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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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Norman Podhoretz, Commentary editor and archetypal Jewish neoconservative, dies at 95
(JTA) — Norman Podhoretz, the journalist and public intellectual who charted a path from Jewish liberal to pro-Israel neoconservative that would become well worn, has died at 95.
Podhoretz was the influential editor of Commentary magazine for 35 years, after being appointed to run the American Jewish Committee’s thought journal at 30 in 1960.
He initially continued in the magazine’s liberal tradition. But over the course of the 1960s, he became disillusioned by the left. He lamented the radicalism that became prevalent in campus antiwar activism. He also objected to a mounting critique of Israel and its occupation of Palestinian territories within the New Left following the Six-Day War in 1967.
By the decade’s end, Podhoretz had openly refashioned himself as what would become known as a neoconservative — someone his friend and intellectual ally Irving Kristol would describe as “a liberal who has been mugged by reality.”
Many of the most prominent neocon intellectuals were Jewish and, like Podhoretz, from New York City. Commentary became a central platform for their outlook on civil rights, the threat of communism and especially foreign policy, where Podhoretz was known as a particular expert. He argued strenuously against the Soviet Union and expressed steep concern about the U.S. detente with Russia as communism collapsed. He also advocated an interventionist U.S. foreign policy in support of promoting democracy abroad, causing him to support foreign wars that many liberals opposed.
Israel was a focus for Podhoretz, an observant Jew who was a longtime member of Manhattan’s Congregation Or Zarua. He believed that Israel was essential for both Jewish safety and U.S. interests and argued in support of its military pursuits. He soured early on the prospects for a peaceful resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He also warned early — and seemingly presciently — that Jews could not rely on left-wing values to keep them or their homeland safe.
Podhoretz made waves in 2016 for endorsing Donald Trump in his first run for president, at a time when many traditional Republicans could not countenance him. He argued that Hillary Clinton would continue Barack Obama’s policies including the Iran nuclear deal that Obama struck, which Podhoretz called “one of the most catastrophic actions that any American president has ever taken.”
By the time he retired as Commentary’s editor in 1995, Podhoretz had embraced mainstream conservative views on a range of social issues, too, opposing abortion and gay rights. He also rejected his early liberal views on immigration, saying in 2019 that contemporary immigrants did not want to assimilate the way his parents’ generation had sought to.
“I was always pro-immigration because I’m the child of immigrants,” he told the Claremont Review, a leading journal of contemporary conservatism. “And I thought it was unseemly of me to oppose what not only had saved my life, but had given me the best life I think I could possibly have had.”
Born in 1930 in Brooklyn to parents who immigrated from Galicia, now Poland, Podhoretz attended public schools but also got a rich Jewish education at the urging of his father, a Yiddish-speaking immigrant who worked as a milkman. In addition to learning Hebrew, Podhoretz worked at Camp Ramah and took classes at the Jewish Theological Seminary while attending Columbia University, from which he graduated in 1950.
The final of his dozens of books, published in 2009, attempted to explain why most U.S. Jews are liberals — and why they should not be.
“He was a man of great wit and a man of deep wisdom and he lived an astonishing and uniquely American life,” his son John Podhoretz, who succeeded him as Commentary’s editor, wrote in a remembrance for the magazine announcing his father’s death. “And he bound himself fast to his people, his heritage, and his history. His knowledge extended beyond literature to Jewish history, Jewish thinking, Jewish faith, and the Hebrew Bible, with all of which he was intimately familiar and ever fascinated.”
Norman Podhoretz is survived by four children, 13 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren, according to the remembrance. His wife, the social commentator and critic of feminism Midge Decter Podhoretz, died in 2022.
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I’m a neuroscientist. Here’s why Ahmed al Ahmed’s bravery at Bondi Beach strains our narratives.
(JTA) — We tend to think of human behavior as deeply shaped by group lines. Again and again, research in social psychology and social neuroscience, along with everyday experience, shows how easily people come to see themselves as members of distinct groups, how quickly an “us” and a “them” emerge, and how rapidly loyalty on one side gives way to suspicion on the other, sometimes even when those divisions are thin or arbitrary.
As a fiction writer and a doctoral student in cognitive neuroscience who studies how narratives shape our perception of the world, I think often about how events like this strain the explanatory stories we rely on to make sense of why people act as they do. These patterns of group loyalty are familiar and empirically robust. People genuinely experience themselves through group identities.
And yet sometimes a single human action cuts across these categories, exposing the limits of the narratives we use to understand how people act in the world.
That is what we have experienced this week in the story of Ahmed al Ahmed, the Muslim fruit-seller who intervened, at great personal risk, to try to stop a deadly attack on Jews celebrating Hanukkah in Sydney.
Al Ahmed’s action was not only an act of exceptional bravery, but a direct challenge to the worldview advanced by so many figures today. By knowingly risking his life to protect Jews outside his own group and identity, he crossed the very boundary that many insist cannot be crossed, revealing a simple truth: that human moral action cannot be reduced to rigid theories of group loyalty alone.
Perhaps one of the most prominent proponents of a growing online current that frames human life as fundamentally governed by group identity is the white supremacist livestreamer Nick Fuentes. He has repeatedly advanced antisemitic claims, arguing that Jews are incapable of full civic loyalty, that they put their own group first, and that Jewish Americans are ultimately more loyal to Jews as a group or to Israel than to the United States itself. He has said about Jews, “They have this international community across borders, extremely organized, that is putting the interests of themselves before the interests of their home country.” In Fuentes’ framing, human existence is a competition between groups, and moral loyalty is by definition exclusive. He is careful to insist that these claims are not antisemitic, presenting them instead as a hard-headed and honest description of human nature.
A similar logic appears in the rhetoric of Thomas Rousseau, the leader of the extremist group Patriot Front, who describes the United States as being locked in an inevitable racial struggle. Rousseau has framed this worldview in stark terms, declaring that white people are “being relentlessly erased on all sides, by the Jew, by non-whites who hate us,” a statement that casts social and political life as an existential battle between fixed identities.
But the worldview advanced by figures like Fuentes and Rousseau collapses when confronted with a single human act such as that of Ahmed Al Ahmed. If human life were truly governed only by intergroup competition and instinct, there would be no room for a person to knowingly risk his life for strangers from another group, let alone in the midst of mortal danger. Yet this is precisely what happened. Al Ahmed risked his life to protect members of a group to which he did not belong. This altruistic act directly contradicts the theories advanced by Fuentes and Rousseau and exposes them for what they truly are, not neutral descriptions of reality but ideological narratives imposed upon it. Beneath the edgy aesthetics, viral memes, and provocative social media packaging, these claims amount to recycled pseudo-intellectual arguments, longstanding tropes of racism and antisemitism that have circulated throughout history under different guises.
Understanding Al Ahmed’s act, however, requires moving beyond abstract theory to the explanations offered by those closest to the event. Two interpretations have emerged in media accounts of why he risked his life. One, expressed by his father, presents the act in simple and universal terms. His father said that “Ahmed was driven by his sentiment, conscience and humanity.” The other explanation, voiced by Lubaba Alhmidi AlKahil from within the Muslim and Syrian community after visiting Al Ahmed in the hospital, situates the act within a specific moral culture and identity. As she put it, this kind of response is “not strange for a Syrian individual,” coming from a community with strong bonds that has learned to refuse injustice. What is striking is that these two explanations can exist side by side without canceling one another, a possibility that figures like Nick Fuentes and those who share his worldview struggle to grasp because they are locked into a rigid, binary understanding of human motivation.
One might argue that Al Ahmed’s act was a rare exception in a world otherwise governed by group conflict and self-interest. But the reality is that every day, people risk their lives to protect others across lines of identity. Adam Cramer dove into the water to save a drowning girl. Lassana Bathily hid Jewish shoppers during the Hyper Cacher attack in Paris. Mamoudou Gassama saved a child he did not know. Wesley Autrey jumped onto subway tracks to rescue a stranger, and Henri d’Anselme confronted a knife attacker to protect children. Seen in this light, Ahmed Al Ahmed stands within a long human tradition that includes, even in more distant history, figures such as Raoul Wallenberg and Chiune Sugihara, who risked their lives to save others during the Holocaust.
Evolutionary research itself points in the same direction. Across species, altruistic behavior appears again and again, from dolphins that keep injured companions afloat so they can breathe, to rats that will free trapped cage mates. Far from an anomaly, altruism is a recurrent feature of social life, and our brains have a remarkable capacity for empathy and for understanding the experiences of others, far beyond the lines of group identity and social belonging. Fuentes and those like him may insist that people are loyal only to their own group, but reality erodes this impoverished and intellectually lazy theory on a daily basis.
Crucially, these acts do not testify only to universal altruism abstracted from identity. In many cases, they emerged from deeply held group identities and moral traditions. Cultural, religious, and national affiliations did not prevent these individuals from acting on behalf of others. They often supplied the very moral language and sense of responsibility that made such action possible. Universal concern and particular identity therefore do not stand in opposition. They coexist, with specific histories serving not as barriers to moral action but as sources from which it can arise.
That is precisely what figures like Nick Fuentes and those who share his worldview fail to account for. Their politics rests on a rigid vision of identity as a closed framework, one that leaves no room for moral action that crosses its prescribed boundaries. The horrific attack at Bondi Beach, and the courage of Ahmed Al Ahmed within it, remind us that moral action often arises neither from abandoning identity nor from clinging to it defensively, but from inhabiting it fully while remaining open to others.
In an age shaped by clickbait, algorithms and relentless simplification, such moral complexity is difficult to sustain. Political arguments reward camps and slogans. But the actual behavior of people like Ahmed Al Ahmed escapes the internet’s simplified categories and points instead toward a richer form of conduct, one that can be called, quite simply, humanity.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.
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The Israel news we don’t hear – and the forces that silence us
I spent part of Shabbat reading about the stunning performance of the Israeli stock market — which is up dramatically since Oct. 7, outpacing the gains of the S&P by a significant margin.
The 35 Israeli stocks with the largest market capitalizations are up a whopping 90 percent since Oct. 7. Meanwhile, the S&P 500 was up 60 percent during that same time period.
I wondered why I had not read more about this, and was struck by what Eugene Kandel, the chairman of the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange, told Investors Business Daily.
“Israel was, and still is, under a PR attack from ideological actors, who finance huge campaigns against us,” Kandel said. “But even during these two years, the collaboration with so many organizations, companies, governments and investors did not stop despite threats and protests.”
Why aren’t we hearing about those collaborations?
Then the news of the Bondi Beach Hanukkah shooting broke. Instantly, all the peace of Shabbat dissipated, along with all the thoughts of collaborations — and who is covering what and why, and in which language.
Instead, I thought again of how terrorists worldwide seem to own a well-thumbed Jewish calendar. The date and timing of this massacre — on yet another Jewish holiday — was no accident, and Jews around the world know this.
We are living through a sustained campaign to make Jews afraid to be Jews. Attacks on Jewish holidays are an effort to erase Jewish joy, Jewish observance, and in the case of Hanukkah, Jewish history.
And perhaps we are also under a sustained campaign to minimize Jewish achievement.
Some politicians take notice
Some politicians are making efforts to look at the often-exhausting layers of what is happening and find ways to name them.
I appreciate the effort to find language for all of this. Representative Brian Mast, the chair of the House Foreign Affairs Committee and a Florida Republican, commented that he discerns a “very specific network that is in place that works together to sow antisemitism that is now, in many cases, working on the left and right across the media, to go out there and put this wedge in this relationship.”
He was referring to the U.S.-Israel connection.
Speaking at a Hudson Institute conference on antisemitism, he called this network a “very, very serious global threat across multinational organizations, media across the globe and adversaries and terrorist organizations.”
When he said “media,” I thought of the minimal coverage of the Israeli stock exchange and the strength of Israeli stocks.
The relief of acknowledgment
I felt a strange sigh of relief as I read Mast’s comments. It was the relief of actual acknowledgment. It was the relief of hearing someone trying to name things, even though I’m not sure if “network” is the best possible word.
Because something must be said.
What I noticed the day after the Bondi Beach massacre was the deep silence. The silence came from so many people that maybe “network” was the right word for it.
I went to a non-denominational holiday party this week, and no one mentioned what had happened in Australia. I wondered what the conversation would have been like if the shooting had happened at a Christmas tree lighting, or a drag story hour that turned into carnage. What would the conversation have been if any other group, but the Jewish community, had been targeted?
It’s unlikely that there would be total silence. Total non-acknowledgment. No words in a room of people who work with words.
The threat we face is not just the threat Representative Mast detailed, or the PR threat Kandel described. It’s also the silence, a silence so loud that it is visible as candlelight in the darkness.
How to respond to silence
I don’t know how to answer silence, but maybe some wiser people out there do.
Late last night, I saw a reel of a very long line of cars with menorahs on their roofs driving along the New York State Thruway, not far from the Palisades Mall, just a short drive from where I grew up.
The line of cars went on and on. The silent message was Do not be afraid. And I saw it as a response to Bondi Beach.
I hope there are more Hanukkah menorahs lit tonight, not less. And I also hope that we can consider bringing layers of truth into the light. Sometimes, layers represent both a dose of reality and an antidote against despair.
Yes, a father and son attacked the Jewish community on a holiday. But it is deeply important and also true that an unarmed Muslim father and fruit seller named Ahmed al Ahmed jumped on one of the gunmen and undoubtedly saved many lives.
The video of that heroic act should be watched by all.
It is a reminder that perhaps there is another “network” out there, a network of those who object to hatred. And it is a reminder that generalizations can only take us so far; as my mentor James Alan McPherson taught me, a story is about an individual at an individual moment in time.
Ahmed al Ahmed showed us all the power of an individual. And the power of a single layer in any truth, and in any story.
As for all those under-discussed Israeli companies holding on in wartime, through boycotts, pushing up the index by 90 percent since the worst day in Israeli history, continuing to collaborate with partners around the globe despite a PR onslaught to isolate them — even in this darkness, and in this silence, we see you.
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