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A Florida bill attacking ‘critical theory’ in higher education has the state’s Jewish academics worried
(JTA) — The University of Florida has more Jewish students than any other public college in the United States — and last week, one of them reached out to a professor, fearing that it would no longer be possible to study Jewish topics there.
Citing a graphic that had been making the rounds on social media, the student asked if it was true that a new bill working its way through the state legislature would remove all “Jewish Studies courses, majors and minors” in the state. The graphic was shared by several people with large online followings, including comedian D.L. Hughley, who has more than 750,000 followers on Twitter.
“I love my major and I can’t imagine switching to anything else,” the student wrote, according to Norman Goda, director of the university’s Center for Jewish Studies.
Goda wasn’t able to console the student. Like other Jewish academics in Florida who spoke to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, he doesn’t know whether H.B. 999 would affect Jewish studies on the state’s college campuses. Though the bill’s author — a Republican state representative — says that won’t be the case, the bill’s language is much less clear.
That’s because the bill’s current wording would forbid the state’s public higher education institutions from teaching or offering any major or minor based in “methodology associated with Critical Theory.” That prohibition, say academics and other critics of the bill, would make teaching courses in Jewish studies impossible — and would also outlaw many other fields in higher education.
Exactly what the bill means by “critical theory” is unclear. To academics, the term refers to a tool for analyzing society and culture, created in the 1930s by German Jewish academics, that encourages people to view the world through power structures, and to consider why they fall short. To political conservatives, it’s a relative of “critical race theory,” a watchword for those who want to inhibit classroom instruction about racism. An earlier version of H.B. 999 mentioned only critical race theory, not the umbrella theory.
“These people don’t know what they’re talking about,” said a Jewish faculty member at a Florida university, who requested anonymity due to fear of retaliation from the state government, regarding the lawmakers behind H.B. 999. “You’re putting people who don’t know what critical theory is, but have heard the words — and now you’re putting them in charge of universities.”
A university that completely purged such ideas from its classrooms, the anonymous faculty member said, “would be non-existent.”
The bill in question is the latest example of conservative-led state efforts to snuff out culture-war modes of thought like critical race theory and gender studies, often referred to euphemistically by lawmakers as “divisive concepts” in education. Such efforts have occasionally ensnared efforts to teach Jewish history and the Holocaust.
Attempts to legislate the classroom are particularly potent in Florida, where Republican governor Ron DeSantis, a likely presidential candidate, has frequently stated his desire to ban “woke” concepts from being taught in the state. (DeSantis has stated he will wait to see H.B. 999’s final form before he decides whether to sign it, but in a discussion with college administrators last week he continued to rail against what he called the “ideological agenda” of campus diversity, equity and inclusion programs.)
The state recently rejected the curriculum for a new Advanced Placement African-American Studies course in high schools, forcing the College Board to rework the class. Florida is also home to several active conservative “parents’ rights” groups that have lobbied to remove objectionable books and clubs from public schools.
While most legislation in this realm to date has targeted what’s taught in K-12 public schools, this bill and other efforts in Florida have gone a step further by seeking to regulate the world of state-funded higher education — creating what critics say are new and dangerous threats to academic freedom, with broad and vague wording that leaves efforts to research and teach a variety of disciplines in doubt.
“This bill would cripple the long-standing freedom universities have to design and teach a curriculum based on the development of academic disciplines,” Cary Nelson, an emeritus professor at the University of Illinois and past president of the American Association of University Professors ,who has taught multiple courses on Jewish issues, told JTA.
In a recent subcommittee hearing on the bill, Republican state Rep. Alex Andrade, who co-authored the legislation, said, “I believe that state universities should be focused on teaching students how to think, not what to think.” He said the bill’s banning of “radical” ideologies referred to “a system meant to direct and promote certain activism to achieve a specific viewpoint.”
Efforts to limit the material taught to children and college students are underway in several states. But Florida has an especially large population of Jewish students. The University of Florida stands atop Hillel International’s ranking of public colleges with the highest proportion of Jewish students, and the University of Central Florida has the third-largest. Florida State University, Florida International University, Florida Atlantic University and the University of South Florida also rank in the top 60.
H.B. 999 would affect education at those schools in other ways, too. The bill, which recently advanced to committee, would overhaul the state’s post-tenure review process, so that instead of checking on a faculty member’s research productivity every five years, as is currently the case in the state, tenured professors could face reviews “at any time for cause” including “violation of any applicable law or rule.”
The result, one academic in the state said, would be “open season on faculty,” who could be out of a job if their university’s board — which, in public schools, is beholden to the governor — disagrees with their syllabus.
Andrade rejected the idea that H.B. 999 would undercut Jewish studies in Florida.
“Outsiders are wrong. Ethnic studies are not affected by the bill either by the bill’s intent or the bill’s language,” Andrade wrote in an email to JTA, accusing the bill’s critics of “lying and claiming that Florida’s leaders have tried to ban teaching black history in schools.”
The state’s only Jewish Republican legislator, state Rep. Randy Fine, did not return a JTA request for comment on whether he supports the bill. Fine has promoted similar culture-war legislation in the past, including a bill he co-authored in February that would prohibit all K-12 schools in the state from referring to either students or employees by pronouns that do not correspond to the sex they were assigned at birth.
With a Republican-dominated House and Senate, some form of H.B. 999 seems likely to reach DeSantis’ desk. (A parallel bill in the state Senate does not contain wording on critical theory.) But there is strong opposition from the academic community. Groups including the American Historical Association, the American Association of University Professors and Florida’s statewide faculty union have harshly condemned the bill and urged lawmakers to oppose it.
The American Historical Association’s statement on the bill this month calls it a “blatant and frontal attack on principles of academic freedom and shared governance central to higher education in the United States.” More than 70 academic, historical and activist organizations co-signed the statement.
The executive committee of the Association for Jewish Studies signed a different statement authored by the American Council of Learned Societies, decrying the bill as an “effort to undermine academic freedom in Florida.”
“If it passes, it ends academic freedom in the state’s public colleges and universities, with dire consequences for their teaching, research, and financial well-being,” the statement said of the bill. “Academic freedom means freedom of thought, not the state-mandated production of histories edited to suit one party’s agenda in the current culture wars.”
Asked for comment on the bill, Warren Hoffman, the executive director of the Association for Jewish Studies, pointed to the statement.
Rachel Harris, director and endowed chair at Florida Atlantic University’s Jewish Studies program, is in her first semester at the university, having just arrived from the University of Illinois. “I’m now wondering if that was a terrible mistake,” she joked. (Harris is spending this term in Israel, researching on a Fulbright fellowship.)
Still, Harris said she was “confident” that legislators would “continue to support educational commitments in the state,” noting that Florida has a Holocaust education mandate for K-12 public schools. Her Boca Raton university is currently building an expanded center for Jewish and Holocaust studies, funded by private donors. H.B. 999 in its current form would prohibit universities from teaching critical theory concepts even when such programs are privately funded.
Despite what he described as a few students at the Jewish Studies center who are concerned about the new bill, Goda said he did not think the legislation would change the experience of Jewish students on his campus.
“Jewish kids these days are really choosing universities based on whether or not Jewish kids feel comfortable there,” he said. “And I would argue that [the University of Florida] is a very welcoming campus for Jewish kids overall. There are strong Jewish institutions associated with the campus.”
Instead, he feels the bill’s real effects would be felt in the state’s ability to recruit faculty and staff while its legislators jeopardize academic freedom, tenure and other lodestars of the humanities. He said, “The real question to me is how and in what way it’s going to be enforced.”
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Could this be the most Jewish musical that never admits its own Jewishness?
There’s a moment in the musical Oliver! when Fagin launches into one of Lionel Bart’s deliciously minor-key melodies, and suddenly the show feels about as Victorian as a hot pastrami on rye. Oliver! may be the most Jewish musical ever written that refuses to admit as much, and watching Simon Lipkin’s sly, buoyant portrayal of Fagin on London’s West End recently, I felt a jolt of something I hadn’t expected:
Home.
Not literal home, but the emotional topography of my family’s Friday night dinner tables where Holocaust survivors, former Yiddish theater actors and comedians filled the empty chairs left behind by Auschwitz itself. Improbably, Oliver! belonged to them too.
The musical’s West End revival underscores this. At a moment when antisemitism is still frighteningly on the rise, and theaters everywhere are re-examining the stories they tell and who gets to tell them, Oliver! has slipped into surprisingly contemporary territory. Matthew Bourne’s production doesn’t necessarily announce that it is a “Jewish” interpretation, but it acknowledges the show’s long, complicated history with a lighter touch and a sharper awareness. Watching Lipkin lean into the character’s humor and inherent Jewishness (“Oy, a broch!” he cries out emphatically at one point, beating his heart with his fist) but without the burden of caricature, I realized how the work has evolved — quietly, confidently — and how audiences have evolved along with it.
It’s impossible to miss the Jewish musical DNA in Bart’s score. The minor keys, the phrasing (“Such a sky you never did see!”), the cantorial wails that hold joy and heartbreak in the same breath: These were familiar to me long before I knew what to call them. Bart may have been writing about Victorian street urchins, but he couldn’t escape the musical instincts of his upbringing in London’s East End where he was born Lionel Begleiter. The melody of “Pick a Pocket or Two” could pass for a klezmer romp at a Hasidic wedding; “Reviewing the Situation,” sung by Fagin when he finds himself at a moral crossroads, is practically a cantor’s aria, ornamented with flourishes I’ve heard at countless High Holiday services.
There’s nothing explicitly Jewish in the script — no references or labels — yet many of the melodies feel instinctively Jewish in their rhythms and slyness. And that instinct carried me back to a question I’ve often considered since childhood:
How did Ron Moody, who originated this comic version of Fagin in 1960 and reimagined him for the 1968 film, manage to get away with it?
When I first saw Moody’s Fagin on screen, I was captivated by his portrayal. But I also didn’t understand how someone could play such a Jewish rogue at a time when Dickens’ caricature of “the Jew” still hovered uneasily in our cultural memory. Whenever I try to think of famous Jews on stage, the first two that pop into my head are villains: Shylock and Fagin. Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice has been around forever, first published in 1600. But Oliver! debuted only 14 years after the Holocaust — the role should have been a minefield. Yet critics adored him, Jewish audiences embraced him, and Moody’s Fagin became beloved, not reviled.
Years later, when my friendship with Moody began — after he’d expressed interest in playing a villain opposite Carrie Fisher in a horror-comedy film I’d written — I was surprised by how different he was from the man onscreen. Soft-spoken and unmistakably British; nothing like the quicksilver trickster he was so skilled at portraying. He could summon that twinkle instantly, of course, but it wasn’t his resting state. He was in his early 60s then, newly delighted by late-in-life fatherhood, devoted to his younger wife Therese and their first child (whom he called “Boo-boo” with disarming tenderness). As more children arrived — he ultimately had six — I would tease him about assembling his own soccer team, which amused him to no end.
His Fagin, I came to realize, wasn’t a caricature but a cultural inheritance he carried lightly — a set of rhythms and comic cadences he understood from growing up as Ronald Moodnick in a warm Jewish household. And that was why the performance didn’t offend, and why it felt so familiar.
Though my mother lit the Sabbath candles and whispered the Hebrew blessing each Friday night, our dinners were less about religious ritual than about the rebuilding of a life she had salvaged from Auschwitz with nothing but willpower and the hope of joy still intact. In New York, she fashioned a new family out of survivors, actors from the Yiddish theater, and intellectuals whose humor carried both bruises and brilliance. These friends became surrogate aunts and uncles to my sister and me.
My mother was endlessly curious and had a gift for gathering people. She co-hosted a weekly language club with radio personality Barry Farber, a Southerner who startled me by speaking fluent, musical Yiddish. Occasionally he’d turn up at our Friday night table alongside an unlikely combination of guests, including my Bostonian Jewish piano teacher, a wryly funny family friend who once published an anarchist newspaper in Cuba until Castro forced him to flee, other European Holocaust survivors, and whichever schoolmates of mine my mother decided ought to be fed. The orbit was colorful and improbable, but it made sense. These were people who made her feel alive.
Some of our guests were well-known in the Yiddish arts — like Fyvush Finkel and his wife, Trudi; Broadway stage actors Muni Seroff and Irving Jacobson; Malvina Rappel, who had appeared in the classic Yiddish film Motel the Operator (Motl der Operator) and later hosted a radio program on WEVD back when it still broadcast in Yiddish.
Friday nights tended to unfold the same way: dinner first, then an impromptu cabaret. Someone sat down at the piano; someone else — usually my parents — burst into song or shtick. In an instant, our modest living room became a sort of vaudeville house. It was unself-conscious and exuberant, a weekly affirmation that even those who had lost everything could conjure laughter with astonishing force.
I didn’t know it then, but this was an education. Not in religion, but in rhythm. In timing. In the strange alchemy that binds sorrow to humor. Long before I ever wrote a script, I had already absorbed the comedic cadences that would shape my work.
As I grew older, that early immersion quietly charted the course of my career. Writing my book They’ll Never Put That on the Air brought me into long, generous conversations with some of the greatest architects of American television comedy — Carl Reiner, Larry Gelbart, Norman Lear, David Steinberg — artists whose work dismantled censorship and altered the medium. They offered insights I hear in my head to this day when I write.
In one of those unlikely, full-circle pinch-me moments, a few years ago I found myself directing Mel Brooks in the recording booth for Flower of the Dawn, an animated musical film I co-wrote and produced. Mel quickly corrected a joke of mine on the spot: “You’re cluttering the line with all this extra stuff at the end. End it here, with the punch!”
What stayed with me wasn’t just the correction; it was the realization that the comic instincts I’d carried since childhood had an architecture. Mel didn’t echo my family’s living room cabaret; he clarified what all that laughter had taught me.
So when I sat in the Gielgud Theatre watching Simon Lipkin give Fagin new life, it felt less like a reinterpretation than a recognition. Lipkin wasn’t parroting Moody — he was putting his own youthful spin on the role, while tapping into the same emotional and musical DNA: a blend of humor, vulnerability and those unmistakable minor-key inflections that carry an entire history inside them.
Not everyone in that audience heard what I heard. But I did. And for a moment, the distance between my family’s living room and a West End stage felt very small.
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New York City Council pushes action on antisemitism without Mamdani
The announcement Thursday by New York City Council Speaker Julie Menin of a new task force dedicated to combating antisemitism — co-chaired by a critic of Mayor Zohran Mamdani — is setting up potential tension between the City Council and the mayor’s office over how to respond to the rise in antisemitism.
So is the introduction of a measure that could limit protests outside synagogues, part of a package of new Council bills aimed at antisemitism.
Councilmember Eric Dinowitz, a Democrat from the Bronx, who was selected along with Brooklyn Councilmember Inna Vernikov, a Republican, as co-chair of the seven-member working group, said they intend to take a more assertive legislative role in addressing rising concerns among Jewish New Yorkers “in a way that may be different than what the mayor wants to do.”
That includes weighing the adoption of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, which considers most forms of anti-Zionism as antisemitic, as a framework for investigating hate crimes — a position Mamdani opposes. “I believe that IHRA has a good structure for defining antisemitism,” Vernikov said in an interview. In 2023, Vernikov passed a resolution to create an annual day to “end Jew-hatred.”
On his first day in office earlier this month, Mamdani drew criticism from mainstream Jewish organizations for revoking an executive order by former Mayor Eric Adams that adopted the IHRA definition of antisemitism. Liberal Jewish groups oppose that framework. Some support the Nexus Document, which states that most criticism of Israel and Zionism is not antisemitic. The mayor has declined to say how his administration will define antisemitism when determining which cases to investigate or pursue.
Mamdani has kept open the recently created Mayor’s Office to Combat Antisemitism, which he said will pursue his vision to address rising acts of hate against Jews. Mamdani said on Thursday that he’s in the final stages of selecting an executive director for that office.
Dinowitz, who also chairs the council’s Jewish Caucus, said it was important to move forward in parallel with the mayor’s efforts. “We are a separate, co-equal branch of government that has our own ideas and initiatives that we need to pursue to keep Jewish New Yorkers safe,” he said. Dinowitz, who represents the heavily Jewish neighborhood of Riverdale, added that most members of the task force are not Jewish, underscoring that antisemitism is not solely a Jewish issue.
Antisemitic incidents accounted for 57% of reported hate crimes in 2025, according to the NYPD. The new year started with a rash of antisemitic incidents across the city. On Thursday, a 36-year-old man was charged with attempted assault as hate crimes after repeatedly crashing into the entrance of the Chabad-Lubavitch world headquarters in Brooklyn the night before. On Tuesday, a rabbi was verbally harassed and assaulted in Forest Hills, Queens, and last week, a playground frequented by Orthodox families in the Borough Park neighborhood in Brooklyn was graffitied with swastikas two days in a row. In both incidents, the suspects have been arrested.
Vernikov’s past remarks draw scrutiny
Thursday’s announcement also drew controversy.
Vernikov has faced criticism for incendiary remarks on social media and has been a vocal critic of the Democratic Party’s approach to antisemitism. During the mayoral election, she warned that “Jihad is coming to NYC” if Mamdani wins, and called him a “terrorist-lover.” In response to a Yiddish-language campaign flyer, she wrote that Mamdani wants Jews “to burn in an oven.” She called the Jewish liaison for State Attorney General Letitia James a “Kapo Sell Out” for praising Mamdani’s outreach. In 2023, Vernikov was arrested after being pictured with a gun at her waist as she attended a pro-Israel counter-protest near a pro-Palestinian rally at Brooklyn College. A judge later dismissed the charges against her.
The progressive Jews For Racial & Economic Justice, which endorsed Mamdani through its affiliated political arm, The Jewish Vote, called Vernikov’s appointment unacceptable. Sophie Ellman-Golan, a JFREJ spokesperson, said Vernikov “regularly diminishes the seriousness of antisemitism by reducing it to a political cudgel.”
Menin, who some see as a check on the mayor and a potential guardrail on his actions, defended the appointment. “The Jewish Caucus voted to have this task force,” Menin told reporters. “Obviously, I don’t agree with the comments that she made in the past, and I’ve made that known to her.” Menin, the first Jewish speaker of the City Council, has pointed to the symbolism of her elevation alongside Mamdani, the city’s first Muslim mayor, as an opportunity to “take the temperature and the rhetoric down.”
Vernikov confirmed that the Jewish Caucus approved her selection, but insisted the speaker was involved in the initiative.
In the interview, Vernikov noted that Mamdani “has said things and done things that make the Jewish community very fearful.” She added that she hopes the mayor will translate his pledge to fight antisemitism into concrete action, “but until then, we have a trust issue with him.”
Mamdani addressed Vernikov’s attacks in an interview with Bloomberg TV on Thursday. “I know that there are so many in this city who have to deal with similar kinds of smears,” he said. “But what I know that New Yorkers want to see, what I want to see, is a humanity embodied in our politics, not the language of darkness that has taken hold.”
Menin’s legislative package to counter antisemitism
Also on Thursday, Menin introduced a legislative package as part of her five-point plan to combat antisemitism, including a proposal to ban protests near the entrances and exits of houses of worship, $1.25 million in funding for the Museum of Jewish Heritage, and the creation of a city hotline to report antisemitic incidents.
Mamdani said he broadly supports the package but expressed reservations about the proposed 100-foot buffer zone around synagogues and other houses of worship. “I wouldn’t sign any legislation that we find to be outside of the bounds of the law,” he said.
At a press conference, Menin said the measure was designed not to restrict protest but to prevent confrontations. “Enforcement is not based on speech or viewpoint,” she said. “It is based on conduct that endangers others.”
The Council will vote on the measures at its next meeting in February.
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Here’s exactly why it’s dangerous to compare ICE to Nazis
It may feel morally clarifying to compare ICE to Nazis in moments of outrage. But those comparisons are also historically inaccurate, and politically counterproductive.
Nazism remains historically singular, both because of its eliminationist antisemitism and its state-driven project of industrial genocide. No other political movement has so entirely organized its worldview around the idea that a specific people constitutes a cosmic threat. The Nazis were driven by the belief that the mere existence of Jews endangered humanity, and that Jews therefore had to be physically annihilated everywhere.
A clear understanding of this truth has been absent amid renewed controversy over federal immigration enforcement and protests in Minneapolis. Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz compared children hiding in fear from ICE raids to Anne Frank hiding in Amsterdam, in terror of capture by Nazi Germany. Former Secretary of Labor Robert Reich compared ICE operations under President Donald Trump’s administration to the tactics of Hitler’s Brownshirts. They have been joined by many others, including in this publication.
Comparison is a central tool of historical and political analysis, and Nazism can and should be compared to other ideologies. But flattening the particular contours of Nazism strips it of its distinctive genocidal logic, and risks pushing us to take the wrong messages from its horrors.
When Nazism becomes a general synonym for “bad politics,” the Holocaust becomes a moral prop rather than a historically specific catastrophe. This is especially painful for Jews, but it also distorts the memory of the regime’s many other victims: Roma and Sinti, people with disabilities, prisoners of war, queer people and political dissidents, among others.
Part of what drives these comparisons is cultural familiarity. The Holocaust and the Gestapo are widely understood shorthand for the worst imaginable abuses of state power. Invoking Nazi metaphors often says more about present anxieties — foremost among them the fear that the United States may be sliding toward authoritarianism — than about historical reality.
Those anxieties are profound, and legitimate, especially when it comes to the concerns about injustice toward immigrants. Federal immigration enforcement has long prompted alarm about the abuse of civil liberties, including concerns about racial profiling, excessive force, family separation and opaque chains of accountability.
These problems span multiple U.S. administrations, showing that vigilance and legal challenge are always necessary. Calling them “Gestapo tactics,” however, as some national leaders have, obscures rather than clarifies the issue.
It conflates a flawed system operating within a still-robust framework of legal challenges and public scrutiny with a secret police apparatus designed for totalitarian control and genocide. For instance, in Minnesota, a federal judge threatened to hold the acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement in contempt for repeatedly defying court orders requiring bond hearings, prompting the agency to release a detainee. The fact that judges can and do continue to compel compliance, even amid sharp disputes over enforcement, shows that the U.S. remains a democracy rather than a secret police state.
There are countries today in which opposition parties are banned, protest is routinely criminalized, courts are fully captured by the regime, and independent media are systematically dismantled — such as Russia, Iran, or Venezuela. In those contexts, the language of secret police, one-party rule, and total state control describes concrete institutional realities.
It does not do so here. Yes, the U.S., like many countries today, is experiencing measurable democratic backsliding. But it remains far from an authoritarian regime. Much of the press remains free, despite significant pressure from the White House as well as structural pressures from corporate ownership, and continues to report extensively on immigration enforcement controversies. Independent courts have ruled against unlawful revocations of immigration protections. Protests in places like Minneapolis have mobilized large numbers of participants and, rather than being criminalized, are showing efficacy in getting the administration to change its course.
Learning from the Holocaust does not require declaring that everything is Nazism. Collapsing the distinction between democratic backsliding and full-fledged authoritarianism weakens our ability to diagnose what kind of political danger we are actually confronting. It might even weaken resistance: Mistaking slow erosion for a finished catastrophe can breed despair instead of motivating strategic action.
Nazi parallels also corrode political discourse itself. If ICE is the Gestapo, and Trump is Hitler, then Republican voters become Nazis by implication. This forecloses the possibility of democratic repair.
While far-right extremist currents undeniably exist within the MAGA movement, it is also a broad political camp that includes voters motivated by a variety of factors, including economic anxiety, distrust of elites and religious identity. Collapsing all of this into “Nazism” is analytically lazy and politically disastrous.
All that on top of the risk of historical whitewashing that comes with this rhetoric. If every abuse is Nazism, then nothing is Nazism, and the lessons of the Holocaust — foremost among them the necessity of vigorously combatting antisemitism in our society — are lost.
Of course, supporters of Trump also engage in similar rhetoric, calling their own opponents Nazis. Ending this cycle of mutual Nazi-labeling is essential if the country hopes to move forward. Historical memory is a tool, not a weapon. We can confront injustice without exaggeration. And the best way to defend democracy is not to demonize our opponents, but rather to speak clearly, act responsibly, and work to build a political culture that can actually heal.
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