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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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The post A scholar sees a common root for antisemitism and racism: ‘Christian supremacy’ appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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They led protests against Netanyahu. Can they turn outrage into political power?
On Oct. 7, Israelis will come together to commemorate the third anniversary of the Hamas attack. Three weeks later, they will gather again, this time at the voting booth, for the first national election since Nov. 2022. The shadow of the first event will no doubt loom large over the second.
The election is expected to serve, in large part, as a referendum on Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his coalition’s refusal to take responsibility for the failures of Oct. 7. But the fallout will also appear on the ballot itself, which will include several candidates whose lives were upended on that fateful day and the three tumultuous years that followed.
Some stepped into these leadership roles reluctantly, like Likud hopeful Talik Gvili, whose son Ran was the last deceased hostage to return from Gaza, and Sharon Sharabi of Yisrael Beiteinu, whose brothers Yossi and Eli were taken captive; only Eli returned alive.
Alongside those propelled unwittingly into the public eye are a slew of activists-turned-candidates whose path to political leadership was more deliberate. Many rose to prominence in early 2023, during the mass demonstrations against the government’s attempted judicial overhaul. After Oct. 7, they co-led the struggle to free the hostages, together with family members, and then went on to revive the anti-government protests, demanding accountability and calling for elections.
Elections in which they are now candidates.
With A Place for All, the Jewish-Arab party launched by Standing Together leaders, having withdrawn from the race earlier this month, the overwhelming majority of activists have found their political home inside the left-wing, liberal Zionist party formed in 2024 through a merger of Labor and Meretz now known as The Democrats.
Record-high voter turnout for the party’s internal primaries held this past July, and recent polling projecting they will secure at least 10 electoral seats, point to a groundswell of support among protest supporters. But can a movement that repeatedly brought tens of thousands of Israelis into the streets and helped force a pause in the judicial overhaul translate that mobilization into lasting political power? And for the candidates themselves – many with no prior political experience – what does it take to go from protesting outside the Knesset to making decisions inside of it?
For protest leader Yaya Fink, who secured the fifth position on The Democrats’ slate, the answer lies in shifting from resistance to rebuilding.
“The protests were about stopping things from happening. Now it’s time to make things happen,” Fink told the Forward, a transition he describes as “both critically important and completely natural.”
“You cannot stay in crisis-prevention mode forever,” Fink said. “We are incredibly proud of what we accomplished. But it’s time for the next phase: repairing what’s broken, creating change, building anew.”
Fink, a religious activist who helped establish the public-interest lobbying organization Lobby 99, has been involved in social justice movements for most of his adult life. But he describes the judicial overhaul as the first time he felt he was fighting for the country’s very identity as a liberal democracy. “It’s the cause that most affected me as a person and that I also feel I had the most effect on,” he recalled.
From outside the Knesset to inside
Fink is one of more than a dozen candidates near the top of The Democrats’ ticket with a background in activism. Joining him are reservist organizer Omri Ronen; high-tech protest leader Moshe Radman; Moran Zer Katzenstein, founder of Building an Alternative; Arab-Israeli peace activist Somaya Bashir; and Avi Dabush, executive director of Rabbis for Human Rights.
Yair Golan, at the top of the ticket, followed by incumbent lawmakers Naama Lazimi, Gilad Kariv and Efrat Reytan were also regular fixtures on the protest circuit. “These were the politicians who were out on the streets with us day after day, week after week,” Fink said. “It was a natural fit for us to join their party.”
The transition from protest to politics has clear historical precedence in Israel, according to Doron Shultziner, a professor in the Government, Communication and Diplomacy department at Jerusalem Multidisciplinary College who studies social movements,
In the 1970s, Moroccan immigrants Charlie Biton and Saadia Marciano were part of Israel’s Black Panthers, a group of militant radicals who were regularly arrested and often faced police brutality in their struggle against the racism and poverty Mizrahi Jews encountered at the time. Eventually, the two men entered politics on left-wing tickets, continuing their fight for equal treatment for Mizrahi Jews and emerging as early supporters of peace with the Palestinians.
But infighting and limited political influence prevented them from affecting significant change, even for Biton, who served 15 years in the Knesset. In general, Shultziner cautions against assuming that prominence in a protest movement automatically translates to success in office.
“Clearly, politics and protest are two completely different ball games,” he said. “The career of a politician is haphazard and is affected by so many events that they cannot control.”
Similarly, Shultziner pointed to the social justice protest of 2011, when Israelis pitched tents on Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Blvd. and marched in the streets to protest soaring housing costs and economic inequality. As the protest began to wind down, movement leaders Stav Shaffir and Itzik Shmuli moved into politics, securing spots on the Labor ticket in 2013. Shaffir gained prominence demanding budget transparency but spent her parliamentary career in opposition. After leaving Labor in 2019 for a rival left-wing alliance, she was excluded from subsequent electoral partnerships and left the Knesset in 2020.
Shmuli managed to became labor and welfare minister but, as Shultziner explained, his advancement came at a price: “Despite campaigning on a promise not to serve under Netanyahu, he joined Labor leader Amir Peretz in taking the party into the Netanyahu–Gantz unity government, a decision that alienated their supporters. He ended up retiring the following year.”
“So, it really depends on how you define success,” Shultziner noted.
Will protests and protesters change Israeli politics?
For Fink, who remembers these broken promises all too well, loyalty is central to The Democrats’ appeal. “In addition to standing shoulder to shoulder with us on the streets, they were also steadfast in representing the movement in the Knesset,” he said. “It just made sense to go in with people who have demonstrated they cannot be bought by Netanyahu.”
But before Fink can think about the Knesset, he and his fellow Democrats must focus on the road to get there. With Election Day only weeks away, the question is how wide to cast their net.
According to the Israeli Democracy Institute (IDI), by July of 2025, around 1.5 million Israelis were estimated to have taken part in at least one demonstration in the previous three years. And yet most polls have The Democrats at around 10 seats, or roughly 400,000 votes, a significant difference.
“Over time, we see a growing perception that the protests did not succeed in transforming Israel’s political system,” explained Dr. Tamar Hermann, a senior research fellow at IDI.
“With The Democrats’ identity so deeply intertwined with the protest movement, that disillusionment has led voters to look elsewhere.”
An even bigger obstacle may be the ideological gap between protester and party. “They were certainly united in their opposition to the judicial reform. But The Democrats as a party is significantly to the left of many of the protesters,” she said. “The majority of those who showed up consistently were quite conservative. They tend to benefit from a status quo they would like to preserve, which contradicts The Democrats’ message of change and revolution.”
Paradoxically, the movement’s public image may also hamper efforts to reach beyond it. ”In the collective Israeli psyche, the protestors, and by extension The Democrats, are so strongly associated with being Ashkenazi, urban, secular, quasi-socialist, and highly educated.” Hermann said. “Which doesn’t appeal to a broad audience.” That perception is not totally unfounded. A January 2023 IDI survey, conducted during the judicial overhaul protests, found that 20% of Ashkenazi respondents reported participating in protest activities, compared with 10% of Mizrahi respondents; participation among secular Jews was 27%, compared with only 4% among religious Zionists, with most of the large-scale demonstrations taking place in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and Haifa.
But beyond the data, the image carries historical baggage which still lingers today. Israel’s Labor movement, The Democrats’ political forebear, was dominated by Ashkenazi Jews of European ancestry while Mizrahi Jews, driven by the marginalization they faced, helped bring Netanyahu’s Likud party to power in the late 1970s.
Hermann notes that even reaching the projected 10 seats will be a huge accomplishment, a sentiment echoed by Shultziner. “Just the fact that they managed to register over 100,000 voters is an impressive feat,” he said. “People who would never have voted for labor in the past are now registering early with the Democrats just so they can vote in the primaries.”
Fink, however, remains determined to reach beyond the party’s base.
“I am a religious man who lives in the North,” he said, “not exactly the stereotypical ‘Kaplanist,’ ” a pejorative nickname for protesters drawn from Tel Aviv’s Kaplan Street, the demonstrations’ main gathering place.
“But who you vote for should not be determined by whether you are religious or secular, Jewish or Arab. Whether you live in the big city or an outlying community.
“The only thing that matters is whether you want Israel to be a liberal democracy or a semi-fascist state. Do you want a government that is honest or one that is crooked? Do you want your money to go to draft dodgers or those who serve? To yet another illegal outpost or to recovery efforts?”
Fink’s message echoes that of the protest movement he helped lead for nearly four years. But it also captures the challenge facing his party: whether the solidarity forged in the streets can survive the compromises of coalition politics. Already, the Democrats’ willingness to govern alongside an Arab party has exposed divisions among their potential partners. Still, their growing momentum and strong polling numbers suggest they may be on the road to fulfilling another promise of the protests – unseating Netanyahu and rewriting the government’s agenda.
The post They led protests against Netanyahu. Can they turn outrage into political power? appeared first on The Forward.
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German city bans stumbling stone memorials to Nazi victims
(JTA) — A decision to bar the “stumbling stone” memorials to victims of the Nazis has touched a nerve in one small German town, and beyond.
At issue is a motion – passed Sept. 25 by the city council of Heidenau in the former East Germany – to stop installation of such memorials in local sidewalks, calling them disrespectful, and to use the town’s North Cemetery instead.
Set into the ground, the small, engraved brass “Stolpersteine,” or stumbling stones, are meant to make pedestrians stop and think about the fate of former residents. There are currently some 116,000 such stones laid in 1,860 municipalities across Europe, mostly in Germany, according to the project’s website.
A curious aspect of the Stolpersteine is that they are opposed by both Germany’s right wing, which view them as detracting from national pride, and by a vocal minority of Jews who feel they don’t do enough to uplift the memory of victims.
The effort to block the memorial stones in Heidenau was sponsored jointly by the center-right Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party. The town’s current mayor, Conny Oertel, is independent.
The city council’s decision comes as the AfD gains support in German elections nationwide. The party’s support for banning the project in Heidenau has sparked concern about potential moves to suppress official public commemoration of the Holocaust.
The AfD is known for challenging Germany’s culture of Holocaust remembrance in general. Bjoern Hoecke, who leads the party in the neighboring state of Thuringia, once even called Berlin’s Holocaust memorial a “monument of shame” that detracted from German pride. In protest, an artist collective built a replica of the memorial outside his home.
On the other hand, some Jews, albeit a minority, object to the memorials because they say it’s disrespectful to place them where they can be walked on and covered with leaves or trash. The stones have also been targets of vandelism, they note.
But the Heidenau motion is not for the sake of victims; rather it’s a “transparent maneuver by the extremists of the AfD” to suppress Germany’s remembrance culture, said Charlotte Knobloch, who has successfully opposed the placement of Stolpersteine in her home city of Munich, in the state of Bavaria.
“Removing places of remembrance from the cityscape, as has now happened in Heidenau, is absolutely the wrong approach,” said Knobloch, a 93-year-old Holocaust survivor, who heads the Jewish community of Munich and Upper Bavaria.
In a statement issued to the press Friday, Knobloch added that she was “appalled” that the CDU “would lend itself to supporting” the move. “The democratic center should and must find its way back to itself here and find a better solution.”
The joint opposition to the project by the AfD, the mainstream CDU and a local activist group creates a dilemma for Stolpersteine opponents like Knobloch who also abhor the AfD.
Heidenau, in the state of Saxony, is not the first town to act against the project. The city of Munich in Bavaria voted as early as 2004 not to allow the installation of the stones in public spaces, siding with Knobloch. In the city of Pulheim, in North Rhine-Westphalia, the project was blocked in 2011, but eventually the municipality reversed course and allowed the first installations to take place in 2022.
Heidenau is home to 17,000 people. Though the wartime local Jewish population was small, there are five such stones in the town already. An application for 12 more had been submitted by the Alternative Cultural and Educational Center (Akubiz), including for Fritz Goldstein and his wife Martha, who were expelled to Poland in 1938 and survived the war.
Arguing against the stones, the Heidenau motion noted that many citizens, relatives of victims, and activists actually disapprove of this form of commemoration.
Negative reactions to the decision in Heidenau were swift, both from proponents and detractors of the memorial concept itself.
In an email statement, the New York-based March of the Living educational organization called on the town of Heidenau “to reverse its decision and on Germany’s leaders and citizens to oppose every effort to hide this history.”
The city council decision “raises a deeply troubling question: Are political interests being allowed to push the memory of Nazi victims out of public life?” the statement read in part.
Like Knobloch, Munich resident Gabriella Meros doesn’t like the stumbling stones. “They are simply not a dignified way to commemorate the victims of the Holocaust,” said Meros, daughter of a Holocaust survivor and chair of the association Respect and Remember Europe.
She promotes placement of plaques on buildings instead.
But the political move in Heidenau by the CDU and AfD is “outrageous, because they’re exploiting this argument for their own purposes.”
The real problem is, she said, that the AfD “wants to abolish remembrance” itself.
In its platform, the AfD says it aims to promote “positive, identity-establishing aspects of German history.” Critics say that in practice, this could mean reducing funding for educational trips to Holocaust sites and for the memorial sites themselves.
The Stolpersteine project, initiated in 1992 by Cologne-based artist Gunter Demnig, sets engraved memorials into sidewalks in front of buildings where deported victims of the Nazi dictatorship once lived.
Usually, family members from around the world nominate sites and pay a nominal fee for materials. For many, the stumbling stones are a substitute for a grave, for ancestors whose place of death is unknown.
Israel’s Ambassador to Germany Ron Prosor wrote on X
that he was “ashamed” of Heidenau’s decision, noting that members of his own family who were forced to flee the Nazis were commemorated by the stones in Berlin.
“Every person has a name. A world. A story. It is precisely this memory that is being erased here. Whoever erases the victims from the past erases the past itself.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post German city bans stumbling stone memorials to Nazi victims appeared first on The Forward.
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‘NAZA’ documentary draws sold-out crowd – and protests – at US premiere
(JTA) — Even a powerful Nor’easter couldn’t stop the crowds from showing up at the North American premiere of the controversial Israeli documentary “NAZA” on Saturday afternoon.
The two weekend screenings scheduled at Lincoln Center as part of the New York Film Festival sold out in minutes. Dozens of people waited in a box office standby line that stretched around the corner despite the blustery conditions, while at least one local politician scored a ticket: Brad Lander, the Jewish progressive and Democratic nominee for New York’s 10th Congressional District.
Meanwhile, two groups of Israeli-Americans showed up on Saturday with no intention of going inside the theater: one demonstrating in solidarity with the filmmakers, and a larger group across the street that denounced the film as they waved Israeli flags.
The documentary, which was produced by The Guardian and alleges that Israeli forces knowingly killed large numbers of civilians in Gaza, has received early acclaim, winning the Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival earlier this month. It will be made available for free on The Guardian’s website later this fall.
John Kwiatkowski, senior manager of publicity and communications for Film at Lincoln Center, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency that “NAZA sold out almost immediately.”
But “NAZA,” whose name is the Hebrew acronym for “collateral damage,” has also roiled a number of Israeli officials and the country’s military. The Israel Defense Forces issued a public rebuttal after the film’s reception in Venice, with the IDF chief of staff calling the film a “deliberate distortion of reality.”
The Israeli filmmakers, Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor, have faced intense backlash at home. Israel’s culture minister threatened to strip them of their citizenship and protesters accused the duo of treason in a demonstration outside Szor’s parents’ home.
Roni Tamari, who organized the rally supporting the filmmakers on Saturday, called the Israeli reaction “out of proportion.”
David Lawson, a Jewish Queens resident who had purchased a ticket for the Saturday premiere, told JTA that he’d appreciated Abraham and Szor’s previous film, “No Other Land,” which focused on settler violence in the West Bank community of Masafer Yatta.
Minutes before the screening’s slated start time, Lawson said that he was “very excited” to see “NAZA,” not just for what it will say “about Israel, but also just about the alarming use of AI in warfare in general.”
Lawson said he likes “to hope that the tide is shifting on acceptance of Zionism in the United States,” and that support for “NAZA” was an example of that shift. He also said he was “expecting” to see protesters who disagreed with the film. “Pathetic,” another person in line chimed in, describing the demonstration.
They were referring to the protest organized by the Israeli-American Council, which drew dozens of critics of the film who believe it omits the context of Hamas’ Oct. 7, 2023, attack in its depiction of the IDF’s military campaign in Gaza. Speakers included IAC’s chief communities officer Noa Peri-Jensch and a pair of survivors of the Nova music festival that Hamas attacked.
A fleet of four black trucks circled the area with LED screens that displayed images of Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack along with various messages. “Movies have editors. History does not,” one message read. The trucks were commissioned by the IAC.
“We mourn every innocent life lost in this war, Israeli or Palestinian,” Peri-Jensch said during the rally. “But compassion for Palestinian civilians does not require [us] to erase Oct. 7, ignore Hamas or accept one narrative without questioning it.”
Peri-Jensch was not calling for the film’s screenings to be canceled, she said in an interview, but rather for them to be paired “with context” at festivals, like panels featuring Oct. 7 survivors.
Asked about Israeli officials’ threats toward the filmmakers and the demonstrators calling them traitors, Peri-Jensch said she “cannot comment on what people in Israel do, I can only comment here,” adding that viewers “deserve to know the full scope.”
Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu backed legislation last week that would strip the Israeli filmmakers of their citizenship, while the Israeli army has weighed taking legal action against them.
Protesters gathered outside Szor’s parents’ home multiple nights in a row last week calling on authorities to “expel the traitors.” One speaker called for Abraham and Szor to be executed while the crowd chanted, “Execute the traitors.” Participants in the right-wing protest included activists and campaign staff from National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir’s far-right party, according to Haaretz.
On Saturday, Nova massacre survivor Rom El-Hai himself referred to the filmmakers as “traitors,” and said that there have been “liars” like Abraham and Szor within the Jewish community since the Bible and during the Holocaust.
In an interview following his remarks, El-Hai said it isn’t his job to say how exactly Abraham and Szor should be dealt with in Israeli society, but that they “should be punished” and that they cannot “live their life in Israel like nothing happened.”
“People need to understand there is a price for what they’re doing,” he said.
Near the standby line running along the sidewalk of Broadway, about a dozen demonstrators who are involved with the group Israelis for Peace held signs reading, “We stand by the countless victims in Gaza and Rachel & Yuval for speaking truth to power.”
Tamari, one of the organizers, said she felt it was “actually very disrespectful” for images of wounded and killed Oct. 7 victims to be shown in public.
Moshe Kayam, an Israeli-American who demonstrated in solidarity with the “NAZA” filmmakers on Saturday, said IAC’s rally was “doing a disservice” because the Oct. 7 attacks were indeed “horrendous,” but “did not justify the mass killing” of civilians in Gaza.
“We want the truth to come out,” Kayam said of the film. “We want everyone to see what really happened there, and the damage that it caused to Gaza, to Israel’s image and to us as Israelis.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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