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A Jewish expert on monuments on what Philly’s famous Rocky Balboa statue can teach us about memory
(JTA) — Paul Farber was shocked when he first watched “Rocky” and saw a Star of David on the grave of Rocky Balboa’s coach, Mickey Goldmill.
As a Jew and as the founder of the Philadelphia-based Monument Lab, which has explored collective memory through art installations across the country for over a decade, Farber was well positioned to think about the deeper meaning of that brief shot.
“Anytime I see a Jewish funeral in a film, there’s some kind of call to attention. And I always want to know what that means, especially for a Hollywood production, especially when it may not be branded as a Jewish story,” he told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
“We’re not there in a prolonged series of mourning, but in a split second, seeing a Jewish site of a memory is really fascinating,” he added.
That outlook lies behind Farber’s work as the host of the new NPR podcast “The Statue,” a deep dive into Philadelphia’s famed statue of Rocky Balboa, the fictional prizefighter at the center of “Rocky.” The series delves into what sports and society can convey about memory, and in his research, Farber discovered a few Jewish nuggets found in the film series — including the fact that Rocky’s love interest was originally supposed to be Jewish.
“They made an actual gravestone [for her character] and it’s in Philadelphia’s most famous cemetery, Laurel Hill. And you can go there and see this gravestone where a movie character is ‘buried,’” he said. “People leave offerings on the gravestone, including small pebbles as if it’s a Jewish site of memory.”
In an interview with JTA, Farber shared his inspiration for the series, how his Jewish upbringing informed his life’s work and the role statues — such as that of Jewish baseball legend Sandy Koufax — do, and should, play.
This interview was lightly edited for length and clarity.
Jewish Telegraphic Agency: To start off, I’d love to hear about how you first got interested in studying monuments.
Paul Farber: I’m really interested in the ways that, in cities, we innovate toward the future, and also come to terms with our past, and it happens often in the same exact places. That could be a statue, a street, a corner store. And so that’s a big part for me.
What really inspired this project is a conversation I had with my mother, quite a few years ago. My mother is a lifelong Philadelphian. Her parents were Jewish immigrants in South Philadelphia. And when I told her I was teaching a class at the University of Pennsylvania about Philly neighborhoods, she asked me if I was covering Rocky. When I said, “Oh, it’s not on the syllabus” — and I may have said it in a way that felt dismissive — she gave me this look that I think a lot of us know: “How could you.” So for her birthday, we watched “Rocky” and we went to see “Creed.” My grandfather went to South Philly High and was in the boxing club. He shared stories in our family about what it meant to have sport and culture and belonging go together in South Philly. I started to see that across generations, from long before “Rocky” to this moment now, almost 50 years after the release of the film, many people’s family stories could be channeled through this statue, including my own, and that was enough of a prompt to go dive in.
“Rocky” is obviously not a Jewish story, but there are some nuggets. There’s the funeral scene, and you mentioned something about Adrian almost being Jewish. I’m curious what you think about the little Jewish pieces you can pull out of this famous story, and what those mean to you as a Philly sports fan.
It blew me away that Rocky’s coach, Mick, passes away and the character Rocky goes to his funeral, and you see a Star of David. Anytime I see a Jewish funeral in a film, there’s some kind of call to attention. And I always want to know what that means, especially for a Hollywood production, especially when it may not be branded as a Jewish story. And it just opened up a whole set of questions for me that blurred between art and life, between the film series and the city of Philadelphia.
In episode two, we showcase this monumental art book that Sylvester Stallone [who played Rocky] created. There was this passage in it that just blew me away, about the first draft of “Rocky,” where he says, “As for Adrian, she was Jewish in the first draft.” And he got feedback and cut that character. We never hear about Mickey’s Judaism. We never hear about Rocky’s bond across culture. But the fact that the first scene in the “Rocky” series is in a place called Resurrection Gym — that is obvious Christian iconography — and to put Jewish characters in is really fascinating to me.
There is another famous grave that is involved in the series. The character Adrian eventually passes away, and like the statue, which was made as a bronze sculpture, for the “Rocky” film series they made an actual gravestone and it’s in Philadelphia’s most famous cemetery, Laurel Hill. And you can go there and see this gravestone where a movie character is “buried.” People leave offerings on the gravestone, including small pebbles as if it’s a Jewish site of memory.
People talk about representation on screen, and I’m not sure a Jewish funeral necessarily does that, but I would imagine for some people, seeing Rocky Balboa say the “Mourner’s Kaddish“ was maybe their first interaction with Judaism in some way. What do you make of that?
Every shot is deliberate. And it’s actually that kind of attitude and outlook that created the Rocky statue, because Sylvester Stallone was the director of that film, and they could have made a styrofoam version or a temporary one, but they spent over a year making a bronze version so that when the camera faced it, it would make contact. I think very similarly, this is part of the artistry of Stallone that plays out in our podcast series. We’re not with him when he sits shiva. We’re not there in a prolonged series of mourning, but in a split second, seeing a Jewish site of a memory is really fascinating. And to see the coach Mickey, to have his Wikipedia page say he’s Jewish, all that we have is mourning.
I think about how for immigrant Jewish communities, there are gaps in our narratives. Throughout the series, and one of the reasons I wanted to share my perspective as a queer Jewish person who grew up loving sports in Philly, I’ve been informed by my own family’s history, and what we’re able to recall and what gaps there are. And I see that being echoed for so many people in the Rocky story.
It’s clearly a very personal story for you. Why did you think it was important to start the podcast with your own identity, and to include your Jewish mother?
I think it’s important that when we talk about sites of memory, we understand that there are shared and collective ways that we bring the past forward, and there are others that are incredibly personal. My hope was to find, in this case, to spotlight, a significant site of memory in the city, but ask questions about it. And I think it was important to note what position I would take, because I don’t believe there’s one story to the Rocky statue. To tell a biography of a statue, you actually have to tell it of the people who make meaning from it. So in the series, we do a lot of work where we want to know other people’s stories and backgrounds, whether they are refugees from Afghanistan, or community organizers in Kensington [a neighborhood of Philadelphia]. My hope was by positioning this from my perspective, almost as a memoir in a way, that it opened up space for others to have their experiences be valued and made meaning of.
The official artwork for Farber’s podcast. (Courtesy)
Both with the podcast and in your work with the Monument Lab, how do you feel that your Jewish identity informs what you do? Do you see overlap between your Jewish values and the values you work on in your organization?
I absolutely think so. I grew up in a Jewish community in Philadelphia, and tikkun olam was a constant refrain. The work of tikkun olam meant a worldview that necessitated building coalitions and understanding across divides, to not diminish or under-emphasize them, but to appreciate how we work in solidarity, whether that’s around racial justice, gender justice, in various struggles. I am a co-founder and director of an organization that focuses on memory, and that I really get from the stories of growing up in a Jewish household, in a Jewish community, where memory lived in different ways. We were always aware of the stories of trauma and loss, as well as reconciliation and transformation, and how you work with the gaps that you have, and you listen, and you learn and you carry the story with you. Because that is the way to bond generations. Jewish memory really grounds what I do, and I seek to use it as a tool to learn more and to feed connection across divides.
Rocky takes on this almost mythical, godlike status, and his statue in Philadelphia is a bit of a pilgrimage site. Do you see any tension there as a Jew, given the prohibition against idol worship?
I think about the importance of memory, against forces of violence and erasure. I also understand that, in a world that is full of pain and difficulty and loss, we seek places to release that. And so I understand the pull to monuments. What I would like to see, and what we try to do through this series, “The Statue,” and also with the work of Monument Lab, is to look on and off the pedestal, and really think about how history lives with us. As we say in the series and other places, history doesn’t live inside of statues, it lives with people who steward them, who create other kinds of sites of memory, who are vigilant in their modes of commemoration. What I try to do in this work is understand the ambivalence around monuments, the pull to try to remember and be enduring through time, and just that constant reminder that whenever you try to freeze the past, or freeze an image of power, you cut out the potential to find connection and empowerment, and thus forms of survival.
In sports, there are so many ways to honor people, especially different ways that, like a statue, take on the idea of permanence. When Bill Russell died, the NBA retired his number 6 across the league. On Jackie Robinson Day, every April 15, the whole MLB honors Jackie Robinson by wearing his uniform number. But statues just have a different level of oomph. Sandy Koufax has a new statue in Los Angeles that was unveiled last year; Hank Greenberg has one. What do you think it should take for an athlete to reach that status?
The pinnacle in sports is to have a statue dedicated to you outside of the stadium. And I do believe the cultures of social media have amplified that, because we grew up with the story of Sandy Koufax not pitching in the World Series during the High Holy Days, and that wasn’t because we learned it from a statue or a plaque. We learned it because it was carried forward and put into different forms of remembering and recalling its importance. I went to several Maccabi Games in the U.S. — I used to be a sprinter. And the culture of memory and sport, they were one in the same.
In professional sports, the pinnacle is the statue, but I think you brought up other really important ways of remembering that operate in non-statue forms that feel like they are living memorials. The idea of retiring someone’s number, and keeping their number up, is a way to acknowledge, in this really public of all public spaces, an intimacy and a care, and especially when an athlete passes away, how that transcends the lines of city geography. Jackie Robinson Day is something that did not occur immediately after Jackie Robinson was the first Black player to play in the major leagues, but was a product of a later moment when people around Major League Baseball sought to activate his memory. So yes, a statue outside of a stadium is like a particular kind of professional accolade. But the other forms are really meaningful.
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Selective Outrage and the Silence Over Iran’s Dead
Iranian demonstrators gather in a street during anti-regime protests in Tehran, Iran, Jan. 8, 2026. Photo: Stringer/WANA (West Asia News Agency) via REUTERS
In recent weeks, thousands of Iranian citizens have been killed amid widespread internal unrest. Some casualty reports even reach into the tens of thousands.
Iranian men and women took to the streets to protest economic collapse, systemic repression, and a theocratic regime that has ruled through fear for more than four decades. They were met with bullets, mass arrests, torture, and executions. Yet beyond fleeting mentions and buried headlines, much of the international media has chosen to look away.
At the same time, global attention remains overwhelmingly fixated on Israel and the Palestinians. News panels, campus demonstrations, activist campaigns, and social media feeds are saturated with outrage directed almost exclusively at the Jewish State. This contrast is not accidental. It reflects a deeper moral and structural failure in modern journalism and activism.
The most common explanation offered for the lack of coverage is access. Iran is a closed dictatorship. Foreign journalists are monitored, restricted, expelled, or imprisoned. The regime routinely shuts down the Internet, blocks social media platforms, and intimidates the families of victims. Casualty figures are deliberately obscured, and firsthand reporting is dangerous.
But access alone does not explain the silence.
History shows that journalists have reported from some of the most inaccessible and hostile environments on earth. Syria, North Korea, Sudan, and Afghanistan have all received sustained attention despite severe limitations. When there is genuine interest, creative reporting follows.
In the case of Iran, the problem is not merely a lack of footage. It is a lack of will.
Israel presents the opposite reality. It is one of the most scrutinized countries in the world. It allows foreign media full access, maintains a free press, hosts outspoken human rights organizations, and operates under an independent judiciary and parliamentary oversight. Journalists can move freely, challenge officials, and broadcast live from conflict zones.
When Israel defends itself after a massacre multiple times worse than the 9/11 attacks, every action is framed as a potential crime. When Iran kills its own citizens, it is described in sanitized language as unrest, crackdowns, or internal affairs.
This is not moral consistency. It is moral evasion.
Much of the international focus on the Palestinian cause relies on a simplistic and emotionally comfortable narrative. It divides the world into oppressor and oppressed, strong and weak, villain and victim. It requires little historical context and no serious engagement with internal problems, extremist violence, or rejectionism. It also offers a familiar and ideologically convenient antagonist: the Jewish State.
Iranian protesters disrupt this narrative. Their existence exposes an inconvenient truth that many commentators prefer to ignore — that the greatest source of suffering in the Middle East is not Israel, but authoritarian Islamist regimes that brutalize their own populations. The Iranian protestors undermine the claim that Israel is the region’s central moral problem, and they challenge the ideological frameworks upon which entire activist ecosystems are built.
That is precisely why they are ignored.
There is also a strategic dimension to this silence. The Iranian regime has spent decades exporting violence while redirecting global attention outward. Through proxy terror groups such as Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis, and through relentless anti-Israel propaganda, Tehran ensures that outrage is focused anywhere but inward. Every international campaign condemning Israel serves as a distraction from executions, torture chambers, mass arrests, and the killing of dissenters.
Western protest culture plays an enabling role. Modern activism often favors symbolism over substance and slogans over substance. It gravitates towards causes that fit fashionable ideological molds. Iranian dissidents who oppose Islamist extremism, reject antisemitism, and openly criticize Western hypocrisy do not fit neatly into those frameworks. As a result, they are ignored.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable truth is that Jewish suffering is endlessly contextualized, while Jewish self defense is reflexively condemned. That is why Israel is treated differently than the Iranian protest movement.
Thousands of dead Iranians should shake the conscience of the world. The fact that it does not should alarm anyone who still believes in universal human rights. Outrage cannot be selective. Journalism cannot be ideological. And moral concern cannot depend on whether a tragedy serves a preferred narrative.
Iranian lives matter, not when they are useful as political tools, but always. Until the media internalizes that truth, its credibility will continue to erode, one ignored grave at a time
Sabine Sterk is CEO of Time To Stand Up For Israel.
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Syria’s Internal Unrest Is Spurred by Turkish Ambitions
Turkish President Tayyip Erdogan attends a press conference with German Chancellor Friedrich Merz at the Presidential Palace in Ankara, Turkey, Oct. 30, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Umit Bektas
“The Syrian Democratic Forces’ [SDF] insistence on protecting what it has at all costs is the biggest obstacle to achieving peace and stability in Syria.”
That’s what Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan said in early January, blaming Syria’s Kurdish-led SDF for some of the bloodiest fighting that Aleppo has seen since Bashar al-Assad’s fall.
But before Washington accepts Ankara’s indictment, it should ask a simpler question: why would Syrian Kurds compromise their political future when Turkey itself refuses to compromise with its Kurdish population at home?
Foreign Minister Fidan made Turkey’s position explicit in a recent television interview: Kurdish groups “only change [their] position when [they] face force. They either have to see force or face the threat of force,” he said. But this isn’t frustrated rhetoric — it’s Turkish doctrine. And recent fighting shows what that doctrine produces.
Beginning on January 6, 2025, Syrian government forces — backed by Turkish-aligned factions — established a template in Aleppo: evacuation orders, artillery strikes, and forced displacement. Over 140,000 civilians subsequently fled Aleppo. The “ceasefire” offered no protections — only withdrawal.
Damascus then replicated the model across northeast Syria. Within two weeks, Syrian forces took Deir Hafer, Tabqa, Raqqa, and Deir al-Zor, as SDF units retreated and Arab tribal allies defected. By January 21, the SDF had lost nearly half its territory and accepted a ceasefire that amounts to capitulation: individual integration into Syrian forces with none of the autonomy protections it had sought.
In other words: disarm first, trust later, rights never.
This is precisely the model Turkey has applied at home. In February 2025, PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan — whose group is a US-designated terrorist organization — called for the group’s disbandment after four decades of conflict. By July, PKK fighters symbolically burned weapons in what they called “a step of goodwill.” Turkish military operations continued throughout — because for Ankara, negotiated settlement is insufficient. Only total victory will do.
Syrian Kurds have watched this closely. They have also watched Turkey’s record in Syria itself. In 2018, Operation Olive Branch displaced at least 150,000 people from Afrin; in 2019, Operation Peace Spring killed hundreds of civilians and drew credible accusations of ethnic cleansing and summary executions. When Turkish President Erdoğan threatened military action in 2019, Washington urged restraint. Turkey invaded anyway.
Now Fidan issues the same threats — and expects different results. He accuses the SDF of “maximalist attitudes” and “deceptive moves,” while demanding immediate, unconditional surrender. He warns that Kurdish resistance will push Turkey to use force. He has already delivered: Turkish drones have hit SDF positions on multiple occasions during the recent fighting, signaling Ankara’s willingness to back up threats with force.
This is not just a Kurdish problem. It threatens core US interests.
Washington’s Syria policy rests on preventing a jihadist resurgence, blocking Iranian expansion, and safeguarding Israel’s security. Each is threatened by Turkey’s coercive approach to Kurdish integration. Marginalized communities without legal protections become fertile ground for extremist recruitment. The collapse of Kurdish autonomy also weakens one of the last effective counter-ISIS buffers in the country. And assaults on minority communities — including the Druze — increase domestic pressure on Israel to intervene, raising the risk of escalation the United States has worked to prevent.
Turkey, meanwhile, gains leverage at America’s expense. By casting itself as the architect of Syria’s “reunification,” Ankara elevates its regional standing while embedding its proxies inside the Syrian security apparatus. Washington, by contrast, is reduced to issuing ceasefire calls while Syria’s post-war order is being written without it.
There is still time to change course — but only if the United States stops outsourcing Syria’s political settlement to Ankara.
Washington retains leverage through its military presence, sanctions relief, reconstruction assistance, and diplomatic recognition. It should use that leverage to establish transparent, enforceable frameworks for minority integration — with international monitoring and public guarantees, not closed-door capitulation pushed for by Turkey.
First, the United States should demand formal negotiations between Damascus and Syria’s minority representatives, under international auspices — with public terms and third-party monitoring.
Second, continued American sanctions relief and reconstruction funds must be tied to measurable benchmarks: minority protections enshrined in law, parliamentary oversight of integration, and independent accountability mechanisms.
Third, Washington must make clear that Turkish military intervention — direct or through proxies — will trigger consequences under existing authorities, including Executive Order 13894, which targets actions threatening Syria’s territorial integrity.
Most critically, the United States must reject the premise that Kurdish communities can be bombed into accepting promises their neighbors have already broken. Fidan says Kurdish groups only understand force. But history suggests Turkey only understands leverage. Washington still has it — and should use it now, while integration is still being implemented, before Fidan’s doctrine of force becomes Syria’s permanent reality.
Jonah Brody is a policy analyst at the Jewish Institute for National Security of America (JINSA).
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The Digital War Against the Jewish Community Is Raging, Perhaps Worse Than Ever
The TikTok logo is pictured outside the company’s US head office in Culver City, California, US, Sep. 15, 2020. Photo: REUTERS
On Monday, the remains of Ran Gvili — a young Israeli police officer killed during the October 7, 2023, Hamas attacks — were finally recovered from a cemetery in northern Gaza. With his return, the hostage crisis effectively came to an end. There are no more Israeli hostages in Gaza.
This final milestone received far less international media coverage than the release of the last living hostages in October 2025, an event that had a noticeable impact on the digital landscape. As we found in a student-driven project at the Social Media & Hate Research Lab at Indiana University’s Institute for the Study of Contemporary Antisemitism, antisemitism dipped on X and TikTok the day those living hostages were released. But the respite was short-lived.
Social media has become a toxic environment for Jews. The sheer volume of hateful commentary on anything Jewish — from current events to the Holocaust — is staggering. But to view these platforms as merely “loud” is to miss the more dangerous reality: social media is today’s primary tool for disseminating antisemitism and, increasingly, for mobilizing it.
Our research shows that social media is being used to politicize antisemitism and coordinate action across ideological boundaries. What often appears as a spontaneous burst of passion — such as student activism on campus — is frequently the result of a highly networked digital infrastructure.
In our lab’s study on the “Rhetoric of Resistance,” we tracked the online networking of anti-Israel campus groups across the United States. The findings are a wake-up call for university administrators and policymakers: these groups are not operating in isolation. They have built a wide network of off-campus organizations and individuals, allowing them to synchronize messaging and amplify radicalized narratives at an unprecedented scale.
We are seeing a shift toward language that mirrors the rhetoric of designated terrorist organizations. Slogans that deny a people’s right to exist or that justify violence are no longer fringe; they have been moved into the mainstream of campus discourse through coordinated digital amplification, often expressed in snippets, coded phrases such as talk about “Jewish power,” “Zionist evilness,” or even slogans such as “Free Palestine,” which has become a battle cry.
One of the most troubling patterns our student coders identified is how specific types of political commentary function as “gateways.” While many users believe they are simply criticizing a government’s policy, our data shows that totalizing, categorical condemnations — framing an entire nation as “genocidal” or a “terrorist state” — are most strongly associated with antisemitism. In contrast, humanitarian-focused themes, such as the suffering of individual Palestinians, showed a much less consistent association with anti-Jewish hate speech.
Our central finding is nuanced and confirms other studies: negative views of Israel and antisemitism are strongly correlated. Approximately half of the posts we analyzed that expressed negative views of Israel were antisemitic, while posts with positive views showed zero antisemitism. The students’ diligent coding work allows us to demonstrate empirically how criticism can create a permissive environment for antisemitism without every post necessarily crossing the line into hate speech.
However, in the vast majority of the most vitriolic posts, the content was not just “anti-Israel”; it was fundamentally anti-Jewish, utilizing collective blame and dehumanizing language. This creates a “permissive environment” where hate speech is sanitized as political advocacy, making it difficult for platforms — and even trained human moderators — to draw the line.
The one-day dip in antisemitism we observed during the 2025 hostage release proves that the digital climate is sensitive to reality and human empathy. However, the immediate “snap-back” to hostility suggests that the underlying machinery of mobilization is always running.
If we are to protect the integrity of our campuses and our public discourse, we must confront the reality that some digital activism is designed not to persuade, but to ostracize and radicalize. We must support the right to vigorous political debate while refusing to tolerate the coordinated degradation of Jewish identity. The hostage crisis has ended, but the digital war against Jewish life continues. Recognizing the tools of this mobilization is the first step toward stopping it.
The author is the Director of the Borns Jewish Studies Program and Associate Director of the Institute for the Study of Contemporary Antisemitism at Indiana University.