקט זי מיט לײַכטע גלעטן פֿון אַ פּראָפֿעסיאָנעלן שוחט, אַ בעל־רחמים, פּאַמעלעך פֿאַררײַסט ער דאָס קעפּל אויף אַהינטער, און אַנטבלויזט דאָס העלדזל. זושע הייבט אויף דעם מעסער, און מיט אַ שאַרפֿער תּנועה פֿון אויסגעשאַרפֿטן חלף גיט ער אַ שניט וווּ מע דאַרף. אַ דינער רויטער שטראָם בלוט צייכנט אָפּ אַ בויגן אין דער לופֿט און נידערט אויפֿן געלן געזעגעכץ. דאָס געקוילעטע הינדל ווערט אַוועקגעוואָרפֿן אויף דער פּאָדלאָגע, און די שעקספּירישע וויזיע וואָס מיר היפּן איבער צוליב דעם כּבֿוד פֿון די געשאָכטענע, קומט צו אַ סוף.
איך וועל זאָגן אַ ליגן, אויב איך וועל טענהן אַז אין עלטער פֿון דרײַ ביז זעקס יאָר האָב איך געוואָלט ווערן אַ שוחט. אָבער אָט די גאַנצע סצענע האָט מיך פֿאַרכאַפּט, נאָך איידער איך האָב פֿאַרשטאַנען וואָס צער־בעלי־חיים איז. פֿונעם געוועלב פֿון די עופֿות זײַנען מיר צוגעגאַנגען צו די טרעפּ וואָס פֿירן אַרונטער, כּדי אײַנצוקויפֿן פֿרוכט און גרינסן. אָבער איידער מיר זײַנען אַראָפּ, האָבן מיר זיך פֿאַרהאַלטן בײַ דעם מילכיקן, וואָס פֿאַרקויפֿט כּל־מיני קעזן און מילכיקע פּראָדוקטן. בײַם אַרויסגאַנג זענען מיר אַרײַן אין אַ געשעפֿט וווּ מיר האָבן געקויפֿט געזאַלצענע הערינג אַרויסגעצויגן בלײַך פֿון אַ פֿאַס, מאַסלינעס, גרויפּן, פֿאַרשיידענע געווירצן און ניס.
אין יענער צײַט זענען אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס נישט געווען קיין פֿרידזשידערן. פֿלייש און מילכיקע פּראָדוקטן האָט מען געהאַלטן אין אַן אײַזקאַסטן — אַ הילצערנעם קאַסטן וווּ מע האָט אַרײַנגעלייגט גרויסע שטיקער אײַז, וועלכע מע האָט געקויפֿט אין דער גאַס. די פֿור מיט די גרויסע שטיקער אײַז פֿלעגט קומען אויף אונדזער גאַס, און מיר פֿלעגן זיי קויפֿן לויט קוביק־מעטערס וואָס דער פֿאַרקויפֿער פֿלעגט אויסהאַקן מיט אַ ספּעציעלן אינסטרומענט.
במשך צענדליקער יאָרן האָב איך דאָ אין ישׂראל געזוכט אין יעדן אָרט וווּ איך האָב געגעסן דעם טעם פֿון אַמאָל, פֿון דער מיזרח־אייראָפּעיִשער קיך בײַ אונדז אין שטוב אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס. ניין… עס איז נישט דער טעם וואָס איז געווען בײַ מיר אין דער היים, האָב איך מיט אַ ווידערווילן אַרויסגעזאָגט בײַ אַלעמען אין שטוב און בײַ מײַן שוויגער און אַפֿילו בײַ מײַן פֿרוי אין קיך. איך טענה נישט חלילה, אַז זיי האָבן נישט געוווּסט ווי אַזוי צו קאָכן, אָדער אויספֿאַרטיקן פּאָטראַוועס. פֿאַרקערט, אָבער דאָס עסן מיט זײַן געשמאַק פֿון אַמאָל איז אַנטרונען… בײַ־בײַ, סאָו־לאָנג… ביז מיט אַ קורצער צײַט צוריק, איז מיר קלאָר געוואָרן פֿאַר וואָס איך געפֿין שוין מער נישט דעם טעם פֿון אָמאָל. הײַנט קאָכט מען אויף אַ גאַז־אייוועלע אָדער אויף עלעקטרע אָבער אין די 1940ער און 1950ער יאָרן האָט מען געקאָכט אויף קוילן. לענג־אויס דער וואַנט אין קיך בײַ אונדז אין שטוב אין בוענאָס־אײַרעס איז געשטאַנען אַן אויוון אויסגעבויט מיט ציגל, מיט דרײַ עפֿענונגען, אין וועלכע עס האָבן געברענט שוואַרצע קוילן, וואָס מיר פֿלעגן אײַנקויפֿן אין אַ קוילן־געשעפֿט, לויט קילאָגראַמען.
פּלוצלינג איז מיר געוואָרן קלאָר, אַז דאָס קאָכן אויף קוילן — למשל, אַ טשאָלנט אין אײַזערנע טעפּ פֿאַרדעקט מיט אַן אײַזערנער דעקל און פֿאַרוויקלט אַרום און אַרום מיט שמאַטעס — אַזאַ טאָפּ וואָס שטייט אויפֿן פֿײַער (נישט פֿון גאַז און נישט פֿון עלעקטרע) 24 שעה, וועט דער טעם זײַן רײַכער ווי דער טעם פֿון גאַז־ און עלעקטרע־געקעכצן. די איינציקע „מאַכלים‟ וואָס מעגן האָבן אַן ענלעכן טעם, זײַנען די קומזיץ־מאַכלים וואָס חלוצים האָבן געספּראַוועט אין די ליכטיקע אויסגעשטערנטע ארץ־ישׂראל־נעכט, און געזונגען: „אַרום דעם פֿײַער/ מיר זינגען לידער/ די נאַכט איז טײַער/ זי קומט נישט ווידער// באַפּוצט די קעפּ/ מיט בלומען קראַנצן/ אַרום דעם פֿײַער/ איז גוט צו טאַנצן…‟ עס איז נישט צו פֿאַרגלײַכן אָפּגעברענטע פּאָטייטעס און פֿאַרטשאַדעטע פּראָדוקטן בײַ אַ קומזיץ מיט די גורמע פּאָטראַוועס פֿאַרגאַזטע און עלעקטריפֿיצירטע.
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‘It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate’: Pro-Palestinian groups target Oregon Hillel director
The fall semester at Oregon Hillel started with a stolen sukkah. Days later, the director found his face plastered on flyers around University of Oregon’s campus, branding him “Enemy of the People.”
Then came the Oct. 7 anniversary, when pro-Palestinian demonstrators marched to the Hillel House and set fire to an American-Israeli flag on the sidewalk outside.
“It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate and protesting,” said Oregon Hillel Director Lenny Steinberg. “These intimidation factors are starting to grow.”
A tense start
Oregon Hillel serves the University of Oregon in Eugene along with Oregon State University in Corvallis, where the sukkah was stolen. After being up for only a few days, the entire structure, its decorations and everything in it disappeared. The theft is still under investigation and it’s unclear if it was hate motivated.
For Steinberg, who has led Oregon Hillel since 2024, the incidents marked a tense start to the school year — but not an entirely unexpected one. Tensions in Eugene have run high since the Hamas attacks on Israel in 2023 and the subsequent war in Gaza. The university saw an encampment, protests that sometimes offered support for Hamas, the tearing down of Israeli hostage posters and a drawing of a swastika on a dorm bulletin board.
During the spring semester, Oregon Hillel scheduled an event with the 2021 Miss Israel title holder Noa Cochva. She planned to speak with students and answer questions about her home country, but decided to cancel the event due to protests and safety concerns. Instead, she spoke with Hillel students off campus.
While anti-Israel protests are now commonplace across American campuses, protesters’ demands in Oregon have gone beyond simply calling for their university to cut ties with Israel, they want their university to cut ties with Hillel.
“The director of Oregon Hillel supports the continuation of Zionism and genocide in Palestine,” the flyers state. “Hillel off Campus!!!”
A QR code on the posters links to an article about how students in the academic senate at the New School voted to defund and cut ties with Hillel. The New School did not ban Hillel, as the students had no authority to make such a decision.
Steinberg said campus security footage captured two masked individuals wearing sunglasses and all-black clothing putting up the flyers. Four campus activist groups posted an online statement defending the flyers but didn’t explicitly claim to be responsible for them.
“The poster says nothing about Judaism,” the statement reads in all caps. “The reality of the situation is that Oregon Hillel, a staunchly Zionist group, and the administration create a dangerous space for Jews by synchronizing a Zionist agenda with Judaic practice on campus.”
The statement was shared on Instagram by the local chapters of Jewish Voice for Peace, Revolutionary Women’s Committee, Young Democratic Socialists of America and the Eugene Revolutionary Study Group. None of the organizations responded to the Forward’s request for comment.
Steinberg said that, when he saw the flyers, his first thoughts were about the safety of his family, himself and the Jewish community. While he was directly targeted in the posters, he said many Jews reached out to him with their own safety concerns.
Steinberg took offense at the poster, saying it was spreading lies about him and that he in no way supports genocide. As for the accusation of being a Zionist, he said those who distributed the poster have a different definition of the term than he does. He believes that to them, Zionism means Jewish supremacy in Israel, full support of the Israeli government, support for settlers in the West Bank and denial of Palestinians’ right to self-determination.
To him, Zionism means having an ancestral home and self-determination alongside Arabs.
“Zionism doesn’t necessarily, to me, mean everything has to be Jewish,” he said. “It doesn’t mean that the State of Israel gets everything right. They don’t. We don’t get everything right here, but it’s my home, and I love it for all of its amazing beauties and even its flaws.”
Oregon’s Hillel is not unique. It fosters Jewish community through events and offers a space for students to gather, and like many Hillels, funds trips to Israel via both the Birthright and Perspectives programs. Birthright is the free 10-day trip to Israel offered to young adults with one Jewish parent, while Perspectives is a trip offered to students of Jewish and non-Jewish backgrounds to experience both Israel and parts of the West Bank.
Throughout his professional career, Steinberg, 38, has worked for numerous Jewish organizations including the Jewish Federation, the Jewish Community Center in Portland and most recently the Jewish fraternity Alpha Epsilon Pi. Given his line of work he was well aware of the “encampments, and political climates and what hostilities there might be” brewing on campuses before he took the Hillel position in 2024.
“Still, I don’t think any of that truly prepared me for what’s really transpired and happened over these last few weeks,” he said.
While the pro-Palestine groups that shared a statement on the flyer insist it is not antisemitic, Steinberg disagrees. He argues the posters are intended to make Jews feel uncomfortable, while calling for the removal of one of the only Jewish groups on campus.
“That to me is antisemitism masked heavily in anti-Zionism,” he said.
While these events have strained the Jewish community, Steinberg said students have displayed “resilience.” Dozens of people donated to the Corvallis’s new sukkah, the University of Oregon and multiple politicians made statements supporting the Jewish community, and many attended Hillel’s recent unity shabbat.
“Students came, and for the first time in almost two weeks, you could see the weight lifted off their shoulders,” Steinberg said. “You could see that they felt like they belonged and they actually mattered at a time when so many other people are telling them ‘you don’t.’”
The post ‘It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate’: Pro-Palestinian groups target Oregon Hillel director appeared first on The Forward.
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NYC Comptroller breaks campaign promise to Jewish voters to buy Israel Bonds, drawing praise from Mamdani
New York City Comptroller Mark Levine’s decision not to resume the city’s investments in Israel Bonds, breaking a campaign promise he made to Jewish voters last year, drew mixed reactions Wednesday from supporters of Israel and advocates for the Palestinian cause. It also marked another symbolic shift in the city’s relationship with Israel under Mayor Zohran Mamdani.
The decision, first reported by The New York Times, is a significant reversal for Levine, the city’s highest-ranking Jewish elected official, who repeatedly promised last year to restore the investments after his predecessor ended a nearly 50-year practice of buying Israeli government debt.
The city’s pension funds previously held $39 million in Israel Bonds, which returned roughly 5%. Former Comptroller Brad Lander, who is also Jewish, decided not to purchase new bonds when the holdings matured in 2023, citing the city’s policy against investing in foreign government debt.
In an interview with the Times, Levine cited financial concerns and technical challenges, including those related to the war in Gaza and Israel’s political instability, in explaining why Israel Bonds are “not an investment that we can make right now.”
He insisted the decision was not driven by political pressure or a shift in his personal support for Israel, and left open the possibility of purchasing Israel Bonds in the future. The pension funds still hold $285 million in Israel-related assets, including common stocks and more than $1 million in Israeli real estate investment trusts.
The move was nonetheless a political victory for Mamdani, a longtime supporter of boycotts of Israel, who opposed the bond purchases and has sought to reshape New York City’s relationship with Israel, politically, emotionally and economically.
“I welcome the comptroller’s decision,” Mamdani told the Forward on Wednesday. “It is something that I’ve said in the past … I don’t believe that our city should purchase Israel bonds. We don’t purchase the bonds of any other sovereign nation. I don’t think that we should make an exception when it comes to Israel.” The mayor can neither prevent the investment nor overrule it.
Lander, now a congressional candidate, also voiced his approval via text message. “The pension funds are not invested in the bonds of other foreign countries,” Lander said, “and previous comptrollers’ decisions to buy Israel bonds nonetheless were a political move, not a fiduciary one.”
Why Levine changed his mind
For Jewish voters who supported Levine’s campaign, the reversal raises questions about a promise he made while seeking the office of the city’s chief financial officer.
“This has been a rock-solid investment for decades,” he said during the campaign. “Israel has never missed a bond payment, and a good, balanced portfolio should have global diversity.”
When Mamdani suggested Lander’s move should become permanent, Levine pushed back. “Israel bonds have never missed a payment in 70 years, ever, not once,” he said in April. “They pay excellent interest.”
He also called out critics who had been protesting outside his office. “We have had no protesting about our investments in Saudi Arabia, our investments in Pakistan or China, only this one little, tiny sliver,” Levine said.
A spokesperson for Levine’s office said the decision was strictly financial, not political, and noted that the decision applies only to the city’s short-term investments, where concerns about regional instability and financial risks make Israel Bonds “less attractive than other options.” Though the office did acknowledge that it invests in some bonds with lower returns.
Levine conceded that when he made the campaign promise, he did not have a complete understanding of the city’s financial options. “Perhaps a year and a half ago,” Levine told the Times, “I would have expected that the ratings would have been improved by now and/or that the interest rate would have gone up.”
Jewish leaders, who criticized Lander’s decision when it was revealed last year, remained largely silent on Wednesday.
Former comptroller warns of consequences
Scott Stringer, who served as comptroller from 2013 to 2021 and also ran for mayor last year, warned that Levine’s decision could have broader political and social consequences. ”This is a major victory for BDS, and it’s going to have long-term ramifications,” Stringer told the Forward. “This indecision will, unfortunately, spark more BDS calls that could cause further antisemitism.”
Stringer and his predecessors — John Liu and Bill Thompson — purchased tens of millions of dollars in bonds during their time in office. Stringer called Israel Bonds a “sound long-term investment” and argued that the city should not base its decisions on short-term developments.
“It’s a sound investment today, and it’s a sound investment for the future,” he said, adding that it also sends an important symbolic message, especially “because of the politics of the moment.”
When Landers ended the investment in 2023, former Mayor Eric Adams protested but couldn’t stop it. Moshe Davis, who was Adams’ Jewish liaison and worked with then-First Deputy Mayor Randy Mastro, drafted a letter to Lander, saying the decision called into question his “fiduciary duty to the city’s pensioners.” On Wednesday, Davis suggested Levine was “feeding the BDS lie” just like his predecessor.
“Our city deserves a comptroller who stands up to anti-Israel propaganda,” Davis said, “the way he promised on the campaign trail.”
An Israel Bonds spokesperson criticized Levine’s reversal, pointing to his repeated campaign promises. Nate Miller, a spokesperson for Israel Bonds, pointed to the strength of Israel’s economy and said investors have purchased more than $8.5 billion in Israel Bonds since the Oct. 7, 2023 attack on Israel and the Gaza war. Despite Levine’s decision, Miller said, “We look forward to sitting down with him and his team.”
Levine’s spokesperson said the comptroller’s office “continues to evaluate investment opportunities based on their financial merits and our fiduciary responsibilities.”
The post NYC Comptroller breaks campaign promise to Jewish voters to buy Israel Bonds, drawing praise from Mamdani appeared first on The Forward.
