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Bosnian Jews mourn Moris Albahari, one of Sarajevo’s last Ladino speakers
(JTA) — Moris Albahari, a Holocaust survivor, former partisan fighter and one of the last Ladino speakers in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s dwindling Jewish community, passed away at the age of 93 last month.
It is believed that he was one of four native Ladino speakers remaining in a country where the Judeo-Spanish language once flourished and was spoken by luminaries like Flory Jagoda, the grande dame of Ladino song, and Laura Bohoretta, the founder of a uniquely Sephardic feminist movement in Bosnia.
Bosnia’s small Jewish community — with barely 900 members throughout the country, 500 of whom live in Sarajevo — are mourning the loss of a living link to communal memory as well as a dear friend.
“From you, uncle Moco, I learned a lot about Judaism, about life, about nature and especially about people. About both the good and the evil,” Igor Kožemjakin, the cantor of the Sarajevo Jewish community, wrote in a memorial post on Facebook, referring to Moris as “Čika,” or uncle, a term of endearment in Bosnian.
“It is a terrible loss, especially for Sarajevo. Our community is very small, especially after the Holocaust,” Eliezer Papo, a Sarajevo-born Jew and scholar of Ladino language and literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “We’re not speaking just in terms of prominent members of the community, we’re speaking in terms of family members. Everyone is like a family member.”
When Albahari was growing up in the 1930s, the Jewish community of his native Sarajevo numbered over 12,000. Jews made up more than a fifth of the city and it was one of the most important centers of Jewish life in the western Balkans.
In his youth, the city was part of what was then the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Formed out of the borderlands between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, it was a multiethnic state composed of Croats, Serbs, Bosniaks, Slovenians, Macedonians, Hungarians, Albanians and more. Among them were many Jewish communities both Ashkenazi and Sephardic.
The unique mix of of Muslim, Jewish, Catholic and Orthodox Christian communities, with their mosques, synagogues and churches defining Sarajevo’s skyline, earned the city the nickname “Little Jerusalem.”
Speaking in a 2015 documentary made by American researchers, “Saved by Language,” Albahari explained that his family traced their roots back to Cordoba before the Spanish Inquisition, and through Venice, before settling in what would become Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman Empire.
“We didn’t want to ‘just’ write an article about Moris or Sarajevo; we wanted [the audience] to see what we saw and hear what we heard,” Brian Kirschen, professor of Ladino at Binghamton University, who worked on the documentary with author Susanna Zaraysky, told JTA. “This resulted in a grassroots initiative to create the documentary.”
In the film, Albahari takes the researchers and their viewers on a tour through what was Jewish Sarajevo, giving glimpses of the thriving Ladino speaking community in which he was raised and explaining how ithe language would save him many times, when the Nazis and their Croat allies, the Ustaša, came to shatter it.
“In sharing your story of survival during the Holocaust, you opened doors that remained closed for decades,” Kirschen said in a memorial post on Facebook. “Some of your stories were even new to members of your family, but each survivor has their own timeline. While you experienced great pain during your life, from your story, we also learn about moments of kindness and heroism. Through your story, you also taught us about the power of language.”
Albahari wasn’t yet a teenager when, in 1941, Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy invaded Yugoslavia. The Nazis occupied the eastern portion of the country, including what is now Serbia, while they raised up a Croat fascist party, known as the Ustaša, to administer the newly formed “Independent State of Croatia” — often known by its Serbo-Croatian initials, NDH — in the western regions that included the modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The Ustaša collaborated in the Nazis’ genocidal plans for Europe’s Jewish and Roma comunities, and they had genocidal designs of their own for the Orthodox Serb communities living in the NDH.
To that end they established the Jasenovac concentration camp, which would become known as the Auschwitz of the Balkans. By the war’s end it had become the third largest concentration camp in Europe, and behind its walls the overwhelming majority of Sarajevo’s Jews — at least 10,000 — were massacred. Including Serbs, Jews, Roma and political dissidents of Croat or Muslim Bosniak background, as many as 100,000 people were killed in Jasenovac.
Albahari was 11 years old when the Ustaša came to deport him and his large family to Jasenovac. A former teacher working as an Ustaša guard in the town of Drvar, where the train stopped, warned Albahari’s father, David, about their destination, and he was able to help his son escape from the train.
The teacher helped guide the young Moris to an Italian soldier named Lino Marchione who was secretly helping Jews.
This was the first case when Albahari’s Ladino came in handy. Ladino is largely based on medieval Spanish, with a mixture of Hebrew, Aramaic, Turkish and other languages mixed in. For speakers of Serbo-Croatian, a Slavic language, it’s entirely incomprehensible. But for a speaker of another Romance language such as Italian, it’s not such a stretch to understand, and Moris was able to converse with his Italian savior.
With his family gone, he was taken in by a Serb family, and changed his name to Milan Adamovic to hide his Jewish identity. Still, by 1942, it became clear that neither as Adamovic nor Albahari would he be safe in the town. So he fled to the mountains.
“If there was [a battle] I took clothes from a dead soldier to wear, I lived like a wolf in the mountains, you know. Visiting villages [asking for something] to give me for eating, it was a terrible time,” Albahari recalled in “Saved By Language.”
He would only feel safe in villages under the control of partisan forces. Yugoslavia was the only country in Europe to be liberated from Nazi rule by its own grassroots resistance.
During his time in the mountains, Albahari joined up with a partisan unit aligned with the movement of Josip Broz Tito, who would lead Communist Yugoslavia after the war. By the war’s end, Tito’s partisans numbered over 80,000 and included more than 6,000 Jews, many in prominent positions, such as Moša Pijade, who would go on to serve as vice president of the Yugoslav parliament after the war.
Moris was out on patrol as a partisan when he came upon a group of American and British paratroopers. They raised their weapons at him, thinking he was an enemy. Moris tried to communicate, but he spoke no English.
When he asked the soldiers if they spoke German or Italian, they shook their heads. When he asked about Spanish, one perked up: a Hispanic-American soldier by the name of David Garijo.
In Ladino, Alabahari was able to explain that he was not an enemy but could lead them to a nearby partisan camp where they would be safe.
“Ladino saved my life in the war,” Albahari recalled in the documentary.
At the partisan camp, Morris received even bigger news: The family that he had assumed had all perished after he left the train were in fact alive. The former school teacher and Ustaša guard who had warned his father had met them at the next train junction to help them escape. Furthermore, around half of the Jews in the train car were able to escape using the same hole Moris used during his initial escape.
Ultimately the family all survived the war, unlike so many other Jews of Sarajevo.
“Where is Samuel, where is Dudo, where is Gedala? They never came back,” Albahari lamented, listing missing neighbors while walking through Sarajevo’s old Jewish neighborhood in the documentary. “Maybe we are happy because we are alive after the Second World War, but also unlikely because every day we must cry for these dead people.”
When Moris returned to Sarajevo, it was an entirely different place from the bustling Jewish community he had once known.
Gone was the sound of Ladino in the streets and alleyways of Bascarsija, the market district where so many of Sarajevo’s Jews had once lived. Gone were the synagogues — only one of the many synagogues that had existed before WWII still functions. Gone was the robust Jewish life that was once a central part of Sarajevo.
Moris was still only 14 by the war’s end, so he returned to school and ultimately graduated at the top of his class. He became a pilot and later director of the Sarajevo Airport.
In this new world, Ladino was spoken, if at all, only in the home.
“Always, when I hear Spanish, I hear my father and mother, and all the synagogues, prayers in Ladino and rabbis who spoke Ladino. But that is in the past,” Albahari says in “Saved by Language.”
Eliezer Papo, who is a generation younger than Albahari, recalled that in his youth Ladino had long been reduced to a language of secrets.
“Mostly, Ladino was used when the elders didn’t want youngsters to understand,” Papo said.
Only later, in the 1980s, did community members realize what was being lost and begin to gather to maintain their language, recount what Jewish Sarajevo had been like and share their wartime stories of survival.
“He never took his story to the places of revenge, but he took it and his life experience to a place of ‘Never again,’ not just ‘Never again for Jews’, but never again for anybody,” said Papo.
Like many Sarajevans, World War II would not be the last major conflict Albahari would see. Less than 40 years later, war would once again come to Sarajevo with the break-up of Yugoslavia.
From 1992-1995 the city remained under constant siege by Bosnian Serb forces looking to break away from what would become Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moris joined with other Jews of Sarajevo in working to provide aid to their fellow Sarajevans during the harsh period.
Sarajevo’s synagogue was turned into a shelter and a soup kitchen. The community ran a network of underground pharmacies and a message service allowing Sarajevans to get word to family and friends outside of the city during what became the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare.
“Moris was an inspirational persona to many members of Jewish community and La Benevolencija,” Vlado Anderle, the current president of that local Jewish humanitarian organization told JTA. “He was a man with such inviting spirit and energy.”
When the dust settled on the breakup of Yugoslavia, and the new Bosnian state rose from its ashes, Moris found himself once again in a new role.
During the communist era in Yugoslavia, religious activity was discouraged. Sarajevo’s Jews emphasized the ethnic character of Jewish culture rather than the religious one. In the new Bosnia and Herzegovina, that was no longer true. So the community worked to reconnect with their religious identity as well.
“Everybody looked up to the people who had Jewish upbringing before the Second World War,” Papo recalled. “This doesn’t mean that they were rabbis. Just that they knew it better than anyone else.”
Moris, whose formal Jewish education ended in his preteen years, was appointed president of the community’s religious committee.
As such it often fell on him to represent Judaism to the Bosnian society at large, often in a very creative way, according to Papo, who in addition to being a scholar of Ladino is ordained as a rabbi and serves the Sarajevo community as a rabbi-at-large from Israel.
In one case, while being interviewed on a major Bosnian television station, Moris was asked why Jews cover their head with a kippah or other hat during prayer. Moris’ response, or rather creative interpretation, as Papo called it, was made up on the spot.
Moris’ interpretation began with the ancient temple in Jerusalem where Jews once had to fully immerse in a ritual bath before entering.
“Since the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed it was reduced to washing the uncovered parts of the body only, before entering a synagogue, similarly to Muslims: the feet, the head, the hands…” Papo recalled him saying. But in Europe, as Moris’ answer went, they began to cover more and more of their body. “In Europe they started wearing shoes, so the feet were not uncovered anymore, and then they started wearing a hat, not to have to wash their head… you know it’s Europe, one could catch a cold if going out with wet hair…”
“A few months later, I came to Sarajevo, and found that everyone has heard this explanation and is talking about it, not just people in the community, but in the street,” Papo said. “And you know, I let it pass, I couldn’t correct them, it was just so beautiful. That was his genius.”
“Identity is all about telling stories. And Moris was one of the great storytellers of the community,” Papo added. And through his stories he expressed an identity which was “made of the same contradictions that Sephardic Judaism is made of, that Sarajevo is made of, that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made and that Yugoslavia was and is made of and that the Balkans are made of.”
Albahari is survived by his wife and a son.
—
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Our greatest folksinger wrote about America, Dust Bowl refugees and Jewish identity
Woody Guthrie is best known as one of the giants of 20th-century American folk music. From the late 1930s through the early 1950s, he wrote thousands of songs, many of which became modern-day standards, including “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know Yuh,” “I Ain’t Got No Home,” “Tom Joad,” “Hard Travelin’,” “Pastures of Plenty,” and, of course, “This Land Is Your Land.” His songs gave voice to working people and Dust Bowl refugees. He wrote playful children’s songs and songs that railed against fascism and greed. He even wrote a protest song called “Old Man Trump,” about developer Fred Trump, the father of the current president of the United States, decrying the strict racial segregation he enforced in his housing projects.
Guthrie’s influence on generations of singer-songwriters cannot be overstated. His songs have been recorded by hundreds of singers around the world, including Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Bruce Springsteen, Lucinda Williams, Ani DiFranco, Lou Reed, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Lila Downs, and Susan McKeown. The desire to meet Woody Guthrie, who was his hero, is what led Robert Allen Zimmerman to hitchhike from Minneapolis to New York City, where he subsequently fell upon the thriving Greenwich Village folk scene and reinvented himself as a rootsy singer-songwriter named Bob Dylan. The latter’s eponymous first album included an original song entitled “Song to Woody.”
As Steven Pressman makes clear in his new documentary film, Dust Bowls and Jewish Souls: Another Side of Woody Guthrie, there was another side to Guthrie and his songs. As his son, Arlo Guthrie, explains in the film: “My father studied Judaism and he knew something about it. He never exchanged his faith for something else; he added to his faith. And that something else he added … was a Jewish identity. He understood what that meant traditionally, historically, culturally. And he knew more about Judaism than my zeyde. And so, my bubbe was thrilled.”
It just so happens that Arlo’s bubbe — his grandmother — was acclaimed Yiddish poet and lyricist Aliza Greenblatt. When Guthrie married Aliza’s daughter, Marjorie Mazia (née Greenblatt), the two chose to raise their children in Coney Island, and Marjorie’s parents, Aliza and Isadore Greenblatt, moved from Philadelphia to be close to their expanding brood. And it was primarily through his close relationship with his mother-in-law that Guthrie became knowledgeable about and enamored of Jewish history and culture. Says Arlo, “My father saw something inside the Jewish tradition that inspired him.”
Pressman’s documentary traces the close links between Aliza Greenblatt and Woody Guthrie. “My father and my bubbe had a respect for each other as writers, as thinkers, as people of the heart,” says Arlo. Arlo’s sister, Nora Guthrie, echoes her brother’s comments: “Bubbe would share ideas and lyrics with Woody. So, they were able to form a relationship.” Nora’s daughter, Anna Canoni — seen in the film at the Guthrie family plot in a cemetery in Woody’s hometown of Okemah, Oklahoma — elaborates on the special relationship between her grandfather and great-grandmother: “Aliza and Woody were actually interestingly similar in terms of a hardship and displacement that happens at a young age. There were so many interesting parallels between the two of them, which is why there was so much understanding, empathy and love between the two of them.”
While Aliza Greenblatt took to Woody right away, her husband Isadore was not thrilled about his daughter marrying a Gentile. He did, however, give Guthrie a gift of a Hebrew-English version of the rabbinical text called Pirkei Avot (The Ethics of the Fathers). In the film, Nora Guthrie displays the book, which is filled with Woody’s notes and annotations — even drawings. Woody provided the cover illustration for one of Aliza’s poetry volumes.
The film includes interviews with dozens of people who either knew Woody Guthrie and Aliza Greenblatt or who became familiar with their story. Among them are Guthrie biographer Will Kaufman, who has written three books about the folksinger. Kaufman suggests that Woody and Aliza bonded over being artists and socialists. “[Woody] would have seen in Aliza and Isadore kindred spirits politically,” says Kaufman. “[As refugees], Woody would have seen in them a real fellowship with the Dust Bowl refugees that he had been championing….”
A who’s who of contemporary Yiddish musicians, including vocalist Eleanor Reissa, singer-songwriter Daniel Kahn, and Lorin Sklamberg, cofounder and lead vocalist of the Klezmatics, are among those who pay tribute to them and are heard performing Guthrie and Greenblatt songs. Kahn says, “[Woody] was a staunch anti-Nazi, which makes him Jewish in the most important ways to me.” When the U.S. became involved in the Second World War, Guthrie signed on with the Merchant Marine, and he was overseas for nearly two years. What he experienced there found its way into songs like “You Fascists Bound to Lose,” “Mister Hitler,” and “Ilsa Koch,” about the so-called beast of Buchenwald. In it he sang,
I’m here in Buchenwald.
My number’s on my skin….
The guards have shot a man.
Some more have starved to death.
Here comes the prisoner’s car.
They dump them in the pen.
They load them down the chute.
The trooper cracks their skulls.
He steals their teeth of gold.
He shoves them on the belt.
He swings that furnace door.
He slides their corpses in.
I see the chimney smoke.
I see their ashes hauled.
I see their bones in piles.
Lamp shades are made from skins.
Old Ilsy Koch was jailed.
Old Ilsy Koch went free.
The song was brought to life when Nora Guthrie, president of the Woody Guthrie Foundation, gave the Klezmatics a sheaf of lyrics with Jewish themes that Guthrie never put to music or recorded. The modern klezmer group released two albums worth of these songs in 2006, including “Wonder Wheel,” which garnered the group a Grammy Award, the only klezmer group ever to have received such honor. The album also included their version of the song “Mermaid’s Avenue,” a tribute to the very Jewish Coney Island neighborhood where the Guthries lived. The song even includes the Yiddish word meydele:
Mermaid Avenue that’s the street
Where the lox and bagels meet…
Where the prettiest of the meydeles
Leave their legprints in that sand….
Where the smokefish meets the pretzel
Where the borscht sounds like the seas….
The film also recounts the relationship between Guthrie and Moses “Moe” Asch, a Jewish-Polish immigrant whose father was Sholem Asch, the great Yiddish novelist and playwright. Moe Asch had a recording studio and record label based in New York City. In addition to recording and releasing many Guthrie songs, Asch encouraged Guthrie’s Jewish education and helped steer him to write songs with Jewish content, such as “The Many and the Few,” which retold the story of the Jews. The song was “basically the entire story of Hanukkah set up as an Appalachian ballad,” says Lorin Sklamberg, who recorded it with the Klezmatics on their album “Woody Guthrie’s Happy Joyous Hanukkah.”
Woody Guthrie died in 1967. His ashes were scattered at the beach in Coney Island. “For a guy from Oklahoma, that was pretty unique,” says Arlo Guthrie. Aliza Greenblatt died in 1975 at the age of 87. With Pressman’s Dust Bowls and Jewish Souls: Another Side of Woody Guthrie, their common legacy is now cemented for all time.
Dust Bowls and Jewish Souls: Another Side of Woody Guthrie will screen at the Nashville Jewish Film Festival (Aug. 18), Circle Cinema in Tulsa (Aug. 20) and the Yiddish Book Center — where Marjorie Mazia Guthrie was a board member — in Amherst, Mass., on Sept. 27.
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Trump and Netanyahu’s positive spin on White House meeting can’t disguise growing distance
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, facing an uphill battle in his reelection bid and diminishing support in the U.S., concluded an 80-minute meeting with President Donald Trump with a simple one-word statement: “Excellent.” The White House called it “productive.”
The Oval Office sit-down felt very different than that and signaled far more uncertainty.
The meeting itself was largely kept out of public view; Netanyahu entered through the West Wing without cameras. The images released afterward by Netanyahu’s office showed a smiling Trump, but they also revealed that this was not an extended one-on-one conversation. Vice President JD Vance, the architect of the memorandum of understanding pausing the Iran war and one of the administration’s more skeptical voices critical of Israeli leadership, participated in the meeting alongside other senior officials.
The biggest sign of that changing dynamic came hours before the meeting even began.
Asked on Fox News about Israeli intelligence concerning renewed Iranian activity at an underground nuclear facility called Pickaxe Mountain, Trump brushed aside Netanyahu’s planned briefing. “I don’t need Bibi to tell me that,” Trump said. “Bibi is telling me that because he wants me to stay involved.” Trump went further, criticizing Netanyahu for discussing the intelligence publicly rather than privately. “I said, ‘Why don’t you just tell it to me? Why do you have to announce it to the world?’”
The meeting highlighted the new political reality, in which Trump and Netanyahu may still share strategic goals, but they no longer have the same political interests.
The political balancing act
For years, Trump and Netanyahu largely benefited from the same political incentives. A public show of unity helped both leaders. Netanyahu pointed to his unparalleled access to a Republican president delivering major strategic victories, while Trump presented himself as Israel’s strongest ally and protector.
For the first seven meetings between Trump and Netanyahu since last January, the choreography rarely changed. There were Oval Office photo opportunities, warm public statements that projected an unshakable alliance. Those meetings became political assets for Netanyahu, reinforcing his image at home as the one Israeli leader capable of preserving its security interests on the international stage. That culminated in the joint U.S.-Israeli military campaign against Iran during Operation Epic Fury earlier this year.
Today, however, those interests have become more complicated. Netanyahu, the longest-serving Israeli leader, is fighting for his political life, while trailing in the polls for a seventh term. Trump is focused on holding Republican control of Congress in November by taming surging gas prices and balancing support for Israel with a growing isolationist wing of his party that wants to avoid another prolonged military conflict in the Middle East. By showing distance from Netanyahu, Trump signals to voters that he is guided by American interests first.
At the same time, Israel has become one of the defining issues dividing Democrats in the midterm elections, creating uncertainty over what future U.S. policy may look like after November.
A recent YouGov poll of 7,219 U.S. adults found that 46% of Americans, including 28% of Republicans, support the arrest of Netanyahu by U.S. federal agents to comply with an International Criminal Court arrest warrant. (The U.S. does not participate in the court.)
Where Trump and Netanyahu could still agree
That doesn’t mean their interests are at odds. Both men still want to prevent Iran from obtaining a nuclear weapon. In fact, both could still emerge from this meeting with political wins.
If diplomacy collapses and Trump ultimately concludes military action is unavoidable, Netanyahu could still emerge politically strengthened without appearing to have pushed the United States into another war. That would mirror February, when Netanyahu quietly left Washington only for the world to see the two countries carry out Operation Epic Fury together.
Even without another military strike, both leaders could claim success from the same outcome.
If Trump extracts additional concessions from Iran, he can argue that his “peace through strength” approach is working. Netanyahu, in turn, can tell Israeli voters that his close relationship with Trump continues to shape U.S. policy and keep pressure on Tehran.
However, if Trump reaches a deal that Israel views as bad, or publicly distances himself further from Netanyahu’s approach, the visit could become another marker of a relationship that is no longer managed entirely on Netanyahu’s terms. Opponents could argue that one of Netanyahu’s signature political advantages has turned Israel dependent on the U.S. rather than a sovereign ally.
Netanyahu has survived worse
None of this necessarily spells political disaster for Netanyahu.
Over three decades, he has repeatedly clashed with American presidents while surviving politically. His rocky relationship with Bill Clinton and disputes with Barack Obama became defining moments in U.S.-Israel relations. Even under Joe Biden, public disagreements over the judicial overhaul, the Gaza war and regional diplomacy strained ties.
Netanyahu often turned those confrontations into evidence for his base that he was willing to stand up to an American president when he believed Israeli security required it.
Trump may prove different simply because Netanyahu has invested so much of his political brand in being Trump’s closest foreign partner.
In the end, the most important photograph from Tuesday may not have been the one released by Netanyahu’s office. The real measure will be whatever decision Trump makes next on Iran.
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Antisemitic vitriol claims an unlikely new victim — a flamboyant and popular French DJ
The celebrated French DJ Barbara Butch, whose flamboyant performance at the 2024 Olympic Games in Paris was condemned by Catholics and conservatives, is proudly lesbian and unabashedly Jewish. Last week, the latter quality sparked yet another flare up of antisemitism in France.
On the evening of July 18, about 20 minutes after Butch began a concert in the city of Grenoble, about 150 protestors who had entered the hall with the rest of the audience unfurled pro-Palestinian banners denouncing the brutal destruction of Gaza. Many of them began to fling antisemitic insults and glass bottles at Butch. Stunned by the sudden explosion of violence, Butch soon left the stage. At that point, the municipal authorities intervened. “Confronted by threats aimed at the artist Barbara Butch, and to guarantee the safety of both the audience and performers,” they declared, “the city of Grenoble has taken the decision to cancel the performance.”
This eruption of antisemitism parading as anti-Zionism was as predictable — and as predictably ignored by the local government — as are the fires now consuming swathes of western France. In the weeks leading up to the concert, a petition was launched by the local section of La France insoumise (France Unbowed), the extreme-left political party founded and led by Jean-Luc Mélenchon, who has recently and plausibly been accused of flirting with antisemitism. The petition condemned Butch for supporting a proposed law in 2025 that penalized “new forms of antisemitism,” which potentially included expressions of anti-Zionism and even criticism of the Israeli government.
There were two problems, though, with the petition. First, there is the obvious issue of banning an artist from presenting or performing their work because one disagrees with their political statements. (Statements that do not, of course, inspire acts of racial hatred or violence.) Second, and no less obviously, Butch had almost immediately regretted and publicly retracted her initial support of the proposed law, one she realized could suppress legitimate criticism of Israel’s brazenly illegal and brutal actions in Gaza and the West Bank.
All this was for naught, though. The tract distributed in early May by the local office of Unbowed France demanded the cancellation of Butch’s concert by the city government, which had sponsored the music festival it was part of. Fair enough. Not so fair, though, was the tract’s lurid montage, which placed Butch against the background of an LGBTQ flag spattered in blood and stamped with the Star of David, accompanied by the claim that she was “complicit with the genocide” committed in Gaza.
Equally startling was the role played by Allan Brunon, a parliamentary member of Unbowed France who is also president of the party’s local chapter. Not only did he lead the protestors at the concert venue, but he also insisted that, as far as he could see, their behavior never degenerated into violence, even though videos of the ruckus confirm that bottles and other objects hit the stage, as does the eyewitness testimony of Laurence Ruffin, the mayor of Grenoble, who was also in attendance. Brunon’s faux naïve explanation for the expletives shouted at the concert was equally insulting; they were aimed, he insisted, at Butch’s “political position and not who she is.”
Leaders from across the political spectrum, from the extreme right to traditional left, have denounced the role played by Unbowed France at the concert. Marine Le Pen, the leader of the National Rally who never misses an opportunity to bash Unbowed France and bury her party’s own antisemitic origins, decried “the antisemitism, repeated appeals to violence, and totalitarian nature and project of the extreme left,” while the former prime minister and centrist politician Gabriel Attal, in a mocking allusion to an earlier claim made by Mélenchon, observed that the party’s “antisemitism is anything but residual.” As for the leadership of Unbowed France, Mélenchon has kept silent while the leader of the parliamentary group, Mathilde Panot, spoke in the conditional case, stating that “we would never support, if they occurred, either flung insults or bottles.” (my emphasis).
Wittingly or not, Attal’s remark reaches much further back than last week. Ever since the late 19th century, the extreme right in France has not had exclusive dibs on antisemitism. Édouard Drumont, the author of the virulent antisemitic 1886 bestseller La France juive and editor of the La Libre parole, the newspaper that sparked the Dreyfus Affair, thought of himself as an anti-capitalist and man of the left. It required the immense reserves of eloquence and decency of Jean Jaurès, the Socialist leader, to persuade the rank and file to rally to Dreyfus’ cause. As late as the 1950s, the French Communist Party unhesitatingly followed Moscow’s lead during the late stages of Stalin’s paranoia, featuring spectacles like the “Doctors’ Trial” of 1953, that targeted Jewish “counterrevolutionaries” intent on undermining the Soviet Union.
Of course, the French left has come a long way since then. But to paraphrase Mathilde Panot, if Unbowed France’s apparently uncowed leader, along with a large contingent of his party, are suffering from more than a dollop of residual antisemitism, the future of a democratic and liberal France is at risk.
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