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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.
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Redemption Doesn’t Wait for Heroes — It Begins With Ordinary People Doing the Right Thing
Nobuki Sugihara, a son of wartime Japanese diplomat Chiune Sugihara, credited with helping Jewish refugees escape Nazi persecution by issuing transit visas, speaks during a ceremony at a square in Jerusalem on Oct. 11, 2021, after the square was named “Chiune Sugihara Square.” Photo: Kyodo via Reuters Connect
In the summer of 1940, as Europe collapsed into darkness, a Japanese diplomat sat behind a modest desk in the Lithuanian city of Kovno and faced a decision that would echo far beyond anything he could possibly imagine.
Chiune Sugihara never planned to be a hero. He was a career civil servant, with clear instructions from Tokyo not to do what he was about to do — and a young family to support. But outside the gates of the Japanese consulate, thousands of Jewish refugees waited in growing desperation. Among them were the students and teachers of the Mir Yeshiva, one of Europe’s great centers of Torah learning.
The Mir Yeshiva had already been on the run for months. After the Nazis overran eastern Poland in September 1939 and the Soviet army occupied western Poland — where Mir was located — the yeshiva’s faculty and most of its students fled, relocating first to Vilna and then to Kėdainiai, both in Lithuania.
But before long, Lithuania also fell under Soviet control, placing the yeshiva’s future in grave doubt, even as the Nazi threat loomed ominously nearby. One farsighted student, Leib Malin, argued persuasively that there was only one real option left: the yeshiva had to leave Europe, and quickly.
That idea triggered a frantic race against time and bureaucracy. Hundreds of students had no passports. Exit visas, transit visas, and destination papers were all required — documents that under normal circumstances would have been impossible to obtain — and in a wartime situation, with everyone clamoring to leave, it was practically impossible.
Yet, piece by fragile piece, the paperwork came together: temporary identity papers from British officials; entry stamps to the Caribbean island of Curaçao issued by the Dutch consul, Jan Zwartendijk; and, finally, the most critical hurdle of all — Japanese transit visas.
It was here that Sugihara suddenly found himself with a decision to make. He asked his superiors in Tokyo for permission to issue the transit visas, but they turned him down flat. He asked again and was refused again. He tried a third time, and the answer was still no.
So, he stopped asking. For weeks, he sat and wrote out the transit papers by hand, issuing visa after visa, often working 18 hours a day. When the Soviet authorities ordered the consulate to close, he continued writing anyway.
Even as he boarded the train out of Kovno, Sugihara leaned out of the window, handing stamped visas to waiting hands on the platform. Over 6,000 Jews were saved via Sugihara’s visas, including the entire Mir Yeshiva.
The most remarkable thing about it all was this: Sugihara had no idea who he was saving. Those transit visas carried the Mir Yeshiva across Siberia to Vladivostok, then by ship to Japan, and eventually to Japanese-controlled Shanghai, where the yeshiva remained until 1946.
Among the refugees were figures who would later shape the postwar Torah world in the immediate aftermath of the Holocaust — Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, Rav Chatzkel Levenstein, and the Amshinover Rebbe. But mixed among them were also young men who, at the time, were nothing more than anonymous students — teenagers and twentysomethings with no titles, no positions, and no hint of what lay ahead for them.
Rav Leib Malin — the young man who had spearheaded the push for the Mir Yeshiva to leave Europe — would later found the Beis HaTalmud yeshiva in Brooklyn.
Rav Zelig Epstein was in his mid-20s when Sugihara issued his visa; he went on to become one of New York’s most respected yeshiva heads in the latter half of the 20th century.
Rav Pesach Stein, barely in his early 20s in 1940, later became a rosh yeshiva at Telz Yeshiva in Cleveland.
Rav Shmuel Berenbaum had just turned 20; he would later lead the Mir Yeshiva in New York.
None of these young men imagined leadership as they fled Lithuania, and none of them were being “saved for greatness” by Sugihara. Yet each would go on to become a towering rabbinic figure, shaping Torah life in America for decades to come.
And there were many others like them. Sugihara did not save great rabbis. He saved a group of young boys and their teachers — and history took care of the rest.
Sugihara paid dearly for his month-long visa-issuing marathon. After the war ended — and after a period of imprisonment by the Russians — he returned to Japan and was dismissed from the diplomatic service. Far away from those he had saved, Sugihara lived for years in near obscurity, initially supporting his family through a series of menial jobs, and later working as a Japanese trade representative in the Soviet Union.
But he was not forgotten. In the late 1960s, Sugihara visited Israel, where he was warmly welcomed by some of those whose lives he’d saved, including Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, head of the Mir Yeshiva, now reestablished in Jerusalem.
And in 1984, Yad Vashem formally recognized Sugihara as Righteous Among the Nations — for choosing to follow his conscience and save nameless human beings rather than protect his career.
Sugihara’s quiet heroism evokes the cast of seemingly minor characters who populate the opening chapters of Parshat Shemot. There are the midwives, Shifra and Puah, who defy Pharaoh’s orders at enormous personal risk and save nameless Hebrew babies they will never meet again.
There is Miriam, a young girl standing watch among the reeds, refusing to abandon her infant brother to fate. And there is Pharaoh’s daughter, Batya, who reaches into the Nile in an act of moral rebellion against the most powerful man in the world — her own father.
None of them set out to change history. None of them imagined themselves as architects of redemption. They were simply responding, in the moment, to cruelty they could not accept. And yet, because of their courage, a single child survived — Moses — who would grow to become the savior of his people, the lawgiver at Sinai, and the man who would lead an enslaved nation toward freedom and destiny.
Like Sugihara stamping visas in Kovno, they were not saving a future leader in their own minds. They were saving nameless lives. Only later would history reveal just how brightly what they preserved would shine.
It is no coincidence that the Torah opens the Exodus story not with Moses himself, but with the midwives who refused to carry out Pharaoh’s orders, and with the crucial roles played by Miriam and Batya. Rashi notes that the defining trait of the midwives was their fear of God — a moral stance that came before any miracles, before prophecy, and before God revealed where the unfolding story was headed.
The Torah makes clear that redemption doesn’t begin with a savior but with ordinary people who refuse to give up their humanity in the face of cruelty. Sforno adds that God often advances His purposes through figures who appear insignificant in the moment, so that those who later reflect on history do not confuse power or position with righteousness.
History rarely turns on premeditated grand gestures made with full knowledge of their consequences. More often, it is shaped by ordinary people who find themselves at a moral crossroads and then do the right thing. Chiune Sugihara did not know the futures he was preserving when he signed visa after visa in Kovno, just as Miriam and Batya could not have known that they were saving Moses, the redeemer of Israel.
The Torah’s message is deeply empowering: redemption does not wait for heroes. It begins when ordinary people, in unremarkable moments, decide that doing the right thing matters — even when no one is watching, and even when the outcome is unknown.
The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.
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Kurdish Groups Reject Aleppo Withdrawal as US Pushes to End Fighting
Law enforcement vehicles at an evacuation site, after the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) made an agreement with the Syrian government to depart, and evacuate to northeastern Syria after days of fighting with the Syrian army, in Aleppo, Syria, Jan. 9, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Khalil Ashawi
Kurdish groups rejected a Syrian government demand for their fighters to withdraw from parts of Aleppo under a ceasefire proposed on Friday, with Damascus conducting new strikes and Western powers urging an end to days of clashes.
The violence in Aleppo has brought into focus one of the main faultlines in Syria as the country tries to rebuild after a devastating war, with Kurdish forces resisting efforts by President Ahmed al-Sharaa’s Islamist-led government to bring their fighters under centralized authority.
At least nine civilians have been killed and more than 140,000 have fled their homes in Aleppo, where Kurdish forces are trying to cling on to several neighborhoods they have run since the early days of the war, which began in 2011.
The ceasefire announced by the defense ministry overnight demanded the withdrawal of Kurdish forces to the Kurdish-held northeast. That would effectively end Kurdish control over the pockets of Aleppo that Kurdish forces have held.
DEFENSE MINISTRY ANNOUNCES PLANNED ATTACKS
But in a statement, Kurdish councils that run Aleppo‘s Sheikh Maksoud and Ashrafiyah districts said calls to leave were “a call to surrender” and that Kurdish forces would instead “defend their neighborhoods,” accusing government forces of intensive shelling.
The Syrian defense ministry later said it intended to target areas of Aleppo it said were being used by the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) to launch attacks on the “people of Aleppo,” posting five maps highlighting areas it would strike. It began those strikes roughly two hours later.
Kurdish security forces in Aleppo said the map included a hospital which it said had been struck four times since Thursday, and that it would hold Damascus responsible for any harm to civilians.
Syria’s defense ministry disputed that, saying the structure was a large arms depot and that it had been destroyed in the resumption of strikes on Friday.
It posted an aerial video that it said showed the location after the strikes, and said secondary explosions were visible, proving it was a weapons cache.
Reuters could not immediately verify the claim.
The SDF is a powerful Kurdish-led security force that controls northeastern Syria. It says it withdrew its fighters from Aleppo last year, leaving Kurdish neighborhoods in the hands of the Kurdish Asayish police.
Under an agreement with Damascus last March the SDF was due to integrate with the defense ministry by the end of 2025, but there has been little progress.
FRANCE, US SEEK DE-ESCALATION
France’s foreign ministry said it was working with the United States to de-escalate.
A ministry statement said President Emmanuel Macron had urged Sharaa on Thursday “to exercise restraint and reiterated France’s commitment to a united Syria where all segments of Syrian society are represented and protected.”
A Western diplomat told Reuters that mediation efforts were focused on calming the situation and producing a deal that would see Kurdish forces leave Aleppo and provide security guarantees for Kurds who remained.
The diplomat said US envoy Tom Barrack was en route to Damascus. A spokesperson for Barrack declined to comment.
Washington has been closely involved in efforts to promote integration between the SDF – which has long enjoyed US military support – and Damascus, with which the United States has developed close ties under President Donald Trump.
The ceasefire declared by the government overnight said Kurdish forces should withdraw by 9 am (0600 GMT) on Friday, but no one withdrew overnight, Syrian security sources said.
Barrack had welcomed what he called a “temporary ceasefire” and said Washington was working intensively to extend it beyond the 9 am deadline. “We are hopeful this weekend will bring a more enduring calm and deeper dialogue,” he wrote on X.
TURKISH WARNING
Turkey views the SDF as a terrorist organization linked to the outlawed Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), and has warned of military action if it does not honor the integration agreement.
Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan, speaking on Thursday, expressed hope that the situation in Aleppo would be normalized “through the withdrawal of SDF elements.”
Though Sharaa, a former al Qaeda commander who belongs to the Sunni Muslim majority, has repeatedly vowed to protect minorities, bouts of violence in which government-aligned fighters have killed hundreds of Alawites and Druze have spread alarm in minority communities over the last year.
The Kurdish councils in Aleppo said Damascus could not be trusted “with our security and our neighborhoods,” and that attacks on the areas aimed to bring about displacement.
Sharaa, in a phone call with Iraqi Kurdish leader Masoud Barzani on Friday, affirmed that the Kurds were “a fundamental part of the Syrian national fabric,” the Syrian presidency said.
Neither the government nor the Kurdish forces have announced a toll of casualties among their fighters from the recent clashes.
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Iran Cannot Blame This Catastrophe on Israel
Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei speaks during a meeting in Tehran, Iran, Jan. 3, 2026. Photo: Office of the Iranian Supreme Leader/WANA (West Asia News Agency)/Handout via REUTERS
Iran spent decades waging a “full-scale war” on the West at the expense of the country’s most fundamental civic needs. Now public riots from Tehran to Shiraz are pushing the failed government to the brink of collapse. In response to Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, whose parliamentary minions chant “Death to America, death to Israel,” protesters shout “Death to the dictator.” Khamenei blames the civil rebellion on the US and Israel. But legally speaking, the Ayatollah cannot make that case.
UN Charter Article 2, the international Friendly Relations Declaration of 1970, and customary international law instruct that a state may not “coercively intervene” in the affairs of another state. Scholars debate the precise meaning of coercive intervention. However, there is widespread agreement that a state may not threaten to use military force against another state without justification for such force or otherwise try to frustrate a state’s exercise of its legitimate sovereign powers.
There are many possible forms of coercive intervention. Russia cannot lawfully compel Ukraine to surrender jurisdiction over the Donbas region or require Ukraine to relinquish its right to join NATO. Saudi Arabia cannot validly pressure Qatar to defund its state-run news station.
By the same token, there is no coercive intervention where a state uses military force in self-defense against another state’s act of war. Nor is there coercive intervention when a state orders an enemy state to stop supporting a terrorist organization because terrorism is illegal and therefore not within any legitimate sovereign power. Finally, it is not coercively intervening for a group of states to oppose an enemy state through mere diplomacy or a trade embargo.
The issue of coercive intervention may arise in the context of regime change. In 2023, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu met with Reza Pahlavi, the most visible leader of the Iranian opposition, and discussed a potential normalization agreement called the Cyrus Accord. Cyrus the Great was the ancient Persian ruler who let the Jewish people return from exile to the Land of Israel and rebuild their temple. The Cyrus Accord emulates the Abraham Accords, which normalized relations between Israel and certain Arab states. The proposed Israel-Iran pact would be signed if and when the Islamic Republic is replaced by a secular democracy.
The question for Israel was how to craft the Cyrus Accord in a way that supports the Iranian opposition without breaching the coercive intervention law. Any perceived challenge to the Supreme Leader’s authority may provoke him to violence. During periods of internal unrest like today, the Ayatollah scapegoats the US and Israel and exploits the claim as a pretext for murderous crackdowns on his own civilians, resulting in grave human rights abuses. If the despot could argue that the Cyrus Accord constitutes coercive intervention, he may feel entitled to accelerate the killing. Alternatively, he may fire missiles at Israel, as he did twice in 2024, and orchestrate attacks through his “Axis of Resistance” terror groups. That decision would unleash a storm of war crimes.
The Cyrus Accord does not amount to coercive intervention. It is a plan of mutual assistance. Perhaps the most important issue addressed by the Accord is Iran’s water crisis. Israel has pledged to relieve the drought with its unique expertise in desalination, wastewater recycling for agriculture, and advanced irrigation systems. Another major issue is Iran’s obsolete infrastructure for electricity. Israel would help upgrade the network to a smart grid and meanwhile jumpstart the development of renewable energy sources such as solar and wind. Other sectors of economic assistance would include cybersecurity, satellite technology, and artificial intelligence. None of these projects would threaten military force or risk depriving the Iranian leadership — present or future — of its legitimate sovereign powers.
In exchange for the above-noted economic benefits, the prospective Iranian government would cancel the nation’s threats to Israel’s national security. The new state would decommission its illegal nuclear weapons program, cut all ties to the Axis of Resistance groups, and lend Israel formal diplomatic recognition. These measures would not harm any legitimate sovereign powers.
The Ayatollah may regard the Cyrus Accord as an existential threat to himself and his regime. Indeed, the agreement would upend his ideological agenda by converting Iran from the world’s greatest sponsor of state terrorism to an ally of the West. But he cannot denounce the deal on legal grounds. If he is overthrown, he’ll have only himself to blame.
Joel M. Margolis is the legal commentator of the American Association of Jewish Lawyers and Jurists, the US affiliate of the International Association of Jewish Lawyers and Jurists.