Uncategorized
A scholar sees a common root for antisemitism and racism: ‘Christian supremacy’
(JTA) — Magda Teter’s new book, “Christian Supremacy,” begins in Charlottesville, Virginia, on Aug. 11, 2017. Hundreds of white nationalist neo-Nazis who ostensibly gathered to protest the removal of a statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee from a local park broke into a chant: “Jews will not replace us.”
Other writers and scholars would note how antisemitism shaped white nationalism. But Teter, professor of history and the Shvidler Chair of Judaic Studies at Fordham University, saw something else: how centuries of Christian thought and practice fed the twin evils of antisemitism and racism.
“The ideology espoused by white supremacists in the US and in Europe is rooted in Christian ideas of social and religious hierarchy,” she writes. “These ideas developed, gradually, first in the Mediterranean and Europe in respect to Jews and then in respect to people of color in European colonies and in the US, before returning transformed back to Europe.”
In the book, subtitled “Reckoning with the Roots of Antisemitism and Racism,” she traces this idea from the writings of the early church fathers like Paul the Apostle, though centuries of Catholic and Protestant debates over the status of Jews in Europe, to the hardening of racist attitudes with the rise of the trans-Atlantic slave trade.
Antisemitic laws and theology, she argues, developed within Christianity a “mental habit” of exclusion and dominance that would eventually be applied to people of color up to and including modern times.
Teter is careful to acknowledge the different forms antisemitism and racism have taken, distinguishing between the Jews’ experience of social and legal exclusion and near annihilation, and the enslavement, displacement and ongoing persecution of Black people. And yet, she writes, “that story began with Christianity’s theological relation with Jews and Judaism.”
Teter is previously the author of “Blood Libel: On The Trail of an Antisemitic Myth,” winner of the 2020 National Jewish Book Award. At Fordham, the Catholic university in the Bronx, she is helping assemble what may be the largest repository of artifacts and literature dedicated to the Jewish history of the borough.
We spoke Thursday about how groups like the Proud Boys embrace centuries-old notions of Christian superiority, how “whiteness” became a thing and how she, as a non-Jew raised in Poland, became a Jewish studies scholar.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
Your book was conceived and written during the COVID lockdown. Where did the idea for the book come from?
It’s an accidental project. I’ve been teaching the history of antisemitism for years, and I live in Harlem so questions of race and racism are very stark in my daily life. And since I grew up in Poland, and American history was not something we were taught or studied, I’ve never been satisfied with the various explanations for the strength of antisemitism and history of racism. And as I mentioned in my prologue, I watched the Raoul Peck documentary, “I Am Not Your Negro,” which has a clip with James Baldwin saying that white people have to figure out why they invented the idea of the N-word and must “embrace this stranger that they have maligned so long.” You could also say that the European Christians created the idea of “the Jew” and that sort of caricature had absolutely nothing to do with flesh and blood Jews. I kept noticing these parallels, as an outsider, reading American and African-American history.
I was also thinking about this idea of servitude that was attached to Jews in Christian theology, and then in law.
You write in your book that “Over time, white European Christians branded both Jews and people of color with ‘badges of servitude’ and inferiority.” What do you mean by servitude in this context?
In Christian theology, from the earliest Christian texts, the idea of servitude and slavery is attached to the concept of Jews and Judaism. Paul does it in his Epistles. He uses this quote from the book of Genesis that “the elder shall serve the younger,” which becomes really embedded in Christian theology. It is the Jews, the elder people, who should serve the Christians, the younger people. Later on in medieval theology and canon law, Jews are in a servile position, consigned for their sin of rejecting Jesus to perpetual servitude. So even though Jews were free people and could live mostly where they wanted to live, marry whoever they wanted to marry — nobody was sold and some even had slaves — that idea of Jews as confined to perpetual servitude to Christians created a habit of thinking of Jews as having an inferior social status.
That language became secularized in modern times, and we see the development of the [antisemitic] trope of Jewish power: that they are in places where they shouldn’t be. I worked on fleshing out the parallels between the idea and then legal status of Jewish servitude and the conceptual perception of Black people in servile and inferior positions.
Magda Teter’s new book explores how “white European Christians branded both Jews and people of color with ‘badges of servitude’ and inferiority.” (Chuck Fishman)
What other kinds of parallels did you find between racism and antisemitism?
In the Christian theology, Black people, like Jews, will be seen as cursed by God. Jews were [portrayed as] lazy because they didn’t work physically — they made money and exploited Christians. Black people were [portrayed as] lazy because they were trying to avoid physical labor at the expense of white men. Both people were seen as carnal, both as sexually dangerous, and so on.
I was struck by the fact that the racist turn of Christian supremacy — justifying the enslavement of Black people on theological grounds — is a fairly late development, taking hold in the early modern period when Europeans established slaveholding empires.
That’s right. In the summer of 2020, the summer of George Floyd and Black Lives Matter, we were all thinking about these issues of race and racism and America. And as I was in the middle of writing the article that became the book, I felt that there was a deeper history that needed to be told, and that slavery is not bound by color until the enslavement of Black Africans by Europeans during the colonial expansion of Europe.
After the French Revolution, when Jews were offered “emancipation” in much of Europe, there were deep debates about whether they could be citizens and be entitled to the same rights and protections as Christian citizens of France and England and other countries. How was that debate informed by Christianity?
In pre-modern Europe, there was obviously both a religious and legal framework under which Jews existed. They had their place in a social hierarchy. After the French Revolution, people are creating a new political reality. The idea of equality obviously challenged the social hierarchies that existed, including the idea that Christians were the superior religion. And that begins to play a role on two levels. One is the level of, well, “how can you be equal and be our judges and make decisions about us?” It’s fear of power — political power and political equality. That challenges the habit of thinking that sees Jews as inferior, in servitude and otherwise insolent and arrogant.
The other level comes from Enlightenment scholars who begin to place Jews in the Middle East and in the Holy Land, in Palestine. Jews are no longer seen as European. They are seen as “Oriental,” and they are compared to the non-European religions and practices that these Enlightenment scholars have been studying. Their differences are now also racialized. “They are not like us, they can’t assimilate. They can never be Frenchmen, they can never be Germans.”
And I guess it’s a short step from that to regarding people with dark skin as inferior and subordinate.
That’s right. Enlightenment scholars are also trying to to understand why it is justified to enslave Black Africans and they do it through “scientific” and other means. They classify Africans as inferior intellectually and they create this idea of race.
I began to think about these European politicians and intellectuals in terms of creating their identities, and what I ended up arguing is what we saw in Charlottesville, what we’re seeing in Europe. It’s not necessarily just about hate, but it’s about exclusion and rejection of Jews and people of color from equality, from citizenship.
And the common thread here is that whiteness and Christianity become inseparable. You write that “freedom and liberty now came to be linked not only to Christianity, but to whiteness, and servitude and enslavement to blackness.”
That’s right. White Christian “liberty” becomes embedded and embodied in law.
Did you see any pitfalls in drawing parallels between the Black and Jewish experiences? I am thinking of those in either community who might say, “How dare you compare our suffering to theirs!”
Yes, I was tempered. I think what some call “comparative victimhood” has paralyzed conversations about this subject, and I kept it in my mind all the time. What I hope comes through is that there’s incredible value in a comparative approach. Coming from Jewish studies as my primary field, the comparison with the Black experience gave me clarity on the nature of antisemitism as well as on the nature of the Jewish experience, and vice versa: The Jewish experience can also give clarity to some of the aspects of anti-Black racism.
What’s an example?
So, for instance, questions like, “Are Jews white? Are they not white? When did they become white?” That’s a whole genre of scholarship. And when you look at it through the lens of law and ideology, you begin to see that from a legal perspective, Jews were considered white in the United States because they could immigrate and they could be naturalized according to law. They did not have to go to court to become American. Their rights to vote were not challenged. There was discrimination, they couldn’t stay in hotels and in some places they couldn’t find employment, but by law, they were considered citizens. The debate about the whiteness of Jews is creating a fog of misunderstanding.
Black Americans were targeted by specific legal statutes from the very beginning in the Constitution and then in naturalization law and so on. And then there was the backlash even after the Civil War to the 13th, 14th and 15th amendments [aimed at establishing political equality for Americans of all races].
Statues at the Strasbourg Cathedral depict Ecclesia and Synagoga, representing the triumph of the church, at left, and the servitude of Judaism, which is represented by a blindfolded figure, drooping and carrying a broken lance. (Edelseider/Wikimedia Commons)
How much do modern-day white supremacists, like the Oath Keepers or the Proud Boys, see themselves as Christian? Or is this a kind of white supremacy that doesn’t name itself Christian but doesn’t even realize how many of its ideas are based in theology?
I think they might not be conscious of this legacy, but neo-Nazis take from the legacy of the Nazis who themselves were not thinking of themselves as Christian necessarily. But what I argue in the book is that white Christian supremacy becomes white supremacy. It never discards the Christian sense of domination and superiority that emerges from its early relationship with Jews and Judaism.
In the United States, Black people serve as contrast figures to whiteness, in the law and in the culture. You cannot have whiteness without Blackness. For Christians, Jews serve as that contrast figure. Consciously or unconsciously, the Proud Boys are embracing that. They talk of “God-given” freedoms for white people. That is the Christian legacy.
You said that the Nazis didn’t necessarily see themselves as a Christian movement. But I must ask, even though it is not the scope of your book, was the Holocaust a culmination of white Christian supremacy? Because I think many Christian theologians would want to say that Nazism was godless, and a perversion of the true faith.
I’ll say that when exclusionary ideology is coupled with the power of the state, that’s where it can lead.
In the years since the Holocaust especially, there have been many efforts by Christian leaders to address the ideological failings of the past. You write about Nostra Aetate, the 1965 declaration by the Catholic Church absolving Jews of collective guilt in the death of Jesus and some Protestant documents of contrition. But I got the feeling you were disappointed that many denominations haven’t gone far enough in reckoning with the past.
There was a sort of a moral sense that something needs to be addressed after the Holocaust. But then it is not fully addressed. I don’t think anybody has addressed the issue of power — the roots of hate, yes, but not the dynamics of power. We’ll see where the book goes, but maybe theologians will begin to grapple with this legacy of superiority and domination, and the way hierarchical habits of thinking have been developed through theology and through religious culture.
What other impact do you hope the book may have?
White supremacy is very much in the air. We need to speak up against it, and make connections and allyships. I hope that maybe because the book deals with law and power, it may create bridges among people who care about “We the People” as a vision of people who are diverse, respectful and equal, and not the exclusionary vision offered by white and Christian supremacy.
A cross burns at a Ku Klux Klan rally on Aug. 8, 1925. (National Photo Company Collection)
I’d love to talk about your background. You’re not Jewish but you are chair of Jewish Studies at Fordham, a Catholic university. What drew you to the study of Judaism and the Jews?
I grew up in Poland with a father who from the time I was a little girl would point out to me that there had been Jews in Poland. We would drive through the countryside, and he’d say, “This used to be a Jewish town and there used to be a synagogue and there was the Jewish cemetery.” I grew up being very conscious of the past’s presence and this kind of stark absence of Jews in Poland, where in the 1970s when I grew up Jewish history was taboo.
As soon as Jewish books on Jewish subjects began to be published, including those that dealt with antisemitism, we would read it together. We would talk about it. He wouldn’t just shift the destruction and murder of Jews in Poland on to the Nazis.
There was no Jewish studies program in Poland when I was applying to universities, so I studied Hebrew in Israel, and then studied Yiddish in New York at YIVO. I came to Columbia University to get my PhD in Jewish history and my career went in the direction it did. I was a professor of history and director of the Jewish and Israel studies program at Wesleyan University. I came to Fordham eight years ago and created a program in Jewish studies.
Your previous book was about the blood libel, the historic canard that Jews murdered Christian children to use their blood. This one’s about antisemitism. I don’t want to presume, but is your interest in these subjects in any way an act of contrition?
I grew up in a very secular household. I did not grow up Catholic. But I think growing up in Poland made me very, very aware of antisemitism and the history of antisemitism. I got my PhD from Columbia University in Jewish history, which did not emphasize Jewish suffering, but Jewish life, and I have studied Jewish life and teach about Jewish life — not just about Jewish suffering.
However, in the last few years, antisemitism has certainly been on the minds of many of us. I also am committed to the idea of shared history, and therefore all my scholarship, as much as it is about Jews, it is also about the church and Poland and the law. Jews are an integral part of that history and culture. And, as such, I’m committed to that, to teaching about the vibrancy of Jewish life as much as the dynamics of what made that life difficult over the centuries.
—
The post A scholar sees a common root for antisemitism and racism: ‘Christian supremacy’ appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
Uncategorized
All American Jews should acknowledge Nakba Day — for Israel’s sake, and Palestine’s
Many American Jews were raised with the word “Nakba” absent from our vocabularies.
We were taught, correctly, about the miracle of Israel’s founding; the refuge Israel provided after the Holocaust; and the flourishing of Jewish life in our ancestral homeland. What went unmentioned was the other side of that joy: the Nakba, meaning “catastrophe” in Arabic, the name by which the displacement and dispossession of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians during the creation of the state of Israel is known through the Arab world.
For Palestinians, the Nakba is the defining experience of their collective life — carried in family histories, in refugee camps and in the enduring statelessness of millions. It is living memory, not ancient history. The remarkable story of Israel’s creation is real, essential and worth celebrating. But it’s time that all Jews — Zionists alongside anti-Zionists — acknowledge that it was never the only story.
Acknowledging Nakba Day — an annual commemoration on May 15 — can feel uncomfortable, even threatening. There is a fear within much of the Jewish community that recognizing Palestinian loss will in some way undermine Jewish claims to self-determination, or feed efforts to delegitimize Israel.
I understand that fear. I lead a Jewish organization with Zionist roots; I feel this tension in my daily work and life. But I also believe this fear is misguided.
When we deny or minimize the full history of 1948, we deny not just the humanity and pain of the Palestinian people, but also our own honest understanding of today’s reality. For Jewish leaders struggling to understand why younger American Jews won’t simply follow their lead when it comes to support for Israel, this is part of the answer.
When we avoid learning and teaching about the Nakba, we do not make Palestinian loss disappear. Rather, we simply reinforce the perception that we are unwilling to confront this essential part of Israel’s story.
And when we expand our historical understanding we do not weaken our connection to Israel, or that of our children. On the contrary, we strengthen it. A relationship built on selective memory is fragile and incomplete. One grounded in truth — even uncomfortable truth — is far more honest and resilient.
The best reasons to commemorate Nakba Day are the moral mandate to recognize the truth, the value of opening a door to allow for transformational relationships.
Two truths can coexist. It is true the establishment of Israel was a moment of profound liberation for the Jewish people, and it is equally true that it was a moment of profound loss for Palestinians. Holding both facts is not easy. To do so challenges the binary narratives many of us were raised with. But maturity — personal and communal — requires sitting with complexity rather than retreating from it.
Embracing that complexity carries real world implications.
The dismissal of Palestinian grievances is already harming Israel, degrading security and imperiling the country’s future as an integral part of the Middle East. That rejection salts the soil in which deep relationships between Israeli Jews and their Arab neighbors might otherwise take root.
Durable peace will not come from either side insisting that their narrative is the only legitimate one. It will come — if it comes at all — from mutual recognition of history, suffering and shared humanity.
For Jews and Jewish organizations to acknowledge Nakba Day can be one small step in that direction. Doing so would signal a willingness to listen, learn and take Palestinian perspectives seriously. That is an expression of respect that any shared future requires.
To American Jews who find this proposal uncomfortable: It is time for some courage. The easy path is silence. That silence will bring us more isolation, and hamper our capacity to foster relationships grounded in trust with Palestinians. The harder path is to expand our understanding, starting with a more complete and honest account of the past.
Jewish tradition gives us a framework for exactly this kind of engagement.. We regularly recount our own moments of vulnerability, exile and moral failure. We imagine ourselves as slaves departing Egypt and remind ourselves of the ethical obligations that follow. Applying that same ethic in the present day does not betray our story. It honors it.
Commemorating Nakba Day recognizes that the past shapes the present. It embraces intellectual and moral honesty. It affirms that Palestinian lives and histories matter and must coexist alongside Jewish lives and history.
In a time of deep polarization — within the Jewish community, between Israelis and Palestinians, and across American society — the temptation is to retreat into camps, to draw sharper lines and to insist on simpler stories. Giving in to that temptation will not lead us to a future of peace, justice, and mutual dignity.
Instead, we need to complicate our narratives. We need to listen more than we speak. And we need to find ways to honor the humanity of those whose experiences do not mirror our own. Recognizing Nakba Day on May 15 is a good place to start.
The post All American Jews should acknowledge Nakba Day — for Israel’s sake, and Palestine’s appeared first on The Forward.
Uncategorized
Are You Doing Everything You Can to Reach Out to Your Fellow Jews?
Jewish Americans and supporters of Israel gather at the National Mall in Washington, DC on Nov. 14, 2023 for the “March for Israel” rally. Photo: Dion J. Pierre/The Algemeiner
While Israel and the US have been fighting against Iran side-by-side over the past few months, I heard the story of an Air Force cadet that inspired me.
The Air Force graduate in question, Joel Usher, appeared in a TikTok video and stood at attention during his graduation ceremony, knowing no family was coming. No friends either. In the military, when you complete basic training, someone has to physically “tap you out” at the end of the ceremony. It is a moment of recognition, a moment of arrival. And Joel had no one.
Then a fellow trainee found him in the crowd and stepped forward. He tapped him out.
Joel said he felt “proud, relieved, and grateful all at once.” He could barely hold back the tears. Millions of people saw that video and understood exactly why.
I watched it and immediately thought of shul.
How many times have you walked into a synagogue you did not know and stood there feeling invisible? You look around, and no one looks back. You do not know when to turn the page. You do not know the melodies. You are standing in the middle of a celebration that was not built for you, at least not on that particular morning. Then, if you are lucky, someone walks over. They hand you a siddur open to the right place. They say, “Do you have somewhere for Shabbat?”
That small gesture is a “tap out.” It is someone saying, “You belong here, and I am going to make sure you know it.”
The problem is that it does not happen nearly enough.
Our observant communities have grown enormously in recent years. Walk into almost any Orthodox or traditional shul on a Shabbat morning, and the room is full. But a room full of people does not mean a room full of connection. A crowded room can still be a lonely room if no one reaches beyond their own circle.
And right now, the stakes could not be higher.
So many Jews today are searching. They are rattled by the world outside, by the antisemitism that has exploded in ways many of them never expected to see in their lifetime. They are watching what is happening in Israel and feeling something stir inside them that they do not have words for yet. They are close, many of them. They are standing right at the edge of something real.
And we know them. They are our doctors, our accountants, our neighbors, the people we see at our kids’ games on Sunday morning. They are Jewish. They are family. They just have not had someone tap them out yet.
That is what family does, actually. Family does not wait to be asked. Family notices when someone is struggling. Family knows when something is wrong before the person says a word. Family shows up.
Being Jewish means being part of a family that stretches across continents and centuries. That is the whole idea. And a family that only shows up for people inside its immediate circle is not really living up to what family means.
So here is my question. What are you actually doing with that? When you walk into shul and see someone standing alone, looking lost, do you cross the room? When you sit next to a Jewish colleague who never grew up with any of this, do you ever think to send them something worth reading — a Shabbat thought, a piece of Torah that might actually speak to them? When Passover is coming, do you pick up the phone and say, “You should be at our table”?
Joel’s friend could have assumed someone else would handle it. He could have told himself it was not his place. Instead, he walked over.
The most powerful moments in a person’s life are rarely the grand gestures. They are the quiet ones. The siddur passed across the aisle. The invitation that was extended without waiting to be asked. The text message on a Friday afternoon that says, “Thinking of you, here is something I found beautiful this week.”
We are all surrounded by Jews who need to be tapped out. The only question is whether we are paying enough attention to notice them standing there, waiting.
Uncategorized
The Other Iranian Energy Crisis: How Israeli Gas Disruptions Will Cost the Jewish State’s Economy
The production platform of Leviathan natural gas field is seen in the Mediterranean Sea, off the coast of Haifa, northern Israel June 9, 2021. Picture taken June 9, 2021. Photo: Reuters/Amir Cohen
The global oil shock created by Iran’s closure of the Strait of Hormuz obscured a second energy crisis that unfolded much closer to Israel’s borders. The month-long shutdown of Israel’s Leviathan and Karish gas fields, caused by repeated Iranian and Hezbollah missile attacks, was the longest gas export disruption since Israel began supplying gas to Jordan and Egypt.
This interruption, the third in the past two years, exposed how dependent Israel’s neighbors have become on Israeli gas for electricity generation, and reinforced a broader strategic lesson for them.
Viewing Israeli supplies as unreliable, Jordan, Egypt and even Syria are now more likely to deepen hedging strategies by expanding renewables, maintaining costly backup fuels, increasing liquefied natural gas (LNG) flexibility, and looking for alternative regional transport and energy corridors. The bright side is that this shift may strengthen the case for IMEC (the India-Middle East-Europe Economic Corridor) by reframing it less as a Europe-oriented transit initiative and more as a domestic infrastructure project for ensuring intra-regional energy security.
The East Mediterranean energy crisis that accompanied the Iran war was distinct from the better-known oil crisis centered on Hormuz. Israel’s wartime safety procedures forced it to shut down its northern Leviathan and Karish gas fields and divert all the gas from its single remaining field (Tamar) to serve the Israeli market at the expense of its export commitments to Jordan and Egypt.
The Leviathan gas field, the largest source of Israeli gas, eventually resumed operations on April, 2, 2026, 32 days after its initial shutdown. Karish opened a week later on April 9, 2026. Together, these closures mark the longest gas supply disruption since Israel began exporting gas to its neighbors, and the third major disruption following the eruption of the Gaza War on October 7, 2023 and the 12-day war with Iran that took place in June 2025.
The importance of these supply disruptions lies not only in their immediate economic effects, but in the fact that they have become recurrent. From the perspective of Israel’s neighbors, the problem is no longer a one-off technical interruption but a recurring pattern of conflict-driven unreliability. That unreliability is concerning because Israeli gas has become structurally important to the region’s power sectors. In 2025, Israel’s natural gas exports to Egypt and Jordan grew by 13%, reaching about 13.2 BCM – an amount that is set to increase significantly over the next 15 years, to an additional 130 BCM, following Israel’s landmark gas deal with Egypt in 2025.
Jordan is especially exposed to this dependence, as natural gas accounts for roughly 68% of its electricity generation and Israeli gas supplies over half of that gas demand.
During the disruption, Jordanian officials moved quickly to reassure the public that the power supply would remain stable, but the emergency steps they took highlighted the depth of the problem.
The National Electric Power Company (NEPCO) had to shift parts of its electricity generation to heavy fuel oil and diesel at a time when oil prices were at a record high and diesel was in short supply worldwide. Jordan had to tap into its limited petroleum stockpiles, import additional LNG cargoes through Aqaba at a higher cost, and reduce gas deliveries to its industry. These measures preserved grid stability, but at significant cost. Jordan’s energy minister stated that substituting diesel for natural gas raised NEPCO’s daily operating costs by about 1.8 million Jordanian dinars (~2.5m USD) and that its strategic reserves were being quickly depleted. The actual fiscal burden is likely to be much higher than that, and does not take into account the additional cost of refilling depleted stockpiles in the months ahead.
Egypt is less dependent on Israeli gas than Jordan, but it too faced a major challenge following the disruption.
Israeli gas accounts for about 15-20% of Egypt’s total gas consumption, and Egypt’s electricity sector is overwhelmingly gas-dependent. Unlike in June 2025, when Egyptian fertilizer producers were forced to halt operations after Israeli gas imports dropped, the steps taken by Egypt during the March-April 2026 crisis point to a broader emergency response.
Cairo increased LNG purchases, relied more heavily on alternative fuel imports, and introduced demand-side conservation measures, including early closing hours for shops, restaurants, malls, cinemas, and other venues. Egypt’s LNG receipts reportedly tripled year-on-year in the first quarter of 2026, from $560 million to $1.65 billion, while its monthly energy import bill rose sharply as it replaced cheaper Israeli pipeline gas with more expensive LNG and liquid fuel imports. This is a striking development for a country that only a few years ago was hoping to leverage its liquefaction infrastructure and offshore resources to become a major gas exporter; it now relies on gas imports to keep the lights on.
Finally, a third casualty of Israel’s gas closures was Syria, which has been involved since early 2026 in a new gas arrangement with Jordan based on Israeli-sourced gas. In January 2026, Jordan and Syria signed an agreement by which the former would supply the latter with up to 4 million cubic meters of natural gas per day.
Jordanian officials stated that gas deliveries to Syria had already begun on January 1, albeit at much lower volumes than agreed, with the goal of helping Syria operate power plants and reduce chronic electricity shortages. When Israeli production and exports were disrupted at the start of the war, gas flows from Jordan to Syria declined or stopped, worsening Syrian power shortages. These developments underscore the extent to which Syria’s fragile electricity recovery is now linked not only to Jordanian infrastructure and Gulf financing but also to the reliability of Israeli gas supplies.
The strategic implication is that Jordan, Egypt, and Syria are now more likely to view Israeli gas through a dual lens, a process that for Jordan and Egypt had already begun in October 2023. Israel remains attractive as a gas supplier because it is geographically close and is already integrated into regional infrastructure, and its gas is often significantly cheaper than liquefied alternatives.
But repeated wartime interruptions make overdependence increasingly difficult to justify. Even if the political will still exists among all parties to continue energy trade, the risk that supply remains susceptible to frequent war-related precautionary closures and wider regional escalation is too serious to ignore.
As a result, neighboring states are likely to intensify their efforts to diversify both fuel sources and generation structures. The most plausible response is not a complete abandonment of Israeli gas but a strategy of hedging against its interruption. That logic is already visible in Jordan’s reliance on backup fuels and LNG capacity and in Egypt’s move toward large-scale LNG purchases and regasification expansion.
But this trend is also likely to expand interest in non-gas electricity sources, especially renewables. Solar and wind do not provide a full substitute for baseload gas generation, but they can reduce marginal dependence on imported fuel and improve resilience in systems where gas is used primarily for power generation. The political meaning of this shift is that the “green energy transition” in the East Mediterranean will no longer be viewed only as a climate or development issue but as a security issue. The repeated shutdown of Israeli gas exports has made that connection harder to ignore.
The second measure Jordan and Egypt will take is to seek more diversified physical supply routes, whether through domestic exploration, additional import infrastructure, or overland pipeline projects that connect Arab markets more deeply to one another. This includes the long-promoted prospect of oil and gas pipelines from Iraq to Jordan, from Saudi Arabia to Egypt, and from Turkey to Syria. This logic applies not only to Jordan and Egypt but also, indirectly, to the wider Levantine energy system. Even where Israeli gas is re-exported, blended, or politically relabeled to find its way to Syria or even Lebanon, the region is still exposed to the same upstream vulnerabilities.
These developments also have implications for how Israel and its partners should think about regional projects such as IMEC (the India-Middle East-Europe Economic Corridor), and whether it is a net win or net loss for Israel itself.
If such corridor projects continue to be presented mainly as infrastructure meant to serve Israeli regional interests and European energy needs, they risk appearing politically detached from the immediate needs of neighboring Arab states. In Jordan especially, the overtly Israel-centered regional branding of IMEC remains difficult to sell.
However, if future corridors are framed primarily as tools for East Mediterranean resilience and not as transit corridors for the West, their logic becomes more compelling. A rail, pipeline, or fuel corridor that improves Jordan’s, Syria’s, Lebanon’s and Egypt’s access to alternative supplies, or that deepens connectivity between Arab states before connecting onward to Israel and Europe, is likely to be more politically palatable and strategically sustainable. In this sense, the repeated gas disruptions strengthen the case for IMEC, but only if it treats the East Mediterranean as an energy-consuming region first and an energy exporting region second. The infrastructure itself will still benefit Israel in the long term, but the corridor’s regional acceptability is likely to depend on its being presented as an intra-regional public good rather than a Europe-facing geopolitical flagship.
For Israel, the lesson emerging from these trends is not that gas exports to neighboring states have lost their strategic value, but that gas interdependence alone does not create durable regional energy security.
Israeli gas exports remain one of the few concrete mechanisms linking Israel economically to the region. If Israel wants its gas diplomacy to retain strategic value, it will need to think less in terms of singular export leverage and more in terms of system resilience.
That means hardening offshore infrastructure, improving redundancy, coordinating emergency arrangements with importers, and recognizing that partner states will actively seek alternatives after each disruption. Leviathan’s planned expansion may increase Israel’s export capacity over time, but larger volumes will not by themselves solve the core problem of ensuring reliability under conflict conditions, as the recent war revealed once again.
For Jordan and Egypt, the likely post-crisis response is not disengagement from Israeli gas but a hedging strategy. Jordan will continue using Israeli supply because it remains economically attractive, but it is also likely to preserve and strengthen backup arrangements through Aqaba, reserve fuels, and renewable generation. Egypt, facing a sharper structural gas deficit, will continue buying Israeli gas but will simultaneously expand LNG imports, regasification capacity, and upstream exploration.
The larger implication is that the East Mediterranean should increasingly be understood not only as a potential export platform, but as an energy-consuming region with growing internal interdependence and shared vulnerability. That shift in perspective should encourage policymakers to ask not merely how the region can ship product outward, but how it can better absorb shocks at home. In that sense, the East Mediterranean gas crisis was not a side story to the oil drama that unfolded during the Iran War. It was a warning about the fragility of the region’s emerging gas order, and a signal that future regional strategy must be built around deeper intra-regional connections and shared infrastructure.
Dr. Elai Rettig is an assistant professor in the Department of Political Studies and a senior research fellow at the Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies at Bar-Ilan University. He specializes in energy geopolitics and national security. A version of this article was originally published by The BESA Center.